Chapter 11
Artemis
Shit. It’s bad when your favorite place, your Mom’s state-famous Mexican-fusion restaurant, holds no joy or peace for you. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since my mouth met Xavier Martinez’s, and no amount of… well… anything is erasing the hot, searing brand he left on my lips last night.
“Patatas bravas.” Claudia’s cautious smile meets me as I lift my eyes from the blurring paperwork on the table in front of me.
Yes, it’s a restaurant, no I don’t care. I have shit to do, and I want to do it while eating delicious food someone else cooks for me. Win-win.
“You’re insatiable tonight, Artemis.” Her lips quirk. “I haven’t seen you eat this much since after the playoffs.” She grins, picking up the empty plates covering the table.
Am I trying to keep my hands distracted so I don’t message Xavier? Perhaps.
Or maybe I’m trying to erase the taste of him and replace it with something else.
Is anything working? Fuck no.
My lips still tingle with the memory of his touch: confident, caressing, claiming.
I buried myself in a logistical nightmare of supplier contracts and rebrand palettes, desperate to find a corporate design that felt more like my future and less like my father’s legacy.
I flicked through the final contenders my marketing department had spent weeks narrowing down, their polished work-ups mocking my inability to make a simple choice.
“Gracias, Claudia. ?Qué tal?”
“Not much. Flying solo tonight?” She takes in the scattered pages in front of me. “You look like you need some sleep.” When her hand touches my shoulder, a heavy sigh slips through my lips. I know what I need, and I’m not sure it’s sleep.
“I’ll bring you some coffee.”
I nod, turning my attention back to the options in front of me. It feels like a head versus heart decision I’m not sure I’m confident enough to make.
Dropping my head in my hands, I ease out another ragged breath. Before yesterday, I’d have gone black and silver, but the embers of that fiery kiss in my chest are grabbing on to the oxygen I breathe and trying to gather speed.
I lift my phone to text my brother. Apollo will know what to do. Since he graduated and got himself a big boy job in the NHL, he seems… anchored in a way I’m not, in a way I long to be.
He’ll give me sound advice. Safe advice. The kind that keeps me grounded, but also just the right amount of righteous.
My thumb skips his name and opens a new chat instead. This is ludicrous. It’s not going to do me any good, and yet, I’ve typed and sent a message before I can talk myself out of it.
Artemis: Which says ‘trustworthy aeronautics firm’ and not ‘midlife crisis with a marketing budget’?
He opens it and starts typing immediately, like he was waiting for me to message. Wishful thinking.
Goal Daddy: It’s about time you got your nose out of those pages and spoke to the outside world.
My head snaps up. There’s no way… is there?
Another text pings.
Goal Daddy: I have to say, I’m so glad you’ve shelved this whole ‘body is a temple’ crap and you’re eating real food like a human being. I’m not sure even I could put away that many tacos without taking a break.
That makes me smile against my will, and I pick up my fork to stab a few forgotten potatoes and cram them into my mouth so if he is watching me, he doesn’t see.
Artemis: Stalking’s illegal, Xavier.
I kick out the seat in front of me in a silent invitation.
Goal Daddy: I’m going to need you to say it, Baby Cakes.
I roll my eyes, tipping my head back just enough to look disgruntled. But in reality, I’m stalling to buy myself time. The pet name slams into my chest like a bruise I don’t ever want to fade.
If I ask him to join me, I’m taking a very big, size thirteen step over a line I might not be able to find my way back from of my own free will.
I turn to my left, my eyes immediately meeting his and that fucking tilted head that makes his hair flop over his forehead. Every muscle in my body recognizes him before my brain does. This is dangerous muscle memory.
He’s watching me with an intensity that steals my breath, and yet his lips remain amused. His lips.
I suck in a slow breath, and I’ll be damned if I can’t detect a hint of fucking cinnamon on the air. Does he carry a bag of the stuff with him and just waft it around for dramatic effect?
Either way, it’s working.
