Chapter Thirteen
Sunday, 8 p.m
The Brick
Nathan
T here are three consistent things at the Brick: whiskey, comfort food, and the subtle hint of polished wood. The Brick has been a constant in the city’s nightlife. For tonight, Jonathan had reserved the back section for our “small get-together”—which, by Knight standards, means thirty of our closest friends and business associates.
The celebration is already in full swing. Just minutes ago, Jonathan and Kiera had made their big announcement—“It's a boy!”—to thunderous applause and congratulations. The mood is electric, everyone riding high on the news the Knight family will soon have a new member. The thought of becoming an uncle feels surreal.
I scan the crowd, nodding at familiar faces as I make my way toward the bar. Jake and Mia are already here, cuddled at a booth by the window, deep in conversation. Their happiness is palpable even from across the room—all soft touches and shared laughter. A twinge of something I refuse to call envy pinches at my chest before I push it down.
“The usual?” Ian calls from behind the bar when he spots me.
“Make it a double,” I reply, unbuttoning my suit jacket.
I’d spent the day fielding calls from investors while simultaneously replaying yesterday’s meeting with Quinn in my mind. The way she’d handled that social media troll had been nothing short of brilliant—quick thinking that had impressed even Jonathan. And that reluctant appreciation had only heightened my awareness of her, making it harder to maintain the professional detachment I need to win our bet.
Ian sets my drink on the bar with practiced precision. “You look like today ran you over.”
“You could say that.” I take a generous sip, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. “Looks like a good turnout.”
“Your brother knows how to throw a party.” Ian glances over my shoulder, his expression shifting subtly. “Incoming.”
I don’t need to turn around to know who he means. The energy in the room changes—a subtle shift in the atmosphere that I’ve grown painfully attuned to over the past week. My body reacts before my brain catches up, every nerve ending suddenly, traitorously alert. My dick stands painfully at full attention, and I have yet to set my eyes on her.
Quinn.
She moves through the crowd with practiced ease, Lyla at her side. The dark green dress my ex is wearing is simultaneously modest and devastating—a T-shirt neckline balanced by a hemline that showcases her legs, legs I remember wrapped around my waist in darker hours. Her bright hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. And her lips are painted a soft pink that draws my gaze despite my best intentions.
For a heartbeat, I allow myself to simply look—to acknowledge the undeniable pull she still exerts, like gravity’s persistent tug. Then I remind myself of the stakes and school my features into casual indifference, though I don’t know how much longer I can use this expression to fool her into thinking I don’t give a shit.
“Number two?” Ian asks, nodding to my now-empty glass.
“Not yet,” I decline, deciding not to get completely trashed. At least not until later. The night is still young. “I’ll switch to a light beer.”
“You got it, man.” Ian is quick to hand me a bottle as I continue to look in Quinn’s direction.
She eventually sees me at the bar. I shift my posture, straightening my shoulders. She wears a professional armor as obvious as a large piece of jewelry. It’s subtle until you notice it.
She says something to Lyla before turning to Jonathan and Kiera, deliberately avoiding me.
Smart move. The less we interact, the easier it’ll be for both of us. But could this bet already getting to her as much as it is to me?
“You’re staring.” Kami’s voice interrupts my thoughts as she slides onto the barstool beside me. “And not very subtly.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflect, taking a swig of my beer.
Kami follows my gaze to where Quinn now stands, laughing at something Kiera has said. “Right. And I’m secretly the Queen of England.”
“Why don’t you go annoy your fiancé?” I nod toward Ian, who’s mixing drinks at the other end of the bar.
“We’ve been over this. I’m multitasking.” She grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “So how’s the bet going? Still determined to prove you can resist the only woman who’s ever tied you in knots?”
I nearly choke on my beer. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“Jake tells Mia everything, and well…women talk.” She shrugs, unapologetic. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t gone beyond our little circle. Yet.”
Great. Just what I need—a bigger audience for this mess.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Just a professional disagreement that got…escalated.”
“Mm-hmm.” Kami’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “So that’s why you haven’t taken your eyes off her since she walked in. Very professional. Great strategy you got here.”
Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, the opening notes of a slow song fill the room. I recognize it immediately—one of those ballads that was everywhere last summer, the kind that seems specifically engineered to get couples on the dance floor.
Jonathan leads Kiera to the center of the room, his hand resting protectively over her slightly rounded belly as they begin to sway to the music. Others join them—Jake and Mia, Ian pulling a laughing Kami away from me and toward the makeshift dance floor.
Which leaves Quinn standing alone at the edge of the crowd, Lyla nowhere to be seen. I watch her as she looks to the couples with an expression I can’t quite decipher from this distance.
I’m suddenly compelled to move toward her—some reckless impulse I should absolutely ignore. Setting my beer bottle down at the bar, I let my feet carry me forward anyway, weaving through clusters of guests until I’m standing beside her. Her signature scent wraps around me—that distinctive blend of lilies with vanilla undertones that I’d recognize anywhere.
“Would you like to dance?” What the fuck am I doing? I have no idea. Yet for some reason, I don’t give a shit.
Quinn seems just as surprised as I feel, her eyes wide with shock. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she says, though she continues to stare at the dancing couples with what I deduce to be longing.
