10. One for the Money #2
"Every major investor in the region will be there. I need to present a united corporate front, not a viral meme." I scratch the stubble that’s starting to form at my chin. "If MacTavish wants to tank the acquisition, that event would be the perfect opportunity."
My phone buzzes with a calendar alert. I glance at it and groan.
"Problem?" Karina asks.
"The Emerald City Children's Foundation Gala. Tuesday evening." I toss the phone onto the table. "Another opportunity for MacTavish to make me look ridiculous."
"You don't want to go?"
"I didn't even know I was attending until Alana added it to my calendar this morning." I frown. "She and my grandmother have been conspiring. Apparently, I'm now a 'featured donor.'"
"That doesn't sound so terrible."
"Duncan will be there. So will half the tech CEOs in Seattle, all watching for the next viral moment."
Karina tilts her head. "Alana's looking out for you, I think. These appearances help with the Guardian angle we've been discussing."
"Perhaps. She's surprisingly competent when she's not letting bagpipers into the lobby."
"She organized your entire calendar in color-coded tiers of importance," Karina notes. "And rescheduled that board call so you could visit your grandmother at the airport."
"She did leave a Post-it on my desk with the words 'smile more' underlined three times."
Karina laughs. "Bold move."
"The note also included a handwritten hashtag: #KiltsGetThings."
"Even bolder." She studies me, lips quirking. "You're warming up to her, aren't you?"
"I am not."
"You remembered her scheduling system. And you noticed the Post-it. For someone who seems inherently distrustful, that's practically a friendship bracelet."
I scoff. "She's efficient. That's all."
"Well, efficient or not, she's right about the gala." Karina leans forward, eyes brightening. "It's perfect, actually. A controlled environment where we could make Duncan sweat a little."
"We?"
"I could accompany you." She says it casually, but something in her tone shifts. "As your Marketing Director, of course. We could present a united front, maybe drop some hints about what we know."
I consider the suggestion.
Having Karina there would certainly make the evening more bearable.
And watching Duncan squirm has its appeal.
"You'd willingly subject yourself to four hours of Seattle's elite congratulating themselves on their philanthropy?"
"For the chance to make Duncan MacTavish nervous while advancing our Guardian narrative?" She grins. "Absolutely."
"It's black tie," I warn.
"I own a dress."
"There will be dancing."
"I'm Armenian. Dancing is in my blood."
I blink. "Fine. We'll go together."
"Excellent." She looks pleased with herself. "I'll coordinate with Alana on the messaging strategy. We should arrive separately but leave together—gives the impression of a working relationship that extends beyond office hours."
"Very strategic.”
"Always." She turns back to the laptop. "Now, about these server locations... We’ll hone in on this. And in the meantime, like we discussed, change the narrative.” She starts typing rapidly. "We reclaim the hashtag, redirect it toward the Guardian angle we discussed."
"How?"
"We strategically leak information about your philanthropy work. Highlight corporate protection initiatives. Position you as Seattle's digital protector, not its kilted bachelor." Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "The whole 'Guardian of Tech' concept."
I find myself watching her hands—elegant, capable, with short practical nails and a tiny crescent-shaped scar on her right thumb.
"What happened there?" I ask before I can stop myself.
She glances up. "Where?"
"Your thumb."
"Oh." She flexes it. "Broken glass. When I was twelve. A dish slipped, and I tried to catch it."
"Heroic."
"Stupid," she confesses with a self-deprecating smile. "But very on-brand for me. Always trying to save things that are already falling."
Something about the comment hits deeper than she probably intended.
I move to point at the screen, reaching for the mouse at the exact moment she does.
Our hands collide, hers warm beneath mine.
Neither of us pulls away.
"Sorry," I murmur, not moving.
"My fault," she replies, but doesn't withdraw her hand.
The air between us shifts—charged suddenly with something beyond professional collaboration.
"Karina—" I begin, not entirely sure what I'm about to say.
"We should focus on the work," she interrupts, but her eyes drop briefly to my mouth.
"Absolutely." I remove my hand from the mouse—and hers. "The campaign pivot is our priority."
"Right."
