“You did it,” he says, like he still cannot quite believe it, even though he has seen every stage of this journey. “You really did it.”
“I did,” I reply, and even saying it out loud feels surreal.
“I am so damn proud of you, Natalie.” His voice goes rough around the edges. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” I smile up at him. I do know. He’s not exactly been subtle about it.
He grins, the emotion easing back into his usualcomposed, charming, lawyer face. He gestures toward the table, toward the folder. “Ready to make it official?”
“More than ready.”
And that’s when I see him. My stomach drops straight to my shoes, then bounces back up and lodges somewhere in my throat.
He’s standing near the windows, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the other holding a legal pad and pen. Charcoal suit. Light blue shirt. No tie. The sleeves of his jacket pull just enough to hint at the muscles I already know are underneath, because I’ve had my hands on them.
Jake.
I take a moment to admire him in the daylight. He's tall, easily over six feet, with an athletic build that comes from actual training, not just genetics. His hair is cut close and neat, the kind of precise fade that requires maintenance and looks effortlessly sharp. Those eyes, pale green with hints of blue, are striking and intense. They looked at me like I was the only person in the world that night. A faint scar cuts through his left eyebrow. I remember tracing it with my thumb as he hovered over me.
He carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s good at and doesn’t need to prove it. For a second, my brain just blanks and I can’t speak.
This is karma. What else could it be? The man to whom I very specifically said “this is just one night” is standing here in my father’s conference room, looking likean ad for a competent, trustworthy attorney who will absolutely rail you against a headboard and then kiss your forehead.
What the hell is he doing here?
As if he hears the question, he looks up.
Our eyes meet across the table and the recognition hits like a physical force, like someone snapped a rubber band between us. For half a heartbeat, his expression shifts into a surprised flare, and maybe excitement, but then I watch him pull it back.
His features smooth. His mouth settles into a polite line. His whole face rearranges itself into professional neutrality like someone flipped a switch labeled “courtroom demeanor.”
He’s so fucking hot.
“Jake, this is my daughter, Natalie,” my dad says, completely oblivious to the emotional car crash currently occurring inside my chest. “Nat, this is Jake Reyes. He is one of our top attorneys. I asked him to sit in today, make sure everything is airtight.”
There is a hot little spark of humiliation blooming under my skin now, tangling up with the nausea and adrenaline that were already there. Have they worked together for years? Has Dad ever said his name in front of me and I just didn’t connect the dots? Did I really sleep with someone who shares an office with my father and not think to ask?
Jake takes a step forward. “Ms. Cruz,” he says, extending his hand like we haven’t already had our hands all over each other. His voice is that same low, steady baritone that sent chills down my spine in his bedroom, except nowit is dressed up in polite vowels and professional distance. “Pleasure to meet you.”
The formality scrapes across my nerves. For a second I just look at his hand, then at his face, searching for any crack in the mask. Any sign of the man who gave me one of my most memorable nights ever, who told me I was beautiful, who looked at me like he wanted more and then actually respected me when I said I did not.
Nothing. He is a wall. It’s what I should want. I’m the one who said one night. No relationships, no complications, no messy aftermath. And it’s not like he could do anything here. This is him honoring what I asked for. So why is there a tiny, petty voice in the back of my brain going, “Seriously, that’s it? Not even a flicker?”
I make my fingers move, step forward, and slide my hand into his. His hand closes around mine, warm and solid and too familiar. For half a second, my body forgets where we are and my brain flashes back to his weight above me, his grip on my hips, the way he held my gaze when he moved inside me and it felt like my whole life shifted half an inch.
I shove the memory away so hard I almost stumble.
“Mr. Reyes,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “Nice to meet you.”
His eyes hold mine for a fraction longer than necessary, and that is the only evidence I get that he remembers too. Then he releases my hand, stepping back like this is just another day in Conference Room 3.
Thank God he’s being professional. Thank God he’s not making jokes or letting his expression slip or doing anythingthat would make my dad tilt his head and go, “Wait a second.”
The last thing I need is Ryan Cole realizing that his golden girl and one of his star attorneys have already met. Intimately.
“Heard great things about your script,” Jake says, still in full attorney mode. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I reply, not trusting myself to say anything more.
