TheRealCreator: Making you smile like that is worth far more than two hundred bucks.
TheRealCreator has left the chat.
I stare at the message. Almost … hurt.
I shake my head, snap my senses into their proper place, and get back to work.
I sit cross-legged on my couch, eating a bowl of ice cream and watching an interview with Jackson Cross. Jackson is hot, but that’s no secret. He’s appeared on countlesssexiest man alivelists.
Tall, broad shoulders, so many muscles, it’s a miracle he doesn’t break his computer whenever he tries to code. His hair is black with silver threads in it, smoothed to the side. His eyes possess a piercing, yet cold, green hue.
“I’m trying to preserve the integrity of what we’ve built,” Jackson tells the interviewer, his jaw tight, fist clenched tightly like he wants to hit something.
“Some users are waiting for you to rework the newest addition completely. The Emerald Cove. What do you think about that?”
“I love our players,” Jackson says. “Without them, I’d be nothing. Without them, Halcyon would be nothing. No argument there. That doesn’t change the fact that they’re dead wrong about my game.”
I drop my spoon. Sit up. An alarm ringing in my head.
It takes me a moment to realize where it’s coming from.
Snatching up my laptop, I navigate to my and Creator’s conversation thread.
TheRealCreator: You’re hot, Dakota, no mistake there. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead wrong about the game.
The phrasing is very similar, sure, but that’s a coincidence. Obviously.
I close my laptop and force that thought from my head.
TheRealCreator would be a funny, ironic secret name for the actual creator to use. But the truth is probably far more mundane. The Real Creator is probably a man in his early twenties who’s become attached to the game. Jackson Cross isn’tgoing to message me. And if he did, he wouldn’t behittingon me. Would he?
I look at the screen as Jackson’s large hands open and close into tight fists.
Suddenly, even the ice cream can’t cool me down.
CHAPTER 4
JACKSON
For two nights in a row, I boot up the website on a guest account—meaning she doesn’t know I’m watching—and lose myself in Dakota’s stream. It’s a stressful couple of days with back-to-back meetings, merchandising, and shareholder bull and, apparently, anything except working on the actual game.
Her message plays on repeat in my head. Not just as I’m watching her stream, but all day long. If she was going to fall for a viewer… she’d fall for me. Part of watching is to convince myself I’m notthatinterested.
But hell—just look at her. This evening, she’s wearing a T-shirt with a picture of her Empire’s Fall character on it. I can just about see the outline of her bra. She framed her eyes in dark makeup, and her hair is styled in soft waves.
She’s gorgeous, no doubt there. Maybe not what people would callconventionally attractive. But looking at her with her big, brown big eyes, bright smile, and her curvy, flawless figure. I’m convinced the conventions need to be torn down.
Outwardly, Dakota is confident. There aren’t any obvious signs, ever, that any of the messages or interactions make her uncomfortable. She’s poised and always ready. But there are little moments. Tightening of her features. A half-roll of her eyes before she catches herself.
I’m fighting the urge to message her again. I’m the CEO and the creator. How would it look? Even if I wanted to make a move on her, would it be fair? She might just get with me because of who I am.
For now, I just watch her. It’s easier this way. I lost my cool last time. She was right to call me triggered. She criticized my creative decisions with surgical precision. The worst part? I couldn’t refute a single word.
“Guys,” she says, with aplayfulhuff that sounds annoyed to me. “For the thousandth time, no, I don’t have a boyfriend.” A pause. “Why not?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Why do I need one, huh? I’ve got my own place and a career.” Another pause as she reads the chat. “But don’t you get lonely at night?Okay, calm down. This is your daily reminder to go touch grass, my guy.”
I chuckle, but there’s a dark edge to it. She handles it well, always, every time a man says something like that. But it still annoys me more than it should.
“If she gets lonely at night,” I growl under my breath, “she doesn’t need you, you bastard.”