"Though I'm not wearing a kilt for any PR photos."
She laughs, the tension breaking slightly. "Not even for the greater good?"
"Not even to save the entire company."
"Coward."
"Pragmatist."
"Says the man who owns at least three kilts, according to your grandmother's photo album."
"For traditional events. Not corporate photo ops."
"But they would sell so well on merchandise," she teases. "Think of the bobbleheads."
"I'd rather not."
"Kilt-wearing action figures?"
"Stop."
“Plaid-themed energy drinks?"
I reach out to grab the laptop, but she pulls it away, laughing.
I lunge forward, she yanks it backward, and suddenly we're engaged in a ridiculous tug-of-war over a $3,000 computer.
"This is very unprofessional," I growl.
“Quite a statement from the man attacking his Marketing Director," she retorts, still gripping the laptop.
Our ridiculous tug-of-war sends the laptop sliding across the table with a thud, but I hardly notice.
Because Karina’s body is flush against mine, and all the air between us evaporates.
I brace myself with one hand on the back of her chair, the other landing too close to the curve of her waist.
Her breath catches—barely a whisper—but I feel it everywhere.
"Callum," she says, voice trembling just enough to make my restraint snap taut.
I should step back. I should apologize. I should remember all the reasons this can't happen—the company, the scandal, the fact that I have no right to want her like this.
But she’s staring at my mouth like she’s thinking the same damn thing.
And when her tongue flicks out to wet her bottom lip—nervous, instinctive—any thought of self-preservation dies.
I close the distance and kiss her.
Not tentative. Not polite.
A rough, hungry claiming of her mouth, like I’ve been waiting for this longer than I even realized.
She gasps against me, and for one wild second, she doesn't pull away.
Instead, her fingers clutch the front of my shirt, tugging me closer, as if she needs me as badly as I need her.
Her lips are warm, yielding, but there’s fire beneath the softness—an urgency that makes my blood thrum and my cock harden in my slacks.
The kiss deepens, spiraling fast from tentative to desperate.
My hands slide up her back, fisting in the silky fabric of her wrap top, and she arches into me with a soft, broken sound that shreds the last of my control.
She tastes like something forbidden, something meant to be savored and denied in equal measure.
A part of me dimly registers that this is a line we can’t uncross.
That I should tear myself away, before it’s too late.
But when she makes a small, involuntary whimper into my mouth—a sound so raw, so wrecked—I’m lost.
I shift, pressing her back against the edge of the table, crowding her body with mine, needing to feel her, needing more.
Her hands skim up my chest, tentative at first, then bolder, threading into the hair at the nape of my neck as she kisses me back with a recklessness that mirrors my own.
Christ.
Karina Peters is unraveling me.
Right here, in the middle of a hotel suite filled with laptops, conspiracy maps, and bagpipes that play Céline Dion.
And I don’t even care.
Not when she’s kissing me like this.
Not when she tastes like defiance and desperation and everything I’m not supposed to want.
It’s madness. It’s suicide.
It’s inevitable.
She pulls back first—abrupt, shaky, her chest heaving as she stares at me with wide, stricken eyes.
"I can't," she whispers, the words ripping out of her like they hurt.
I still have one hand curved around her waist, like if I let go, she’ll vanish.
Slowly—painfully—I force my fingers to unclench.
"Karina—"
"This—" she shakes her head, visibly struggling to steady herself, "—this can’t happen. We can’t."
She scrambles to gather her things, her movements jerky and panicked, like staying another second would break her resolve.
"We’ll regroup at the office," she says, still not looking at me. "Strictly professional. It’s better that way."
Better for who, I want to ask.
But I don't.
I only nod once, tight and controlled, every muscle in my body straining against the need to reach for her again.
She hesitates at the door, fingers trembling slightly on the handle.
"This can’t happen again," she says without turning around.
"I know," I say.
And it’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
Because the truth is already clawing at my chest:
I want her.
I want her so badly it feels like a sickness.
And I know I’m not going to survive pretending otherwise.
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with the taste of her still on my lips.
And the knowledge that no amount of control or professionalism will ever put her back in the box I need her to stay in.