I caught myself watching her more than once—the way she bit her lip while reading, the little furrow between her brows when something didn’t line up the way she wanted. Every time she checked something off her list, her whole body seemed to relax for half a second before she jumped right into the next task.
Efficient. Determined. Stubborn as hell.
And maybe—just maybe—a little too easy to like.
I was mid-thought when one of the PR interns approached her, voice sharp with that fake confidence people get when they think they’re in charge. “Ms. James, the lighting crew said your setup’s off-brand for the Storm?—”
Before she could answer, I turned. “Then they can fix it. Not her.”
The intern blinked, thrown off. “I—uh—I was just relaying?—”
“Relay faster,” I said, and jerked my chin toward the lighting rig.
He stammered something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared.
Ellery looked at me, eyes wide. “That was—unnecessary.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, picking up a stray stack of sponsor cards.
She just stared at me for a beat, then let out this small laugh—half exasperation, half disbelief. “You’re impossible.”
I smirked. “You say that like it’s new information.”
Her smile lingered longer than she probably meant it to. “You really don’t have an off switch, do you?”
“Not one anyone’s found yet.”
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she scribbled another note. I pretended not to notice how her cheeks had gone a shade pinker than usual.
For the next stretch, we kept working—side by side but quiet. It wasn’t awkward silence, just… steady. Comfortable, even. Every now and then, our hands brushed when we reached for the same roll of tape or shifted the same box, and each time, the air around us felt a little tighter.
She didn’t flinch away. Neither did I.
Somewhere between aligning banners and corralling volunteers, I realized I was standing guard without meaning to—scanning the room every time someone came too close, ready to step in if another intern tried to bark orders at her.
Ridiculous. I didn’t even like being here.
But watching her work—watching her handle people without ever losing her patience—made it harder to pretend I didn’t care.
By the time the last banner hung straight and the floor stopped looking like a disaster zone, I was still finding excuses to stay near her. Passing her tools. Moving boxes she could’ve moved herself.
I told myself it was efficiency.
But when she looked up at me, still smiling faintly, clipboard hugged to her chest, it felt like something else entirely.
“Mason, stand with Ellery for a quick photo!” someone shouted from across the gym.
I groaned before I could stop myself. Of course. PR never slept.
Ellery was mid-conversation with one of the volunteers, but when she heard my name, she turned—eyes flicking toward me, an unreadable mix of surprise and mild amusement on her face.
I muttered something about being done with cameras for the day, but my feet still carried me over. Habit, I guess. Or maybe it was the way she looked standing under those lights—hair catching the faint gold tint of the Storm banner behind her.
The photographer was already setting up, lens pointed like a weapon. “Closer together,” he said. “You’re supposed to look like you actually work well together.”
I arched a brow but stepped in anyway. Shoulder to shoulder. Closer than comfortable. The faint brush of her arm against mine sent a small jolt through me—like static, or nerves, or both.
The guy behind the camera held up a hand. “Smile.”
