Her cheeks flush, a faint pink staining the alabaster skin of her throat. "I am here because my phone has been vibrating off the table since six a.m. Apparently, we are 'Pine Valley’s newest power couple,' according to Riley James’s Instagram story."
"Is that right?" I smirk, letting my eyes rake over her. I take my time, starting at the lethal heels, moving up the curve of her calves, the dip of her waist, the rise of her chest as she takes a sharp, shallow breath, and finally locking onto her hazel eyes. "Seems the plan is working."
"It’s working too well," she snaps, marching up to the counter. She slams a leather portfolio down on the glass. "I have clientscalling me. I have the mayor’s secretary leaving voicemails asking if this constitutes a conflict of interest regarding the zoning hearing. I need to establish ground rules, Mr. Gunnar. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it on my terms."
I hold her gaze, the smirk falling from my face. I let the silence stretch, heavy and thick, until she swallows. She’s tough. She stands her ground in the face of a six-foot-four biker who has buried things in these mountains that would make her blood run cold. But I can see the pulse fluttering like a trapped bird in the hollow of her throat.
"First rule," I say, my voice dropping an octave, rumbling in my chest. "Stop calling me Mr. Gunnar. It makes you sound like a cop."
"Fine. Chase," she corrects, the name sounding foreign and sharp on her tongue. "Second rule. Public displays of affection are to be kept to a minimum. Hand-holding is acceptable if necessary. Arms around the waist for photos. But last night—" She falters, her eyes flicking to my mouth before darting away. "The way you… touched me. Against the wall. That was excessive."
I push off the back shelves and lean forward, placing my palms flat on the counter, invading her personal space until we’re nose to nose. "Excessive? I didn’t even take you, Cassandra. If I wanted to be excessive, you wouldn’t have walked away from that tavern. You would have been carried."
Her breath hitches, audible in the quiet shop. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the hazel irises. "That is exactly what I’m talking about. The aggression. The… possessiveness. It needs to be dialed back. We are selling a narrative of a professionalwoman dating a… a business owner. Not a caveman dragging his prize back to the fire."
"Is that how you see me?" I tilt my head. "A caveman?"
"I see a man who is used to getting what he wants through intimidation," she whispers, though she doesn’t back down. "And I am telling you, it won't work on me."
I chuckle, a dark sound that scrapes up my throat. "You think this is intimidation? Baby, I’m on my best behavior."
I straighten up and glance out the front window. Main Street is waking up. A few locals walk by, glancing in. Mrs. Gable, the Postmistress, stands down the block, looking through the glass, her eyes widening as she spots Cassandra and me.
"We have an audience," I say quietly.
Cassandra stiffens, instinctively reaching for her portfolio to shield herself, but my hand shoots across the counter to wrap around her wrist. Her skin feels soft, frantically warm under my calloused palm.
"Don't," I command softly. "Don't hide. If you pull away now, you look guilty. If you look guilty, the Mayor thinks you’re compromised, and you lose your leverage. You want to win this case, right?"
She freezes, her eyes locking onto mine. "Yes."
"Then sell it."
I pull her hand toward me, lifting it to my mouth. I keep my eyes on hers as I press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, right over that racing pulse. A tremor runs through her, traveling down her armand straight into my grip. Her scent flares, thick with the heavy musk of her arousal.
"You're mine," I growl against her skin, the vibration of the words sinking into her flesh. I feel her pulse jump like a dying bird under my lips.
She makes a small, choked sound, her knees knocking together beneath the skirt. I release her wrist but keep my hand on the counter, close enough to touch.
"Come to the back," I say, turning away from the window. "We can’t discuss the 'rules' with the whole town watching us through the glass."
"The back?" Her voice pitches higher than usual.
"My office. Unless you want to negotiate the terms of our relationship in front of the hiking socks."
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, weighing the danger of being alone with me against the danger of public exposure. The lawyer wins. She grabs her portfolio and follows me around the counter.
The back office is a different world from the polished retail front. Cramped, smelling of gun oil, old paper, and stale coffee. A heavy steel desk dominates the room, covered in blueprints for the expansion and a scattering of parts for a disassembled pistol I cleaned earlier. There’s a single leather chair behind the desk and a filing cabinet in the corner. No windows. Just four walls and a locking door.
I walk in and sit on the edge of the desk, planting my boots firmly on the floor, spreading my knees. I gesture for her to close the door.
She does, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the small room. She turns to face me, hugging the portfolio to her chest like a shield.
"Okay," she says, her voice regaining some of its courtroom steel. "Private setting achieved. Now, about the physical boundaries?—"
"Come here," I interrupt.
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
