The air felt thick—equal parts irritation and challenge. Beckett was clearly testing boundaries, seeing how far he could push before I snapped. He’d probably spent years getting away with that swagger, that careless tone.
Unfortunately for him, I’d spent years learning how to smile through fundraising dinners and city council meetings with men just like him.
So I met his gaze, steady and unbothered. “The baskets are in the storage room,” I said. “Each sponsor has a label. You can start there.”
He stared for a beat, then grabbed the clipboard again. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I said brightly, as if we hadn’t just traded barbs like fencers.
He headed for the door, muttering something under his breath about “photo ops and glitter.”
Naomi waited until he was gone before speaking. “You know, for a guy who scores for a living, he’s not great at reading the room.”
I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just keep him away from the champagne raffle. I don’t need another PR headline this week.”
Naomi grinned. “You sure you don’t secretly enjoy this?”
“Not even a little,” I said, though my pulse betrayed me—part frustration, part something else I didn’t want to name.
Because beneath the tension, there was something electric about matching wits with Beckett Mason.
And I hated that I noticed.
Cam called right in the middle of the sponsor debrief. I didn’t even get the chance to hit mute before his voice boomed through the speakerphone.
“Hey, Ellery! How’s our storm cloud behaving?”
I froze, eyes widening a fraction. Across the table, Beckett’s brows rose above his sunglasses. Of course Cam’s timing would be impeccable.
I forced a polite tone. “Oh, you know,” I said dryly. “I’d say partly cloudy with a chance of explosion.”
Naomi nearly choked on her coffee.
Beckett’s head turned toward me, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something between amusement and a warning.
Cam chuckled, oblivious. “That’s progress. Keep him busy, yeah? Media’s already eating up the story. I’ll check in later.”
“Perfect,” I said through my teeth. “We’ll be just fine.”
The line clicked off, leaving behind the kind of silence that felt too big for the room.
Naomi found an excuse to escape—something about confirming catering—leaving the two of us alone with the awkward hum of the overhead lights.
I focused on my notes, refusing to meet his gaze, but I could feel it—the weight of it—like static.
He broke first.
“You think you know me because of a headline,” he said, voice low, even.
I looked up then, meeting his eyes for the first time without the sunglasses between us. They were sharper than I expected—blue-gray and steady, the kind that didn’t miss much.
“I think I know what unprofessional looks like,” I said, matching his calm.
His laugh came quick, short. Not cruel—just defensive, like he’d learned to use humor as armor. “Guess we’ll both find out, then.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table, confidence coiled and casual all at once.
For a heartbeat, I wanted to argue—to remind him that reputations weren’t built out of nothing. But then I caught something fleeting in his expression, a shadow behind the bravado.