“You’re right, it probably wouldn’t be,” I agree, holding out my hand anyway. “But it would look strange if we avoided each other all night when we’re supposed to be working together professionally.”
She weighs my reasoning, clearly suspicious of my motives. “One dance,” she finally concedes, placing her hand in mine. “For appearances’ sake.”
The moment our palms connect, electricity shoots through my veins, a jolt so visceral it nearly stops my breath. Her skin is soft, warm—achingly familiar against mine. I guide her to the edge of the dance floor, intending to maintain a respectable distance, but a need deep within my chest has other ideas. My hand settles at her waist, fingers splaying slightly against the silky fabric of her dress, feeling the heat of her beneath.
“You look beautiful,” I say, the words escaping before I can censor them. Her scent surrounds me to where it’s almost intoxicating. My memory spirals back to all the nights we shared with her hair spread across my bed.
“Thank you.” Her response is cautious, but I don’t miss how her pupils dilate slightly, betraying her own reaction. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
Silence falls between us again. But we move together with the practiced ease that comes from having memorized each other’s bodies; muscle memory seems to guide our steps in perfect synchronization. Each turn brings her incrementally closer. The space between us shrinks with each beat of the music. I feel goose bumps rise along my skin.
“How’s your laptop?” I find myself asking, remembering how it had died during yesterday’s meeting and feeling a need to fill the silence.
She hesitates. “Still temperamental. Why?”
“Just making conversation.” I shrug, maintaining the careful rhythm of our dance. “You mentioned it’s been acting strange for a while.”
“It has.” Something in her expression shifts. “I’m surprised you care about my technology troubles.”
“Consider it professional courtesy,” I counter smoothly. “Nothing more.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, searching my face. “Right. Because everything between us is strictly professional now.”
The challenge in her tone—so familiar, so Quinn—ignites something dangerous in me. I should back off, take back control. But all I can think about is getting her near me for more than just a dance. More than maybe a kiss.
I pull her impossibly closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, fingers splaying possessively against her spine. Her breasts press against my chest. The heat of her body against mine is intoxicating, more potent than any strong liquor. Her lips so close to mine. “Is that what you want? To be strictly professional?”
Her breath catches, the soft sound sending a pulse of desire straight through me. I can feel her heart racing, matching the thunderous beat of my own.
“What I want,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “is to do my job without complications.”
“Are you trying to say I’m complicating things for you?” I rest my lips close enough to her ear that they nearly brush against her skin. She shudders slightly, and satisfaction courses through me.
“You’ve always complicated things,” she admits, a flash of honesty that catches me off guard. “Even now, when you hate me.”
The words land hard. Is that what she thinks I think of her? “I don’t hate you,”
She looks up at me, expression wide with genuine surprise, lips parted slightly. My focus drops to her mouth, those soft lips I used to claim with my own. I lean in, drawn by a gravity I can’t fight, watching her lashes flutter closed in anticipation.
Our lips are once again a whisper apart when the song abruptly shifts to something with a quicker tempo. Reality crashes back and I pull away slightly, catching the flash of disappointment in her eyes before she masks it.
Quinn steps away, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. “Well, thank you for the dance,” she says formally, though her voice is husky, betraying her act.
“Quinn—” I start, not sure what I’m about to say.
“I should check in with everyone,” she interrupts, already turning away. “We’re all meeting tomorrow to discuss photographer options.”
I watch her walk away, frustration twisting in my gut. Not just for how close I let myself get to her, but also having her so close only for her to be so far away again. This bet was supposed to prove I’m immune to her, that whatever pull she once had on me is long gone. Instead, one dance has left me more unsettled than a year’s worth of meaningless encounters.
“Tough break, little brother.” Jonathan appears at my side, offering me a fresh beer. “Though I have to say, you two move well together.”
“It was just a dance,” I say, accepting the drink. “That’s it.”
“If you say so.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You do realize you’re being stubborn, right?”
I take a long pull from my beer rather than responding. The last thing I need is relationship advice from Mr. Happily-Ever-After.
“She’s good at what she does,” Jonathan continues, while I watch Quinn chat animatedly with Kiera and Lyla across the room.
“I never said she wasn’t,” I counter, irritation seeping into my tone.
“No, you just said she betrayed our company secrets.” Jonathan’s voice is deceptively casual. “Which is interesting because after our meeting yesterday, I had our head of security run a trace on that leak last year. The IP address, though hidden impressively well, came back to a café in downtown Dallas—not New Mexico.”
I freeze. “What are you talking about?”
“You never asked for an investigation,” Jonathan says, his eyes steady on mine. “You just assumed it was her. I let it go at the time because you were convinced and seemed to need someone to blame. But after this past week, I decided to have Scott look into it quietly.”
The implications of what he’s saying crash over me like a cold shower. “Why the fuck are you telling me this now?”
“Because watching you two dance, and the way you look at her, is too special for it all to amount to nothing.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe it’s time to consider that you might have been…wrong.”
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me rooted to the spot, mind racing with possibilities I’ve refused to consider for a year.
Across the room, Quinn laughs at something Mia says, her head thrown back, throat exposed. Beautiful. Untouchable. And possibly—the thought forms reluctantly, painfully—innocent.
I begin to wish for something stronger than beer. Hell, whiskey even.
This bet suddenly feels like the least of my problems.