Like Pavlov’s dog I’m being conditioned to think of him every time I get a whiff of my favorite spice. He smells like Christmas, cinnamon rolls, and smirks like a giant fucking caution sign.
I shake my head, not sure whether it’ll be the devil on my right shoulder, or the angel on my left who wins the silent push-pull argument surging through my muscles.
My phone lights up again.
Goal Daddy: Go on. Live a little, Sweet Cheeks.
Fuck it.
Artemis: Would you like to come over and join me?
Control was supposed to be my armor. Lately it feels more like a choke chain. What’s the worst that could happen?
Artemis: I’ll even share my potatoes.
Goal Daddy: It’s not your potatoes I want, but it’s a start.
He slides into the seat across from me our knees knocking together with a jolt of energy up my leg as he sits.
His brows quirk as though he feels it too, then he places his margarita on the table in front of him before reaching for my fork and stabbing a few potatoes on it.
I watch their path to his mouth, his lips curling around the cool metal of the silverware I just had in my mouth before his eyes flicker closed.
The guttural moan that falls from him on a sigh sounds spiritual, like I’m witnessing a private experience that shouldn’t be on display, but I can’t look away.
What I wouldn’t give to be a fried piece of potato coated in spicy tomato sauce right now.
When his eyes pop open, his nostrils flare as his face morphs into a smile.
I clear my throat. “Some people pay to hear noises like that.”
He nudges my foot with his. “And here I am giving them to you for free. Is it working? Do you want to hear more?” He drags the tip of his finger around the salt-coated rim of his glass before putting his fingertip in his mouth and sucking.
My hands itch with the urge to redirect his digit to between my lips. Fuck. What voodoo is this guy doing on me?
His eyes don’t leave mine as he spins the pieces of paper in front of me, so they face him. He taps his chin. “I’d send them back to your team to take another swing. What’s it for?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it’s a rebrand of my father’s company. “Merger.” That’s not a lie, though it’s not the entire truth either.
He picks up the page with the potential taglines on it.
Elevating the Future.
Precision in Motion.
Built to Rise.
When he doesn’t say anything, I lean forward.
“Built to Rise is a bit on the nose, don’t you think?
” His smirk feels like a permanent fixture right now, and I admit, the more I stare at it, the more at ease I’m feeling.
I’m not sure how a person can smile as much as Xavier does, but it’s not as unnerving as it once was.
He seems like a genuinely laid back and content kind of guy.
It’s like he wears sunshine on his sleeve.
“Well. It’s a tagline, not foreplay. But out of these offerings.
” He taps his finger on the paper. “It’s the best of a mediocre bunch.
” He’s voicing every tangled half-thought I’ve been able to form about these options but in a more succinct way.
Maybe I need to hire him to do all my A-B decision making for this project. It feels like I’m too close to it.
“What’s next?” He takes another forkful of potatoes and washes it down with a mouthful of margarita.
When I don’t answer, he looks up. “What?”
“What are you even doing here?” Why do I sound like I’m asking myself that? “Aren’t you supposed to be back in Wisconsin?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the subtle shift in the depths of his eyes gives me a glimpse into a fragility that’s quickly replaced by that signature smirk. “I was too tired to drive home last night. Plus, I didn’t accomplish what I came here for. Big bro fronted for a hotel for the night.”
There’s one stark difference between us. We both live in the shadows of greater men, and while I do everything in my power to stand on my own feet, fund my own enterprises, Xavier seems perfectly content to spend his brother’s money.
“Family pact,” he offers as though guessing my thoughts. “We always said whoever made it big first would help out the rest of us until we got where we were going too.”
In theory, it’s a great idea. “Doesn’t that just open the door to the rest of you fucking around at his expense?”
Xavier snorts. “You clearly don’t know my family. We’re workhorses, we hate owing anyone anything. For the first two years of Roman being in the NHL I kept a ledger with every red cent he gave me.”
My brows twitch. “What happened in year three?”
