Chapter Two
Cole
Sometimes, I am an idiot.
She’s glaring at me like I just kicked a baby sea lion. Not my smartest move. But I can’t stop grinning as her ample chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s making me… What was I saying?
Damn, she’s magnificent when she’s pissed.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her white blouse clings to tempting curves that seem designed to distract me.
Her long, brown hair—damp at the ends from the smoothie splash—runs loose and wavy down her back.
Her eyes are darker than usual; not black, not soft brown either.
A deep espresso shade that shows every emotion like a high-definition screen.
The show playing right now? Fury.
Ivy Ellison is all woman, and that’s the fucking problem. Hips that don’t just walk into a room, they take it hostage. Lips built for much more than arguing. A mouth that could ruin a man like me. She doesn’t apologize for the space she takes and doesn’t give a damn whether you notice.
And oh, I notice.
The other thing I notice? She’s the smartest person in the room.
Ivy doesn’t build campaigns; she builds skyscrapers.
Every beam load-tested, every bolt torqued to spec, every possible point of failure mapped before the first floor goes up.
By the time she pitches anything, she’s already survived seventeen versions of it collapsing on her head.
I improvise. She engineers.
And here’s the truth about a woman who thinks five moves ahead. She’s won before you even see her coming. Most people call that intimidating. I call it impressive as hell.
And right now, all that intensity is aimed squarely at me. RIP easy win.
The problem is, she labels me a loose cannon. A lucky mess poised to implode. As if I tripped into success. As if I just wing it and hope something sticks.
Wrong. I earn every damn win I get. And I will not be underestimated again. Not by her. Not by anyone.
That Director position is mine. This promotion isn’t merely a title or a salary bump. For me, it’s proving that instinct and bold execution aren’t reckless. They’re strategy.
She catches me staring. Her chin lifts. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“That smug little look. Like you’ve already won.”
“Who says I haven’t?”
“I do. And my bullshit detector is never wrong.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“Nice try.” She says, turning away.
I lean against one of the lobby’s wooden pillars, crossing my arms. “You’re running scenarios, aren’t you. Figuring out every way I could beat you.”
“I’m workshopping ways to make you look incompetent in front of the most expensive hotel staff I’ve ever seen.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls. “Dammit. Blaze is late.”
“I’m aware.”
Her head snaps toward me like a trap. “Oh, of course you know. Because when do you ever lead with the truth?”
“Relax, Stopwatch.” I pull out my phone and open Instagram. “He’s here. He’s just not here.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“A good producer always knows where their talent is.”
That hits. I watch her jaw tighten.
I flip my screen toward her. Blaze’s latest post: him suspended mid-air above a perfect wave, board slicing through sapphire water.
Posted forty-three minutes ago with the caption: “My dudes. My shredders. This weekend, my Blaze Nation fam, I’m dropping the biggest ocean bomb since Jaws.
LOCK. IT. IN.” (wave emoji, explosion emoji).
She stares at it, then stares some more. “He’s at the beach?! Are you kidding me?”
“Yep. And nope.”
“But he’s scheduled to be here. Like, in the lobby here.”
“He’s setting the stage. You don’t rush the main event. You let the anticipation do the heavy lifting.”
“This is not a surf vlog, Hartwell. This is a fundraiser.”
“And he’s the reason it will go viral.”
Blaze Tate is what happens when you mix a golden retriever, a Red Bull IV drip, and a YouTube algorithm on steroids.
One hundred million followers who would literally follow him off a cliff, captivated by his raw antics and his too-fast-to-focus attention span.
He’s not another run-of-the-mill celebrity draw; he’s a one-man circus, and this hotel is about to become the center ring.
Saltwater Saviors insisted on Blaze for one reason: the second he strips down to his loud board shorts and hits the water with those sea lions, the internet will break.
Likes explode, donations flood in, and all anyone can talk about is saving marine life.
The man doesn’t start trends. He owns them.
Working with him for the last three years has shown me one important thing: ditch the shot list and point the camera. It’s way easier than trying to wrangle him (Ivy, I’m looking at you).
Her gaze narrows. “Did you mess with my banner?”
The signage looms. Tourists laugh as they snap selfies with Seal The Deal.
“Not my handiwork.”
“Oh, sure. Happy coincidence.”
“You really think I’d wreck this event?”
No answer. She doesn’t need to. Those eyes? Judge, jury, and executioner.
She thinks I don’t give a shit about the sea lions. As if the cause doesn’t matter. As if I don’t feel the pressure that this weekend has to deliver. It twists something ugly inside me.
“I don’t sabotage things for the hell of it,” I growl through my teeth.
She plants her hands on her hips, all fire and challenge. “And I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” My gaze rakes over her slowly, drinking in the way her chest rises with every furious breath. “All that huffing and stomping? Adorable. But unnecessary.”
“You think operating on a grin and a prayer will charm your way into the promotion?”
“No, Stopwatch.” I lean in, close enough to see the gold flecks in her fiery eyes. “My results will.”
The ocean crashes outside, its roar filling the silence.
She doesn’t flinch. Me neither.
And for one stupid, fucked-up second, I imagine her giving up the fight and letting me use my mouth for more than talking.
I clench my jaw, expelling the thought.
I’m not here for that. I’m here to win.
Ivy’s tablet dings. I barely register the names before she swooshes the screen away.
Cam they rewrite the rules.
“Where’s Blaze?” Reece asks. No greeting. No fluff. Just blue eyes staring with expectation.
I open my mouth.
“Oh! He’s at the beach,” Ivy cuts in, “You know how important it is to set the stage for the main event. Gotta build that anticipation.”
My head turns slowly.
Those are my words.
She punctuates it with a pinch to my thigh. I catch her wrist, move her hand firmly back to her lap, and release it.
Her eyes stay glued to the tablet.
“He’ll be ready when we need him,” I say, grinning. “Good producers work with talent, not against them.”
Her elbow jabs into my ribs, the iPad wobbles, but she steadies it.
Reece leans back, arms crossed, and even through the screen, his energy somehow owns the room. “Let’s talk promotion. You’re both on the hot seat. Show me leadership, show me strategy, show me you can deliver when it matters.”
Cam leans closer to the camera, her voice softening but her eyes sharp. “This weekend decides who will become the Director of Strategic Campaigns. Everything, and I mean every choice, every move counts. And Blaze will be our eyes and ears.”
“We’re looking for impact that lasts,” Reece adds. “Not noise.”
Those last two words go straight to my nervous system, like a drone hitting a power line.
Suddenly the bench shrinks.