Griffin’s eyes met mine, and the air between us shifted—became charged with the attraction neither of us was supposed to acknowledge. His gaze dropped briefly to mymouth before returning to my eyes, the hunger in his expression unmistakable.
I should have stepped back. Should have maintained the distance we’d agreed was necessary. Should have remembered all my promises to myself about not getting involved with someone who couldn’t be with me openly.
But I didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Wesley—” Griffin’s voice was rough.
“We shouldn’t,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.
“I know.”
The moment stretched, heavy with possibility and danger. Then Griffin did step back, breaking the connection, his expression shifting to something more controlled.
“I should let you finish up,” he said. “I’m sure you have work to do.”
“Yeah. Lots of social media content to post.” I paused, then pulled up my calendar on my phone. “Actually, can we get together tomorrow to work on your speech for the chamber of commerce luncheon? Monday’s coming up fast, and we should craft something that really resonates with that audience.”
“Yeah, that works. What time?”
“How about lunch at my apartment? Noon? We can work without interruptions, and I’ll order food.”
Griffin’s expression shifted slightly, his voice dropping low enough that I had to lean closer to hear him. “Is it wise for us to get together alone at your apartment?”
The question hung between us. He was right to ask—being alone together in a private space was exactly the kind of situation we should probably avoid. But we genuinely did need to work on the speech, and my apartment offered a quiet space as opposed to the coffee shop. My office would have worked, but a casual setting would put Griffin more at ease and give us space to spread out.
“We’ll be working,” I said firmly, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I was reassuring him or myself. “Speech writing, talking points, nothing unprofessional. I promise.”
I texted him my address.
Griffin glanced at his phone when it buzzed, then met my eyes again. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”
He walked away, his shoulders set with that captain’s posture that made everything look controlled. But I’d seen the hunger in his eyes, felt the pull between us that grew stronger every time we were alone together.
Here I go again.I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes briefly.Making the same mistake. Getting closer to another closeted man.
I’d set boundaries. Had been clear about what I wouldn’t accept. Had promised myself I wouldn’t repeat Nashville’s painful lessons.
But Griffin wasn’t making it easy to keep those promises. And I was discovering that knowing what you should do and actually doing it were very different things—especially when every interaction made you want to throw caution aside and reach for something you knew would complicate everything.
I was in trouble. Trouble that came from wanting something I couldn’t have, from caring about someone in ways that made professional distance impossible to maintain.
And the worst part was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop.
Even knowing where this path led, even remembering the pain of being someone’s secret—part of me kept reaching toward Griffin anyway, hoping this time might somehow be different.
Which was probably the definition of insanity. Or at least, the definition of someone about to make a very complicated mistake.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wesley
I spent Saturday morning cleaning my apartment with a nervous energy that suggested this was about more than just professional preparation—vacuuming the living room, wiping down the kitchen counters, shoving the scattered books on my shelves into neater stacks—all while telling myself this was just a work meeting, nothing more.
My apartment wasn’t much—a modest first-floor two-bedroom in a complex five minutes from the facility. I’d furnished it with the basics: a couch from IKEA, a vintage armchair I’d found at a thrift store, a dining table that seated four, bookshelves overflowing with PR textbooks, fiction, and travel guides for places I wanted to visit. Colorful art prints I’d meant to frame still leaned against walls, and the second bedroom served as my home office, currently buried under boxes I still hadn’t unpacked three months after moving in. I kept meaning to finish but always found something more interesting to do.
It wasn’t a space designed to impress anyone. But it wasmine, and having Griffin there felt significant in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.
By eleven thirty, I’d ordered sandwiches from a local deli—turkey and avocado for me, roast beef for Griffin based on what I’d observed him eating at team lunches—and set out plates, napkins, and bottles of water on my small dining table.
