“That so? Easy to confirm. Say the word, and I’ll show you exactly—”
“Ms. Ellison. Mr. Hartwell.”
The voice slices through the air. A guillotine through butter. Juliette Vexford.Shit.
She stands under the canopy entrance in a crisp silk blazer, posture perfect, clipboard in hand. Not a single hair out of place in her honey-blonde bun, despite the sun’s best efforts.
I quickly stand to attention beside Cole, but my chair has other plans. It comes with me, suctioned to my sweaty thighs, clinging like a needy boyfriend. The chair releases—
FRRRR-AP. PLIP-SCHLOOB. FLORP.
The sound is disturbingly moist. Like an octopus high-fiving a pile of mashed bananas. Cole snorts(asshole).Juliette’s lip twitches.
Just fucking perfect.
I quietly pray for a sinkhole to open.
Juliette clears her throat. “The damage assessment from yesterday.” She flips a page on her clipboard. “The custom hand-painted mural near the entrance has a tire track through it. The lobby’s Venetian side table—antique, 1887, irreplaceable—is now missing two legs. I trust you understand the gravity of that statement.”
Cole winces.
“The ballroom chandeliers required emergency cleaning. Three acoustic panels are waterlogged beyond use. The Persian runner outside Ballroom B is being decontaminated, though the stench of mango-scented bubble solution lingers. The hand-carved welcome podium sustained what our facilities manager called ‘significant trauma.’”
My stomach sinks. “Ms. Vexford, I—”
“One more incident.” Her tone is flat. The threat is crystal clear. “And Dare4Change’s programming will be cancelled and replaced with our standard singles’ events. Candle-lit dinners. Wine tasting. Guided sunset walks.”
The idea of live streaming that boring-ass content flashes through my brain.
Dead air.
Awkward small talk.
Donations plummeting.
I can’t let that happen.If this weekend tanks, my promotion goes with it.
“Nothing will get broken,” I say quickly. “Today’s first activity is outside. On the lawn. Open space, ocean backdrop, no antique furniture within a hundred feet. It’s just rope—”
“And baby oil,” Cole adds.
Juliette’s eyebrows shoot up a full centimeter and my pulse spikes.Why the hell did he poke the bear!
“The oil is for the ropes!” I squeak. “It helps with the knots! Makes them easier to untangle! Safety first! Purely to prevent accidents. It’s uh, also like sunscreen for ropes—definitely not skin! I guess you could call it rope lube—innocent rope lube! Not body lube! It’s oil! Normal oil—like olive oil! But not for salads! Or massages! Or anything fun. Just ropes!”
Cole coughs, interrupting. “The worst-case scenario for this event is a grass stain. I promise you that, Ms. Vexford.”
“Ensure it is,” she says. “Now, here’s the insurance documentation for yesterday’s incidents.” She pulls three identical stacks of papers from her clipboard, paperclipped so tight it feels personal.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
In walks Sienna Alvarez, her dark curls wild and free like she just ran her hands through them on purpose. Her Saltwater Saviors tank top is so low-cut, it shows a peek of her purple bra. And those short shorts? They’re one deep breath away from being indecent. Andof courseshe’s in combat boots because apparently, she wants to murder the entire internet with her sex appeal.
“Alright, where should Orson and I be?” She glances between us. A corner of her mouth curves. “Or I guess I should ask who I’m getting tied up with. FYI Dr. Echols is more of a ‘watch and take notes’ kind of guy.”
Cole glances at the forms.
Then stares at Sienna. Stares so hard I can hear his every thought come together over the way her tank top frames her breasts.
