“Hell yeah!” Blaze points at them. “That’s the secret sauce for love, my dudes! Now I wanna know, WHO GOT LUCKY LAST NIGHT?!”
He drops the mic to his waist and starts thrusting toward the crowd, grin fully unhinged.
The people rally with him. Hands shoot up. Men whistle. Someone howls like they just won a rodeo. Music thumps through the speakers.
Blaze whoops, spinning toward a newly roped couple. “THAT’S WHAT THIS WEEKEND IS ABOUT, BABY! Connection. Chemistry. And getting your sexy body tied up and oiled down BECAUSE WE GO LIVE IN TWENTY!”
The energy is buzzing, but damn it's hot.
It’s ninety degrees out and barely ten a.m. I’m parked at the production table under the shade canopy, monitors glowing. I’d love to let my hair down. Party. Enjoy my iced coffee. But it’s so hot outside, “iced” now means lukewarm, bean-flavored backwash.
My thighs are fusing to this plastic folding chair. I attempt to lift my leg—
SCHLUPPFRRRT.
The noise is wet and glorpy.
I jerk upright, scanning for witnesses.
A guy three feet away gives me a tight “I heard that” smile… then pretends to straighten his flip flops.
This is why I wanted to wear my linen pantsuit. It’s professional, breathable, and dignity-preserving.
But no.
Here I am in my Dare4Change red tee and jean shorts, sweating as if I’m under interrogation. And showing weakness?Not happening. I’d rather collapse from heatstroke than give Cole the upper hand.
I press my iced coffee to the side of my neck.
The condensation isn’t helping.
Because now I’m thinking about his thumb. The water sluicing off his hand as he pulled me close in the pool, his calloused thumb stroking my bottom lip, testing how far I’d let him go. His dark eyes locked onto mine and tracked every hitch of my breath. He was seconds away from dragging me under and ruining me right there.
My brain stuttered. I forgot how to speak, how to breathe. I forgot every logical reason why Cole Hartwell’s mouth should never, ever, under any circumstances, touch mine.
My thighs clench under the table, heat pooling low in my belly.
Why can’t I stop picturing his lips all over me?
I won’t fall for it. He was flirting for the promotion. A tactic. A game. Nothing more.
So why does it feel like more?
Dammit. Focus, Ivy.Don’t let him distract you. You need to own this event. To prove your instincts are just as good(no, better)than Cole’s.
As if summoned, Mr. Thumb-erton appears beside me. “Is your headset dead?” Cole asks. “Been trying to reach you for ten minutes. Are you ignoring me?”
“Please. That would require more attention than you deserve.” I reach up and smack the earpiece. It crackles to life. “Trust me, you’re not even a blip on my radar.”
He stands effortlessly, jeans molded to his hips, a black T-shirt glued to his chest, every muscle on display.
Black?! In this scorching heat.
“I’m working, Hartwell. You should try it.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been locked on those monitors like you’ve been commissioned to do a portrait of my ass. If you want a better view, all you gotta do is ask.”
“Ha! You and your tight pants can keep begging for attention, but that bulge is 90% hype and 10% delusion.”
