Chapter 11 utive Decisions
EXECUTIVE DECISIONS
MORGAN
Kissing Strangers By DNCE, Nicki Minaj
The energy in the elevator crackles with excitement as my small team from Left Turn heads up to Elevate L.A.’s new space. James is smiling for once, and even Patricia from Legal seems less rigid than usual. It feels good to do something meaningful, to give back to the community.
“Remember when your dad used to drag us to these things?” James asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Everything was about giving back with him,” I say softly, remembering countless weekends spent at youth centers and community programs when I was growing up.
“He always said the music industry wasn’t just about profits—it was about creating spaces where art could thrive. ” The memory warms my chest.
The elevator doors open and my good mood evaporates instantly.
Dylan fucking Kernish-Grant stands in the center of the room, directing his team like he owns the place. Because of course he’s here. The universe won’t give me one day of peace.
His eyes find mine immediately, an infuriating smirk spreads across his face. “Clemson. Did you enjoy the donuts?”
My cheeks heat as I think about the elaborate box arriving at my office Friday—two dozen chocolate donuts with sprinkles and a note reading ‘victory is sweet.’ The latest salvo in our ongoing war after he’d managed to get to Ivy Nova before I could sign her to Left Turn.
“I gave them to the cleaning staff.” I’d stress-eaten three of them while going over contracts. “They appreciated the gesture.”
“If you say so,” he says softly, eyes dancing as if he can see right through me.
“Nice shirt, by the way,” I point to the bold lettering on his chest, Making Executive Decisions Since… 5 Minutes Ago, above the Stonewall Records logo.
He glances at my designer jeans and silk blouse, a smile playing at his lips. “And I see you dressed for heavy manual labor. Those heels are perfect for climbing ladders.”
I look him up and down, a smirk forming on my face. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on climbing anything today.”
Rachel sidles up next to him, draping an arm over his shoulder even though the height difference makes it ridiculous.
“That’s my handiwork,” she says, grinning at his shirt like a proud stage mom.
Dylan shrugs her off with a scowl. “She came with the company. No matter how many times I fire her, she keeps showing up.”
Rachel plants her hands on her hips, shooting him a side-eye so lethal I’m surprised he doesn’t burst into flames.
“In his defense,” she says sweetly, “he’d crash the whole company into a wall without me. I’m basically the airbag and the brakes.”
I bite back a laugh as Dylan mutters something under his breath sounding suspiciously like “traitor.”
Rachel smirks and pats his cheek. “Someone’s gotta keep him from eating crayons in the boardroom.”
The familiarity between them catches me off guard. There’s something almost… familial about their dynamic that doesn’t fit with the cutthroat image Dylan projects. It reminds me of how James has kept me grounded since I took over Left Turn.
Before I can respond, Gabriel Guzman, Elevate L.A.’s director, claps his hands for attention. We all turn toward him and I try to concentrate on what he’s saying instead of the way Dylan’s shoulder brushes against mine.
“He’s the director?” Patty whispers next to me. “I thought men like him only existed in those Fast and Furious movies.”
Gabriel’s very good looking, a bit of gray weaving through his thick dark hair above the ears, tattooed arms, and those gorgeous light eyes round out the package.
I’m not sure what fascinates me more, the fact that Patty watches old street racing movies or that she’s into men nearly twenty years younger than her.
“Welcome everyone! We’ve got a lot of work to do today transforming this space. Paint, furniture assembly, general setup—plenty to keep you all busy. We’re gonna separate you into different groups.”
He points to James. “You look like you know your way around a hammer and a screwdriver.”
I snicker. “He’s gonna need supervision.”
James shoots me a look as Gabriel directs him to the area where they’re putting together furniture.
Dylan speaks up. “I volunteer to paint.” And before I realize it, he grabs my arm. “And look, Clemson wants to paint too.”
I audibly gasp, yanking out of his hold. “What are you doing?”
Dylan smirks. I turn to Gabriel. “I’m more of a setup kind of girl.”
“We got the teens helping with set up. Why don’t you and Dylan get started in this room?”
Gabriel points to Patty. “You, come with me.” She steps forward eagerly.
