Prologue #2
“Hey yourself.” He adjusts to make room for me at the railing. “Needed some air?”
“Something like that.” I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “Big night.”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You did good work, Josie. We couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”
“Careful,” I tease lightly. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
His hand covers mine briefly, squeezing. “It is a compliment.” He lets it go, looking back at the far mountain.
I force myself not to read into it. “Then I’ll treasure it always. Write it in my diary. ‘Dear Diary, today Stone said something nice to me. Mark the calendar!’”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. It’s so pleasant it does things to my chest that are entirely inappropriate for a professional relationship.
Is this a professional relationship anymore?
I’m not sure, haven’t been for months. The lines blurred somewhere between the late-night strategy sessions and the way he always seems to find excuses to touch me—his hand on my lower back, his fingers brushing mine when he passes me a file, the weight of his gaze when he thinks I’m not looking.
“Josie.”
I glance up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to say something.” He turns to face me fully, and the space between us feels very small. “About us. About... this.”
My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “What about us?”
“I’ve been holding back.” His hand finds my hip, warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Trying to keep things professional. Telling myself it’s the right thing to do.”
“And now?”
He steps closer. His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone, and I forget how to breathe.
“I want you, Josie.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve wanted you for months. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
This is it. This is finally, finally it.
I lean in.
His mouth is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath, can see the way his eyes darken with want—
And then he steps back.
The cold rushes in where his warmth has been, and I stand there, lips parted, heart cracking down the middle, as Boone Armstrong puts three feet of careful distance between us.
“We can’t.”
Two words. That’s all it takes.
We can’t.
Not I don’t want to. Not I was wrong. Just we can’t, which means he still wants to, which makes this whole situation so much worse.
Hot humiliation floods my chest, right on the heels of disappointment so sharp it borders on pain.
Anger sparks too, bright, sudden, and quickly smothered, because how dare he pull me close like that, let me believe he was interested, say those things, and then leave me standing here like a damned fool?
I should demand an explanation. Ask him what the hell that was, why he touched me like he meant it if he was already halfway out the door.
I should do any of the things a rational adult would do when confronted with emotional whiplash of this magnitude.
Instead, I laugh.
It comes out bright and brittle, a sound with sharp edges, the kind of laugh that convinces absolutely no one, but it gives us both an out.
“Well.” I step back, matching his distance, rapidly rebuilding my walls brick by brick. “That’s embarrassing.” I hook a thumb toward the bar, forcing a grin that feels like it might crack my face in two. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t fucking cry. “Shall we blame the cheap beer?”
“Josie—”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” I’m already moving away, retreating before he can see the damage, before my eyes can betray me. My voice stays light even as an ugly ache settles deep in my chest. “Too much excitement, too much alcohol. We got caught up in the moment. It happens.”
“That’s not—”
“I should get back inside. Mingle. Celebrate.” I keep that damn smile that feels like broken glass on my face, determined not to let him see how deeply this hurts. “Congratulations on the win, Stone. Really. You should be proud.”
I will not cry over this man. Not tonight. Not freaking ever.
I don’t wait for his response. I walk back inside, and rejoin the party, but the shame follows me all the same.
I laugh at jokes I don’t hear, dance with some of the prospects who are young and eager for attention, drink another beer, and force myself to pretend my chest doesn’t feel like someone has reached in and strangled my heart.
Lesson learned, Bright. Lesson fucking learned.
Stone watches me for the rest of the night. I can feel his gaze tracking me through the crowd. It’s heavy and cool.
I don’t glance back. Don’t meet his gaze. Not even once.
He doesn’t deserve another piece of me.
By the time I leave, I’ve rebuilt every wall I let him knock down. Only this time, they’re reinforced with steel and spite and the bone-deep certainty that I’m done hoping for a relationship that’s never going to happen.
Stone wants me. I know he does.
But wanting isn’t the same as having. He could have had me. Easily. But damn if he’ll get more than friendly professionalism from me from now on.
Screw you, Stone.
One of the prospects drops me home, and I let myself into my empty small house.
“Alone once more,” I mutter to myself, and pour a glass of wine I don’t taste.
You came here for boring, I remind myself. Not to fall for a motorcycle club president who treats you like you’re nothing.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being his lawyer. Professional. Distant. Polite.
Tomorrow, I’ll pretend tonight never happened.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll eventually stop feeling like an idiot for wanting the one person I can’t have.