I hated what it said about me — that I cared enough to notice. That every time she smiled, some part of me wanted to be the reason behind it.
But what I hated even more was knowing he didn’t.
Kyle had the girl everyone envied — the kind people write press releases about — and he still didn’t see her. Not really.
I’d seen it on the field, in the office, in the way she carried every problem like it was her job to fix the world. She shouldn’t have to.
The rain hit harder, drumming against the roof, drowning out the sound of my thoughts.
You don’t get to care; I told myself. Not like that. Not when she’s his. Not when you’ve spent your whole career proving you don’t need anyone.
But that didn’t stop the image from sticking — her standing in the rain, sleeves rolled up, refusing to quit.
I slowed at a red light, headlights pooling on the wet pavement. My reflection stared back at me in the glass — tired, jaw tight, a man who didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore.
I told myself it was nothing. Just guilt. Respect. A professional thing.
But the truth sat heavy in my chest.
It wasn’t nothing.
It was her.
Chapter 15
Ellery
The late afternoon light spilled through the tailor shop windows, warm and golden, catching on glass display cases and rows of silk ties. The whole place smelled like cedar and starch — expensive, controlled, everything in its place. I stood off to the side with my tablet, checking final notes for the gala’s guest list while Mr. Han worked his magic on the fitting platform.
Beckett looked wildly out of place — six feet of restless energy surrounded by calm, curated luxury.
“You move too much, Mr. Mason,” Mr. Han scolded, half-exasperated, half-admiring the challenge.
Beckett muttered something under his breath, then louder, “Try standing still for twenty minutes while someone stabs pins at you.”
Without looking up from my notes, I said, “Maybe if you didn’t fidget like a toddler?—”
“I’m allergic to patience,” he shot back.
I sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. I glanced up — just for a second — and immediately regretted it.
Because, God help me, he looked good.
The suit was tailored within an inch of its life — clean black lines, subtle sheen, and a collar he’d already loosened just enough to make it look like sin. Beckett Mason, usually all sweat and attitude and grass stains, suddenly looked like someone who could walk into any room and own it. And that was the problem.
He wasn’t supposed to look like that.
He wasn’t supposed to make my pulse jump while I was working.
“Stop staring, James,” he said, smirking at the mirror without turning his head.
“I’m not,” I said too quickly.
“Sure you’re not.”
Mr. Han gave him a sharp look. “Please, no talking. Talking makes wrinkles.”
That shut him up — for about five seconds.
