Chapter 18
MAX
Staring at my computer screen, I force myself to treat this predicament like a math problem. Not a person. Do not even factor in a woman with pink hair and a smile that lives rent-free in my head. I need to think of this constructively, like a system with strict data points:
Inputs.
Outputs.
Constraints.
What can I give her without giving her everything?
The answer stares back at me from three monitors and a legal pad full of diagrams. If I isolate phone datasets by stripping identifiers, removing metadata, and blind the sources, I can turn it into pattern recognition only.
No names. No locations. Just numbers on a screen.
Cassidy’s task would be to find repetition. Gaps in timelines that don’t make sense. Anomalies. That’s it. No narrative. No sensitive hooks that could drag her into the mess I’m already neck-deep in.
Next: She works only in my presence. On my laptop. In a secure environment. No external access. It’s safe. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
But the truth is lurking just below the surface, whether I want to acknowledge it or not. I’m trying to find a way to control the variables so I can keep her in my orbit.
I drag my hands down my face in frustration.
Get yourself under control, Max. You’ve managed for years.
Dreading phone forensics or not, you can get the job done without her.
Gianni’s right. This isn’t a simple risk matrix anymore.
It’s a Jenga tower with too many interlocking pieces.
My parents, my business, my employees, even Gianni and his cousins, Luca and Matteo, considering half of my current work is centered on their crime family in Italy. One wrong move and it all collapses.
And Cassidy is standing far too close to the table.
A week later, I arrive at the club on a Wednesday, hours before it fills with bodies, noise, and rich pricks who treat this as a castle full of women created to do their bidding.
When I’d been here working during off-hours previously, I’d observed Cassidy wiping down tables.
That was before this little seductress had put the full power of her voodoo on me.
When she was merely a new arrival. An unexpected, colorful curiosity.
Not the pink little nymph who stars in my nightly fantasies.
I’m waiting, trying to focus on my work, examining data I’ve scraped from my current project’s social media files in my usual VIP section when she walks in.
It’s as if my thoughts have materialized her in the flesh. My heart rate spikes. It feels like I’ve locked onto a suspect I’d been stalking. Hell, when did I turn into a creeper?
Cassidy sees me and freezes for half a second. Then her face lights up. Her smile is dazzling. Without hesitation, she practically floats toward me. Gone is the timid posture. In its stead is a completely different energy. A radiant creature who is confidently going after what she wants.
Get a grip, Max. This is about work. She’s excited about her career, not you. I stand and pull out her chair for her to sit. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She beams.
“I think I’ve found a way you can help me.”
Her eyes widen. “Wow. Really?”
“Yes. But it’s going to have to be limited to numbers only. Your job is purely pattern recognition. Any areas where you feel anomalies exist. You won’t be allowed to know what any of the data is attached to.”
She nods almost before I’m done speaking. “That’s fine, sir. Whatever you say.”
A muffled groan escapes at hearing her use the word, sir. I try to cover for my blunder with a dry cough before explaining the NDA and the restrictions. Even with legal clearance, she’ll still be handling sensitive material, and I need her to understand exactly what that means.
Cassidy continues to nod as if this is all common knowledge. Has her online coursework really prepared her for this? “Whatever you need, Mr. Wilde. I just want to learn.”
Of course she does. This should solidify that this is merely the equivalent of an internship for her. Nothing more. So keep your dick in your pants and your head in the game, Max.
Cassidy
With his hand burning a hole through my lower back, we move to Gianni’s office.
I internally chastise myself for letting my wayward thoughts drift to what it might feel like placed on other parts of my body.
Knock it off right now. He’s giving you the chance of a lifetime, working alongside him. Focus.
“Gianni said we could use his office. It’ll be much more private here. Fewer eyes on us wondering what we’re up to, less noise to cause distraction, and protection for us both.” He opens his laptop and pulls out the desk chair for me. The screen lights up and everything else disappears.
The display awakens with code and various data streams. The structured chaos I’ve come to love. My entire nervous system hums to life.
I barely notice Max standing behind me until he leans in close.
Too close. His arm brushes mine as his hand points at the screen, knuckles hovering inches from my shoulder.
He points at neutral details, but I don’t see a thing but him.
He’s explaining cases in abstract terms, leaving out any defining details.
No names, no history. His voice reverberates low and steady.
And right in my ear.
Every hair on my body stands on end. How the hell is a girl supposed to concentrate on anything like this?
I close my eyes for half a second, hoping I can rein in my salacious thoughts.
Because his scent has wrapped around me like a glove.
Sandalwood and something else… it’s clean, warm, and utterly intoxicating.
Just like this man.
As if it isn’t enough that he’s a tech genius with forearms that make me stupid, now it’s this delicious scent I’ll never forget. The way he commands my attention, merely with his presence.
He tugs gently at a strand of my hair. “Have you always been pink?”
My heart stutters. Why is the fact he’s touching a strand of my hair such a turn-on?
It’s only my hair. It’s not like he’s squeezing my ass.
What has short-circuited in my brain with Max Wilde that his every touch causes me to melt into a puddle?
Our eyes lock, and I swallow hard. “No,” I stammer. “It’s my homage to Penelope Garcia.”
Max’s mouth curves into a slow, dangerous grin. “From Criminal Minds?”
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. Because every ounce of moisture has apparently moved to my soaked panties, as my brain supplies images it has absolutely no business generating. Derek Morgan flirting with Penelope. But it’s not Shemar Moore I’m seeing when these two flirt shamelessly with one another.
My eyes close again. Not from embarrassment. But this man’s mind-altering nearness and the things he’s doing to me.
His voice drops, deep and sultry, “Talk to me, baby girl.”