“No,” she said, precise now. “You’re here to lead a team, secure sponsors, represent a brand worth millions. That requires communication. Not performance art—just enough to keep the narrative on your terms.”
His eyes narrowed further. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
She saw it then—the flicker beneath the irritation. Notarrogance. Something sharper, more defensive. Vulnerability, quickly buried.
Good.
“You don’t trust the process,” she said, softer but no less firm. “And they can smell it.”
Silence again.
For a heartbeat she thought she’d overstepped. Then he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, closing the distance until his face was inches from hers. She could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, smell that same warm, dark scent that made her pulse stutter.
“And you do?” he asked, voice low.
Mia held his gaze. “I trust preparation. And I trust patterns. Yours are easy to read.”
Something shifted in his expression—amusement? annoyance? A mouth-curve that wasn’t quite a smile. “Congratulations. You’ve just volunteered to fix me.”
She didn’t flinch. “That’s my job.”
She told herself the tension coiling low in her belly was professional satisfaction. Nothing more.
She told herself that—and moved on to the next question.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas hated this.
Not the cameras. Not the questions. He could handle those blindfolded. What he hated was the way she watched him—not fawning, not judging. Like she was quietly dismantling him piece by piece, deciding which parts were worth salvaging.
Mia Brookes didn’t flinch when he pushed. Didn’t soften the edges. Didn’t rush to smooth the silence. She let it sit there, heavy and deliberate, until the pressure forced him to movefirst.
It was infuriating.
It was also… working.
He answered the next set properly—fuller sentences, less clipped, a touch less defensive—and caught the subtle easing in her shoulders. Not praise. Just quiet relief. Like she’d expected better from him all along.
That bothered him more than any criticism ever had.
“Stop crossing your arms,” she said without looking up from her laptop.
He stilled. “I’m not.”
“You were.” Flat. Factual.
He dropped them deliberately, resting his palms on his thighs. The movement pulled the kit tighter across his chest, outlining the hard planes beneath. “Happy?”
She glanced up then, one brow lifting. “Neutral.”
The word hung between them.
He leaned back, watching her properly now. The controlled posture. The clipped efficiency. The way she occupied space without apology, never over-explaining, never asking permission.
