Ophelia’s fingers tightened in my jacket.
I brushed my thumb over her cheek, tilting her chin up until she met my eyes again. “Want to meet me at home?” I asked, my voice dropping, the wordhomesinking between us.
Her flush deepened, remembering what that meant now. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Good girl.”
I kissed her then…slow, deep, and shameless right there in the parking lot, until her breath caught and I could taste the promise of later on her lips.
When I finally pulled back, she looked wrecked in the best way.
“Go home,” I murmured against her mouth. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I watched her go, an ache in my chest because I was as addicted to her presence as she was to mine. The taillights of her car glowed against the frost, fading into the gray afternoon as she turned out of the lot. Only when she was gone did I let out the breath I’d been holding.
When I turned back, Rachel was standing by the entrance with her clipboard and herI’ve waited long enough for thisexpression.
“Took you long enough,” she said, arching a brow. “I did say it was important.”
“Sorry,” I said, and I didn’t bother to make it sound convincing.
She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
We headed toward the main building, the wind cutting down the breezeway. My cleats clicked against the concrete, echoing up the stairwell as we climbed to the second floor, where the conference rooms were lined with glass walls and too-bright lights hung from above.
Rachel’s tone had gone clipped—professional in that way that always meantsomething was off.
“What’s going on?” I asked, trying to sound casual, but the unease crept in anyway.
“What’s going on,” she said, pushing open the door to one of the meeting rooms, “is that we have a very big donor who’s been waiting to talk to you.”
I frowned. “A donor?”
She nodded toward the open doorway. “He requested you personally.”
My stomach sank before I even stepped inside.
It was Kenton.
The same slick smile. The same expensive suit. The same faint smell of smoke and cologne that had clung to him at that dinner with my dad—the one where he’d leaned back in his chair and told me he had a network of people who’d pay for the right information.
He was sitting at the long table, legs crossed, phone in one hand, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other, like he owned the place.
“Matthew,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet with a practiced grin. “Good to see you, son.”
Rachel was already backing out of the room. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
The door shut behind her.
“Water?” he asked as he poured a glass from a crystal carafe.
“No,” I snapped. “I don’t think I’ll be here very long.”
Kenton huffed out a laugh like I was amusing him.
He slid a laptop around, pressing play on a highlight reel of me. My catches, my runs, my blocks. My name overlaid with statistics.
“I still think we can work out a deal,” he said smoothly, setting the glass of water in front of me. “Unfortunately, Irealized we never said specific numbers the other night. I think that would have made the evening go smoother.”
