"You’re shaking," he observes. He reaches out with his right hand—strong, tattooed fingers marked with intricate patterns that tell stories of battles fought and won—his thumb grazing my jaw before he hooks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His calloused skin is a sandpaper-rough contrast against my face, a silent reminder of the violence he’s capable of. "Did I scare you, Counselor?"
"You wish," I lie.
"I don't wish for things," Chase says. "I take them."
He steps closer. His hips nearly brush mine. The heat radiating off him overwhelms me. He steps closer. His hips nearly brush mine. The heat radiating off him overwhelms me. I look up, trapped in the forest fire of his gaze.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice trembling. "Why fight me on this permit so hard?"
"The permit is irrelevant," he says enigmatically. He looks down at me, gaze sweeping over my face to linger on my mouth. "You walked into that room and looked at me like you knew me. Like you’ve been waiting for me."
"I did no such thing," I gasp. "My eyes found you because you stared."
"I stared because I’ve never seen anything like you in this town," he admits, voice rough. "You’re stiff. Uptight. Buried under all that expensive armor." He reaches out and runs a finger downthe lapel of my blazer. "I wonder what it would take to make you unravel."
My breath catches. My core clenches, a wet, heavy pulse of desire I can't control. "That is sexual harassment, Mr. Gunnar."
"Chase," he corrects. "And call it what you want. You want it just as bad."
"I don't?—"
"Liar," he cuts in. The word is soft, almost affectionate. "I can smell it on you, Cassandra. You’re drenched for me, aren’t you? I can smell your arousal cutting through that expensive bergamot—that clean, professional mask is failing, and I can taste the dark, carnal fig of your desire underneath. You smell like my territory. And I always claim what’s mine, whether it’s with a ring or my cock buried deep inside you."
The word reverberates through me, triggering a cascade of endorphins. Irrational. Insane. But my body responds with terrifying eagerness. I want to lean into him. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and let him crush me against the wall. I force myself to shove against his chest. Like shoving a brick wall. He doesn't budge, but he steps back an inch, giving me room to breathe.
"We are enemies," I say, trying to regain composure. "I am going to defeat your permit application. And I am going to leave this town without ever speaking to you again."
He grins, a wolfish, predatory thing. "You like a challenge. That's it, my beautiful shark."
The claim hits me right in the chest.
My beautiful shark.
My brain short-circuits.
"We have a problem, though," he says, tone shifting back to business while the heat remains. "The Mayor is terrified of the preservation society, but he needs the MC’s money for the election. He’s going to stall. He’s going to keep us in deadlock for months unless we give him an out."
"I don't care about the Mayor's problems," I say.
"You should. Because if this drags on, you’re stuck here in Pine Valley," Chase points out. "Stuck here with me."
"I can handle you," I say, lifting my chin.
He laughs, a genuine sound of amusement. "Baby, you have no idea what handling me looks like. But you will."
The door to the Town Hall creaks open. A clerk pokes her head out. "Miss Preston? Mr. Gunnar? We’re ready to resume."
Chase holds my gaze for one more second, searing his image into my retinas. "Showtime, Cassandra. Try not to miss me too much from the other side of the room."
He turns and walks back inside, leather boots creaking. I stand in the alley, pressing a hand to my racing heart, trying to understand what just happened. I came here to fight a zoning dispute. But as I watch the broad expanse of Chase Gunnar’s back disappear through the door, I realize with a sinking, thrilling dread that I’ve walked onto a battlefield where the weapons are much more dangerous than lawsuits.
I smooth my skirt, take a deep breath, and follow him. The "Thunderbolt" the locals talk about—the instant, soul-shattering recognition—I always thought it was a myth. A fairy tale formountain folk. But as I walk back into the recycled air of the council chamber, the ghost of his touch brands my skin.
I sit back down at my table. Across the aisle, Chase is already seated. He whispers something to the massive man next to him—his cousin, the one with the prosthetic leg. They both look at me. The cousin smirks. Chase doesn't. He just watches, his green eyes heavy with intent.
The Mayor clears his throat. "Now, regarding the compromise..."
I tune him out for a second. My internal monologue screams at me to run, to get in my car and drive back to the city where men wear suits and follow rules. But my body roots itself to the chair. I look at Chase. He winks. And God help me, I wink back.
