Because—Jesus.
That orgasm was seismic. An off-the-charts, Richter-scale-breaking, category-five experience. Tall’s savage kisses, his voice, his hands. The way he claimed her, unraveled her, left her a panting, aching mess.
And then, like the neurotic, undeserving idiot she is, she ruined it.
The memory of her words plays on repeat.
“This wasn’t…a thing, right? We’re not catching feelings?”
Ugh.
She saw it—the flash in his eyes. The hurt. Then the wall slammed down again, replaced by that icy, impassive mask he wears so damn well.
Naomi leans closer to the mirror and scowls at herself. “Why are you like this?”
All she wants to do is crawl back into his lap and un-say every panicked, backpedaling word.
Reality slams through her almost as hard as her orgasm. She’s at work, for God’s sake. And Richard is somewhere out there, watching her like a hawk, mentally docking points for any whiff of unprofessionalism. If anyone besides Mila had caught them, she wouldn’t be known as the capable, rising-star at Hollis—she’d bethatgirl. A cautionary tale. With great shoes and questionabledecision-making skills.
Naomi didn’t run her mouth because she regretted him.
She’d panicked because, for once, she has something to prove—and she can’t afford to mess it up.
Splashing cold water over her wrists, she stares at her reflection and then blots her lipstick again. Forces her face back into professional mode.
She smooths her dress, fixes her posture, and walks out.
Back into the sharks.
She’s not sure what happened in that coat check.
But whatever it was, she’ll figure it out after she salvages her reputation.
Naomi spots Richard at the far end of the ballroom, posted up at a linen-draped table with Glen and a handful of Whalers front-office suits.
He’s kicked back in his chair, with a wine glass in hand and posture so relaxed it makes her jaw clench. Like he hasn’t spent the evening watching her run herself into the ground with quiet condescension.
She winces as the straps of her heels pinch her feet as she beelines for them.
Glen notices her first. He perks up, face warm with recognition. She likes Glen—he’s been easy to work with all week, quick to respond, if slightly clueless about the amount of logistics required to run an event of this scale. Now, with cheeks ruddy and tie askew, he gives off friendly drunk-uncle-at-a-wedding energy. It’s almost comforting.
Richard glances up but doesn’t move. He tracks her approach with that cool, disinterested expression that makes her want to lob a canapé at his forehead.
Naomi stops short of the table, lungs burning. Her words pour out in one breathless stream.
“Silent auction issue’s being resolved. The quartet was reset to the original playlist, and the dessert buffet has been replenished. I also redirected the press away from the players who were getting rowdy by the bar earlier, spoke to the rental company about shifting cleanup from eleven to ten-forty-five because the venue wants everyone out of here by eleven-thirty.”
She exhales.
Glen lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Richard, ever unmoved, takes a leisurely sip of wine. “Have a drink with us.”
Naomi startles, her heart giving an ungraceful lurch like it missed a step on the stairs.
“I—what?”
He gestures to an empty chair, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Sit.”