I move to the opposite side of the room from Dylan, grabbing a paint roller. “Just stay out of my way,” I mutter as I pass him.
“Wouldn’t dream of interfering with your… technique,” he replies, eyeing the way I’m holding the roller.
The morning progresses in a blur of teal paint and thinly veiled competition. Every time I finish a section, I catch Dylan watching me from the corner of his eye. When he efficiently tapes off a row of windows, I find myself moving faster, determined to cover more ground.
Through the open door, I notice a group of teenagers struggling with a heavy equipment cabinet, the edge dangerously close to scraping the floor.
Dylan sees it too and immediately sets down his roller, rushing over to grab the side about to drop.
“Need a hand?” he asks, already helping them position it properly.
The teens look relieved as they successfully maneuver it into place with his help.
I watch, surprised by his quick reaction and willingness to jump in. He catches my eye as he returns to his painting.
“What?” he asks, noticing my stare.
“Nothing.” I turn to my wall. “Just surprised to see you volunteering at all. Figured your idea of community service was rethinking sending a ‘u up?’ text at two a.m.”
“Well, Clemson, nice to know you wonder what I’m doing at two a.m.,” he says smugly. “My fathers always said no matter how successful you get, you never forget where you came from.”
In a way, we were raised with similar values—our parents all believed in building something meaningful, in treating people with respect. For all our current rivalry, there’s something familiar in how Dylan carries those lessons with him, just as I try to honor my father’s legacy.
As I shift to a new section, I notice a pattern in how he’s approaching the wall—efficient, methodical. Even his volunteer work is executed with purpose.
“You’ve got it on backwards,” he says, pointing toward my roller, and he’s right.
I shoot him a look. “Thanks for the critique, Picasso. Want me to knit you a beret?”
His mouth twitches. “You’d make a great muse. All that rage and control-freak energy? Very inspiring.”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Keep talking, and I’ll inspire you with this roller across your smug face.”
“So hostile! You have a lot of pent-up frustration,” he says suggestively, and I ignore him.
“So,” he says casually, “about the showcase. You locking in venues yet, or winging it and hoping the universe kisses your forehead?”
My roller pauses mid-stroke. “Don’t be a smartass. Of course I’ve looked at venues.”
He leans his shoulder into the wall, gaze slanting toward me. “The Factory is your first pick, isn’t it?”
I lift a brow. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’re a sucker for aesthetics. It’s a pretty venue with terrible acoustics. Looks good in photos, sounds like shit in person.”
“And let me guess—you’re going to suggest the Avalon because it’s sleek and so very Stonewall.”
He nods. “Some things have changed since you lived in L.A. Acoustics are killer. Central location. Owner owes me a favor.”
I scoff. “Of course he does. “
“The owner’s a woman, for your information. Geez, Clemson, I thought you were progressive. I could put in a word.”
I narrow my eyes. “And why would you do that? What’s the angle, Dylan?”
“No angle. We’re co-hosting,” he says simply. “It’s in both our interests to make sure this showcase doesn’t crash and burn.”
He stretches his arms over his head with a groan, his shirt lifting just enough to flash a strip of toned stomach and a faint trail of paint-speckled ink disappearing beneath his waistband. It’s stupid how distracting it is.
Infuriating, the man trying to dismantle my company piece by piece has to look like that.
I’m so focused on not looking at him I don’t notice I’m backing up into him until it’s too late. His elbow catches the tray balanced in my hand, sending teal paint cascading over my favorite heels.
“Are you kidding me?” I shriek, jumping back but not fast enough.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dylan starts, but I cut him off.
“Please, you did that on purpose.”
He raises his hands in surrender, but there’s laughter in his eyes. “Yes, I regularly plan elaborate ways to ruin women’s shoes.”
“These are Jimmy Choos!”
“Of course they are,” he scoffs. “Who wears designer shoes to paint?”
“You don’t get to judge me,” I say indignantly. “Some of us like to look professional,” I snap, gesturing to his ratty Converse.
“Some of us are more concerned with results than appearances.” He picks up a rag, kneeling to help clean my shoes.
His gesture catches me off guard. “Don’t touch me.”
“Just trying to help, Clemson.”
And that’s when the tray tips out of my hand, dropping right on Dylan’s head. I step back in horror, press my hands to my mouth. He stands, paint dripping from his hair onto his cheek and over his t-shirt.
“Okay, I did not do that on purpose.” I try to say it with a straight face but fail.
He uses his hand to slick the paint back over his hair, and the teal makes him look younger, less intimidating—like someone I might actually like if circumstances were different.
He catches me around the waist when I try to escape, and suddenly we’re pressed together, both breathing hard and covered in teal paint.
My pulse skyrockets. His hands are warm through my paint-splattered blouse, and I hate that my first thought isn’t to push him away but to lean in closer.
This is the man trying to steal my company, and my traitorous body doesn’t seem to care one bit.
“Hey!” I yell, pushing away from him and surveying the damage. “I can’t believe you just did that.” I stomp my foot, reminding me my shoes will never recover.
“What’s wrong? Afraid of getting a little dirty?”
He flicks more paint at me. I retaliate by taking a roller to his chest. Pretty soon, paint is flying everywhere—on the walls, the floor, across my clothes.
“You’re such a jackass,” I yell between gasps of laughter and fury.
“You started it,” Dylan fires back, grinning like he’s having the time of his life.
I jab my roller at him. “You’re impossible. First my company, now my shoes—what’s next? My last shred of dignity?”
He steps closer, paint dripping from his hair, eyes glinting wickedly.
“A little late for that, don’t you think?”
My breath catches at the way he says it—almost affectionate.
“You owe me a new pair of Jimmy Choos!” I throw a rag at him, and he catches it with one hand.
“I’ll add it to your therapy bill.”
“You think this is funny?” I snap, chest heaving. I shove at his shoulder, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, his hand catches mine mid-push, his fingers slick with paint and warmth.
Our eyes lock, the air around us crackling.
“You think you’ve got me figured out?” I whisper.
“Not even close,” he murmurs. “If I had the chance…” His voice drops lower, rougher. “I’d take my time unraveling each layer of you.”
The words hit like a gut punch—fire surging through my veins, setting every nerve alight. I hate how much I want to let him.
The distance between us evaporates. His body almost brushes mine, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the clean sweat and adrenaline, see the smear of teal still clinging to the vein pulsing in his neck.
“You know this is a terrible idea,” I breathe.
“The worst,” he agrees, voice a rasp of heat.
For one dangerous second, we stand there—hearts pounding, breath mingling—both teetering on the edge of something we can’t take back.
His hand tightens slightly on mine.
I sway closer, helpless to stop myself.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
We spring apart at Gabriel’s gruff voice. He stands in the doorway, surveying the carnage with barely contained fury and a hint of amusement. Paint drips from my hair. Footprints track across the floor. And Dylan and I look like we tag-teamed Perry the Platypus in a wrestling match.
Fantastic. I’m going to die here, buried under a mountain of teal shame.
“I…” I start, but my voice falters.
There’s no excuse good enough. No version that doesn’t make me look reckless and unprofessional and stupid.
“It’s my fault,” Dylan says, stepping forward.
I whip my head toward him, heart thudding harder.
He doesn’t even hesitate. He shoulders the blame like it’s nothing. Like it’s automatic.
And that’s so much more dangerous than his tattoos or his smirk or even his business tactics. Because I could handle wanting a man I don’t like—but liking a man I shouldn’t want? That’s territory I’m not equipped to navigate.
Gabriel doesn’t even blink. “I don’t care,” he snaps. “Clean it up. Now.”
He spins on his heel and leaves, the door banging shut behind him.
Silence crashes down like a wave.
I take in the mess—the ruined walls, the wrecked floor, the disaster we made of everything—and something inside me twists.
“I don’t need you to come to my rescue,” I say, my voice low and shaking with anger I can barely hold back.
I don’t just mean here, in this room.
I mean at Left Turn.
I mean in my life.
I mean anywhere.
And by the flicker in Dylan’s eyes, he knows it.
He opens his mouth like he wants to argue—like he wants to tell me he wasn’t rescuing me, or that he would, if I’d let him—but he thinks better of it.
He just nods.
Sharp. Silent. Like a door slamming shut between us.