Page 92 of Broken Blades

I didn't give her the chance to recover.

I grabbed Wyatt's hand—large, warm, calloused—and laced my fingers through his. Held on tight. Possessive. Protective. "Excuse us."

I pulled him away from her. Down the corridor. Back toward the noise and light and laughter of the charity event.

Wyatt followed. Silent. Shaken. His hand gripped mine like he was drowning and I was the only thing keeping him afloat.

We walked in silence for several heartbeats. The sounds of the arena grew louder—children laughing, blades cutting ice, cameras clicking.

We reached the rink hallway before he stopped walking. Pulled his hand free. Turned to face me with an expression I couldn't read—somewhere between shock and something darker. More dangerous.

"What the hell was that?"

I crossed my arms, heat flooding my face. My whole body. "She was being rude."

His jaw worked. A muscle ticked near his temple. "That 'rude woman' is about to be your boss."

The words hit me like ice water.

Oh.

Oh God.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. Barbara Hale. My father's merger partner. The woman I'd just—essentially told off. The woman whose company I was supposed to help lead next quarter. The woman who could tank my entire career before it even started.

What had I done?

"…Oh."

The single syllable came out small. Horrified. Everything I'd felt seconds ago—the fierce protective anger, the righteous indignation—evaporated into cold, creeping dread.

Wyatt watched my face shift from defiance to horror. Something flickered across his expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite approval. But close enough to both that it made my chest tight.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

"Still want older men?"

The question landed like a grenade. My entire body went nuclear. Face burning. Ears burning. Every inch of skin flushed with mortification at my own words echoing back at me.

I'd said that. Out loud. To his ex-wife. To my future boss.

I prefer older men.

"Shut up."

But even as the words left my mouth, something else happened. Something I couldn't control. My lips curved. Just slightly. A tiny, traitorous smile I couldn't quite suppress.

Because despite everything—despite the professional disaster I'd just created, despite the horror of realizing who I'd confronted, despite knowing I should be terrified—I wasn't sorry. Not entirely. Not about defending him.

Wyatt's eyes tracked that smile. Caught it. Held it. Something shifted in his expression—softened by a fraction so small I almost missed it.

His voice dropped lower. Quieter. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I know."

"She could destroy your career."