He lifts his glass to Claudia and gives her the sign for ‘two,’ before he answers. “Roman found the ledger. Burned it in the firepit in the yard. Told me and my siblings not to keep score.”
No one in my family burns ledgers. We weaponize them. I drain the rest of my water before finishing the end of my second beer in preparation for my upcoming margarita.
Assuming, that is, the second one he’s getting is for me, and he’s not planning on double fisting it. Could go either way.
“He’s right, you know. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to my siblings and vice versa.”
He nods. “Still grinds my gears sometimes. But he insists I need to finish school, get a good degree, in case something happens and I can’t play pro hockey. Always scheming for worst-case-scenario is Roman.”
Claudia brings our drinks, lingering for a moment or two before picking up the empty dishes and retreating back to the busy kitchen.
It’s a Saturday night, the place is packed to the rafters—it wasn’t quiet before, but a byproduct of dating Claudia was that Guac ‘n Roll was placed even more on the ‘local places to be’ map.
And yet, the swirl of background noise, the sizzling of skillets, the clinking of silverware and ceramics all blend into nothing. Xavier commands every ounce of my attention, like he’s the only one here.
He’s wearing a simple black shirt and jeans but looks like he walked straight off a runway in New York and into this restaurant. He slides back in the chair, oozing stress-free vibes. When he jerks his chin at the papers in front of me, the light catches his eyes. “What else do you need help with?”
“Color palettes. Slate and Steel, or copper and charcoal.”
He looks at the colors before looking at me. “I mean…” He swallows. “Slate and steel is clean, masculine, matches your ice prince rep.” His eyes flare with something. “But it feels like a piece of you you’re trying to move forward from. Copper and charcoal are warmer, richer, indulgent. Riskier.”
I avoid his penetrating stare. “I’m not sure I’m ready to take risks. Even in something as low risk as a color palette. I feel like I should stay… controlled.”
He puts the glass to his mouth, sipping on the best margarita in the state. “Would it really be so bad if you lost a little control?”
Yes. Because losing control feels too much like losing myself. And somehow, it feels like I already am. It’s nothing. I’m stress-testing the rebrand on someone outside the company, nothing more. And isn’t that enough control to give up for one day?
From the way his eyes spear me, I’m going to guess not.
If I pretend this is about logos and not the way his eyes heat when he says my name, maybe I can still pass for platonic. It’s just an opinion. One person’s. I don’t have to take it if I don’t agree.
Maybe that’s why I can’t pick. The man I was would choose black and silver. The man I might become can’t stop thinking about copper.
I’m a tough guy, composed, intimidating. But something about the way he stares, not at me but into me, makes me fight the urge to shift in my seat. Instead, I reach for my drink.
We fall into a comfortable silence while I draft an email to my design team telling them we’re back to square one with the rebrand.
He watches me, like he’s fascinated to observe a person sip a margarita and send an email, like it’s not the dullest thing he’s done all day.
What has he done all day? What’s he going to do after we’re done with dinner?
My heartrate picks up. What do I want him to do after I’m done with dinner?
“The company I’m merging with?”
He cants his head.
“It’s not really a merger. I’m taking over my father’s company.” There. It’s out there now. He could run and leak it to the world but something in my chest I don’t want to give a name to tells me I can trust him.
He lets out a low whistle. “That’s badass.”
It’s an unexpected reply. “You think?”
He nods. “Your dad’s a dick, Arte.”
We both reach for our drinks at the same time and our knuckles brush against each other. Shit. A whoosh of air leaves my lungs. It’s the simplest of touches, but it sends a bolt of something skittering up my arm.
“He deserves everything he gets.” He lifts his drink and moves it toward me in a ‘cheers’ action. “And you deserve to take everything he’s got.”
“Xavier?”
He pauses his glass, pressed against his lip and quirks his eyebrow at me in question.
“Are you staying here again tonight?”
He purses his lips. “That depends.”
My heart stutters. “On what?”
“Do you want me to stay here again tonight?”