Chapter 7 #2
I glanced at Toby. He was looking at me, and there was a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It wasn't the smirk. It was real.
"He's not so bad," I said, looking back at Mary, my cheeks feeling warm.
"Oh, I know," she winked. "He just likes to pretend he's a grumpy old bear. But you," she patted my hand. "You're good for him. You bring out the sunshine."
Grumpy and Sunshine.
The thought made my chest ache with a feeling that was dangerously close to affection.
Later, as the dessert plates were being cleared, my father walked in.
The air in our bubble instantly turned to ice.
He strode through the room like he owned it, shaking hands, clapping backs. He hadn't seen us yet.
Toby felt me tense. His hand found mine under the table, lacing our fingers together.
"Breathe," he murmured.
My father finally spotted us. His eyes locked on me, then on Toby, then on our joined hands.
His face, which had been a mask of political charm, hardened into a slab of granite. He changed course, heading directly for our table.
"Here we go," I whispered.
"Stay quiet," Toby ordered softly. "I'll handle this."
"Georgia," my father said. His voice was cold enough to freeze water. He didn't acknowledge Toby. He looked only at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm on a date, Daddy," I said, my voice sweet as poison. "Isn't that what you wanted? For me to socialize with the right people?"
"This is not what I meant," he hissed. He finally turned his glare on Toby. "Kincaid. A word. Outside."
Toby squeezed my hand once, a silent message. Then he let go.
He stood up, his six-foot-four frame eclipsing my father's. "Of course, Mr. Sterling."
They walked away.
I sat there, my hands clenched into fists in my lap, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Jager looked at me, his usual joking demeanor gone.
"Don't worry," Jager said quietly. "Toby can handle him. He's not afraid of anyone."
But I was.
I was afraid for him.
I waited. It felt like an hour. It was probably only five minutes.
Toby came back. Alone.
He sat down, his face a perfect, unreadable mask.
"What did he say?" I asked, my voice a frantic whisper.
"He expressed his disapproval."
"Toby, what did he say?"
Toby looked at me. He picked up his water glass and took a long drink.
"He said that if I didn't end this tonight, he would make sure I was drafted by the worst team in the league. He said he would personally call every GM and tell them I have a 'character issue.'"
My blood ran cold. "Oh my God."
"It's fine," Toby said calmly.
"No, it's not fine! He'll do it! He'll ruin you!" My voice was rising, panicked. "This is a mistake. We have to end this. You can't risk your career for me."
"Georgia."
He reached across the table and took both of my hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I met his eyes. They were clear, steady, and blazing with a certainty that stole my breath.
"I am not afraid of your father," he said. "And I am not ending this. He doesn't control you. And he sure as hell doesn't control me. We are a team. Understood?"
I stared at him, my throat tight with unshed tears.
I nodded.
"Good," he said. He brought my hand to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles. "Now, let's get out of here. This party is boring."
He stood up, pulled me to my feet, and led me out of the country club, leaving my father staring daggers at our backs.
As we walked into the cold night air, the snow falling in gentle, silent flakes around us, I realized the truth.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't a deal.
This was a war. And I had just chosen my side.
The drive back to the penthouse was silent. But it was a different kind of silence than before. It was heavy, charged, filled with everything that had happened at the dinner.
The united front. The threat. The kiss on my hand.
Toby pulled the Rover into the private garage under the tower. He killed the engine. The only sound was the ticking of the cooling metal and the soft hum of the garage lights.
He didn't move to get out. He just sat there, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
"Toby?" I whispered.
He turned to look at me. In the dim light of the garage, his face was all sharp angles and shadows. The mask was gone. He looked raw.
"He won't stop," Toby said, his voice rough. "Now that he sees you're happy, he'll do everything he can to take it away. That's how men like him work. They can't stand to see their assets develop free will."
"We'll fight him," I said.
"Yeah." He let out a harsh breath. "We will."
He leaned over the center console. I thought he was going to say something else.
He kissed me.
It wasn't a soft, tentative kiss. It was a collision. It was desperate. It was the culmination of every stolen glance, every shared secret, every moment of tension since the day I stumbled into his apartment.
His mouth was hot, demanding. He tasted like whiskey and resolve. His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss.
I responded instantly, my body humming to life. I met his hunger with my own, my hands coming up to frame his face, my fingers digging into the sharp line of his jaw.
This wasn't a "practice" kiss. This wasn't a strategic move. This was real. This was a claiming.
He pulled back, just enough to breathe. We were both panting.
"Upstairs," he growled.
"Okay," I gasped.
We practically ran from the car to the elevator. The moment the doors slid shut, sealing us in the mirrored box, he had me pushed against the wall.
His mouth was on mine again, harder this time. His body pressed me into the cool glass, his hips pinning mine. I could feel the hard ridge of his erection against my stomach, a blatant, undeniable statement of how much he wanted me.
"Red dress," he groaned against my lips. "Knew it was a bad idea."
"You like it," I breathed, arching into him.
"I want to rip it off you."
His hands slid down my back, finding the zipper. He tugged it down, the sound loud in the enclosed space. The cool air of the elevator hit my bare back.
The elevator dinged. Penthouse.
He pulled away, his chest heaving. We stared at each other, our reflections a dozen wild-eyed strangers in the mirrors.
"My room," he said. It wasn't a question.
I nodded. I couldn't speak.
He took my hand and pulled me out of the elevator, into the dark foyer of the apartment.
He didn't turn on the lights. He backed me against the wall, his hands framing my head, his body a solid wall of heat in front of me.
"Last chance to stop me, Georgia," he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. "Because if I kiss you again, I'm not stopping. Not until you're in my bed, under me, screaming my name."
I looked up into his shadowed face. I saw the hunger, the need, the desperation that mirrored my own. But I also saw a sliver of fear. The fear of what this meant.
"Don't stop," I whispered.
And then his mouth was on mine, and there was no going back.
I wasn't in trouble anymore.
I was ruined. And I had never felt so gloriously, completely, and utterly saved.