Chapter 10 #2
“You mean shot collarbone edition,” Rishi corrects.
I groan. “You’re all idiots.”
Nolan smirks.
God help me—I want to wipe that smirk off his face.
With my mouth.
Nolan pushes out of his seat to go and register Big Stream.
“What’s your team name?” Rishi asks.
Jeremy beams. “CTRL+ALT+DEFEAT.”
Rishi nods approvingly. “Classic. Painfully millennial.”
Maya pops a peanut in her mouth. “Who knew trivia could be so intense?”
Nolan returns, tapping their name into his phone. I glimpse it: Born To Win, Forced To Play.
“Dumb,” I say.
“Don’t be jealous that our team name is better than yours,” he says, grinning.
“Debatable.”
The first question pings: “What was the name of NSYNC’s debut album released in the U.S.?”
Jeremy and I slam the buzzer. “N Sync—duh.”
Behind me, Rishi whispers, “Was that the one with the marionette cover?”
Nolan sighs. “No, that was No Strings Attached.”
Rishi: “God, you’re ancient.”
Nolan: “I’m thirty-four, not ninety-four.”
Round Two begins: “Which member of 98 Degrees is related to a former boy band rival’s wife?”
Jeremy aggressively taps the buzzer and yells, “Nick Lachey, married to Jessica Simpson, sister to Ashlee Simpson who dated Ryan Cabrera who looked like a poodle in distress.”
“You need help.” I laugh.
Jeremy celebrates. “I want fanfare, I want confetti, and I want someone licking salt off someone else’s collarbone. Let’s make memories, people.”
More questions fly: “Which boy band member famously left his group to start a solo career in 2005?”
Jeremy: “Zayn Malik?”
Maya: “2005, not 2015.”
Me: “It was Robbie Williams. From Take That.”
Jeremy: “Nerd.”
Rishi: “This is educational trauma.”
“In what city did The Backstreet Boys officially form?”
Nolan: “Orlando.”
I squint at him. “You answered that suspiciously fast. