13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
13
The din of the party buzzes around me, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the soft murmur of party-goers in deep conversation. I'm here for work—networking, schmoozing, whatever you want to call it. Marshall stands beside me, the epitome of cool, amid power suits and polished shoes. His inked arms and casual poise are at odds with the crowd. A writer with the look of a renegade, someone more at home on a Harley than in the hallowed halls of journalism.
He’s definitely gotten plenty of women over to our side of the room. They bat their eyelashes and ask stupid questions they know the answers to. At least, I would hope they know the answers since they’re in the writing business.
Our mission tonight was simple: recruit fresh talent, spark creativity, and spread the word about our online journal to those who crave something raw amidst the noise and wannabes.
Marshall leans in, his voice a low timbre, and if I didn’t know he had been dating a beautiful redhead for over a year, I would shoot my shot with him. “Remind me again, why the hell did you need me here?”
“Your looks,” I answer honestly and bring my wine glass to my lips to hide the smirk from being so damn obvious. “And because you’re the boss.”
“I hate places like this.”
I nod in agreement with Marshall.
The space is opulent, draped in luxury that feels a world away. Golds and dark woods reflect the soft lighting while a jazz quartet thread notes of sophistication through the air. Marshall’s ears are more than likely close to bleeding.
“We need to work the room,” I claim evenly. “Networking, remember?”
“I do enough of that on my own time,” he argues.
I open my mouth to tell him we can cut out in an hour when he heads for the bar.
“I’m going to go grab a drink.”
Poor guy.
I watch him disappear amongst the crowd of women whose gazes follow him with hunger and planning. One of them, if not several, will try to get him home tonight.
I’d put money on it.
“You’ve got me fucked up if you didn’t think I was going to hunt you down, Snowflake. Especially when you haven’t heard my piece yet.”
My heart lurches into my throat as the familiar voice licks up my spine. And then, he’s right there.
Right in front of me.
The room tilts a little as he moves towards me, that disarming smile in place, but his eyes hold mine with an intensity that burns through the surprise.
My breath catches, and I'm vividly aware of everything—his scent, those beautiful green eyes underneath a black cap to hide his identity.
He shouldn’t be here.
And he shouldn’t know where I am, either.
However, I bet you a hundred bucks that he got those details from someone on his team, and they’re giving him the information he needs to get to me.
“What in the world are you doing here?” I grind out, but my voice holds no actual irritation. I’m shell-shocked that he’s within my space and here at this stupid party. “You’re not supposed—”
"I went for a long shot," he replies placidly. “I needed to see you."
No.
I glance around, aware of the potential spectacle, the curious eyes on us at any moment, and the implications it might cause if someone notices him. “You have to go.”
“You have to hear my side.”
“Dude, read the room.” I send a glare his way, hoping he’ll catch my meaning. I’m not playing around anymore. All it will take is one picture of us together, and we’re toast. “I’m not doing this now, Wells. Get out.”
“Rory, please,” he mutters. “It’s not what it looked like. I can—”
“Oh my God, this isn’t the time,” I practically whine as anxiety creeps up my throat. “My boss is going to be here any minute.”
And then I’m going to have to explain…you.
I don't think that Marshall is a hockey fan, but I still don’t want to discuss Wells.
“Is that the guy who had his arm wrapped around you?”
His question pulls me back to the present, to the weight of the choices I've made since he last held me in a way I couldn't help but lean into.
I follow his gaze, which drifted to his right, and find Marshall talking to a blonde who seems to be speaking of business rather than pleasure.
“Yes,” I reply with urgency. “Now you have to go.”
“I didn’t sleep with anyone,” Wells proclaims, and, again, not the time. “I’d never do that to you. I meant what I said. I want this.”
I inhale a deep breath to calm my voice and my nerves. “Look, we’ll talk about this later—”
“When?” Wells presses with pinned brows. “Because you blocked me, and you’re doing a pretty good job making sure we never talk again.”
Now, he’s reading the room.
“Wells—” He erases more space between us, and I freeze.
I can’t think right when he’s this close. I can’t remind myself of the headlines that went on for three days straight.
I will not go back to thoughts of how he may have acted on that video behind closed doors.
“Snowflake, I need you to believe me. Everything I said was true. Everything.”
“Okay,” I quip with a noncommittal shrug. “If you say so. But this, right here, can’t happen. I’m working.”
His face skews as if he’s reading my mind. “You don’t believe me.”
He’s right, I don’t.
I don’t have the headspace for this surprise attack or how he picked the worst time to do it. I have to talk to people and not act like a blubbering idiot.
“I don’t have time to listen to you,” I argue placidly. “I’m working. You don’t see me going out on the ice and stopping you from playing your game.”
“Fuck, I wish you would.” Wells allows his eyes to drop down the length of me. My short cocktail dress shows off most of my thighs and the curves at my waist. It feels like I’m engulfed by flames at his look. I’m consumed and utterly tied to this man who won’t just let me go and accept that this isn’t going to work.
“Wells, I’m busy.”
“I heard you,” he says, then flicks an irritated glance at me. “And if he touches you again, you’ll be out a boss.”
I hit him with an unimpressed brow. “That’s not cute, Wells. You’re talking about my livelihood and my job.”
“And I’m talking about another man touching you,” he retorts sourly. “It won’t happen again. You’ve got my attention, Snowflake—”
“I didn’t ask for your attention. Hence why I blocked you. I don’t want your attention. I don’t want to talk to you. You shouldn’t know I’m here, but I bet your friends helped you with that, didn’t they?”
“Of course they did,” he confirms, and I want to throat-punch him right now. “How else was I supposed to get a hold of you.”
This is pathetic.
Every nerve in my body screams that I need to shuttle Wells out of here before Marshall spots us, and I'm forced to answer questions I can't even ask myself. I’ve been evading and dodging them for days now. I’ve been working my butt off to keep from having a silent moment to myself.
“We’ll talk later,” I motion to the door to get him out of here. “I promise. Meet me in the lobby in an hour. I’ll be there.”
“You promise you’re not going to sneak out the back?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Because I’m all about the chase. It won’t be anything new.”
“I’m not a hockey puck, Killer. I’m a woman that you fucking used.”
“I didn’t use you,” he retorts with narrowed eyes. “I would never fuck you over like that.”
“The headlines show different. The video made it look like you were having an amazing time.”
“I was just drinking and dancing, baby. I didn’t ask for them to come over—”
“But you didn’t tell them to fuck off either.” My stomach clenches at what he could’ve done or did, and it’s messing with my business vibes. He can’t be here. “Like I said…I’ll give you a few minutes, but not now. I have to get through tonight.”
Wells stares at me for a moment, looking as though he wants to argue before he gives me a nod. “Alright. I’ll be in the lobby waiting.”
Thank God.
Wells is about to pivot and escape from the room when Marshall’s voice cuts through my resolve like a sharp knife, and I almost whimper in defeat.
"Everything alright?"
This is going to go badly.
He arrives at my side, eyes briefly touching my own in question, and I’m not alright. But he’s not going to know that because I’m not putting my ass on the line.
"Yep,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Everything's fine."
“Who’s your friend?”
“Just some guy who wanted—”
“Her boyfriend,” Wells cuts in. And here we go.
I never thought of myself as someone who could commit murder, but as I turn to look at Wells, feeling the air shift around us, it occurs to me that there's a lot about this night I couldn't have anticipated.
“Boyfriend?” Marshall repeats the word as if tasting it for the first time. And he would be because I’ve never mentioned one before. “Didn’t know she had one? Ex?”
Wells smirks at the little jab that he’d be some crazy ex, stalker asshole who’d show up unannounced, and, well…Marshall isn’t far off the mark.
“Current,” Wells asserts, an almost territorial emphasis infusing the word. “You must be the boss that’s always touching my girl. Is that HR-appropriate?”
Marshall's recovery is quick; he doesn’t falter a bit. “It is when they like it.”
Wells’s jaw clenches, and he spins the bill of his hat to face back. I know he’s close.
He’s close to throwing down with Marshall right here and now, consequences be damned, and everything I wanted, everything I worked so hard for will be gone to shit.
My mind races, desperate for an intervention to steer us away from the edge we’re all balancing on.
“Guys,” I interject, the word sharper—more authoritative—than intended. "This isn't the place."
“I don’t think backward hat guy is going to want to throw down with me,” Marshall replies confidently. “I use guys like him to beat other people’s asses.”
Wells chuckles, a deep and dangerous sound that I’ve never heard before, and it sends goosebumps shooting frantically up my spine. “Rory, you really might want to get your boy here.”
I step between them, confident that a fight won’t go down while I’m standing in between them, and look up at Marshall with an apologetic look. “Would you excuse us for a minute? I’ll be right back.”
“I came to get you because I wanted you to meet someone. Make it quick.”
I nod and quickly escort Wells from the room without looking like I’m desperately trying to kick him out.
Which I’m sure he’s used to.
Once we're out of earshot, I stop and turn to Wells, his presence—a mix of pissed off and jealousy.
"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" My whisper is a thread of frustration about the million questions I will need to answer from Marshall. “That’s my boss, Judson.”
“I know.”
My face skews because he just flatly stated he didn’t care. “My boss.”
Wells exhales slowly, his anger losing its edge. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" I echo, the irony not lost on me. “You’re fucking up a lot lately, aren’t you?”
"Yeah, Rory, I am." His admission is soft, and I can feel his resolve waning. “I’ll sit here like a good boy and wait for you to come out.”
“You’re going to be lucky if I ever come out.”
Wells’s green eyes harden. “You think that was bad? I’ve been so pissed off lately. I’ve been taking it out on everyone.”
“Wells—”
“I wanna fix this.” He erases some space between us, and my skin warms at his proximity. That he’s here and I missed him. So much. “I want you. That hasn’t changed. Nothing for me has changed other than how sorry I am.”
I want to believe him. I do.
But I can’t.
He got caught, and he has no room to deny anything.
And that’s fine.
We stopped before we began, which seems to be a trend for me and hockey players. I shouldn’t be dating them or going behind my dad’s back fucking them, either. They think they can do whatever they want because of their status and get away with it.
I’m not dealing with it.
“Get your thoughts and words together,” I assert evenly. “Because you’ll have ten minutes of my time, and that’s it.”
Wells bows his head. “Alright, baby.”
Then he is silent, and the air between us is thick with tension and uncertainty.
I hate that.
Before Wells and my good Samaritan act to save him from punching Charles Gagnon, I was set in life. I had my job, my little place that was all mine, and a well-put-together routine.
I should have minded my own business.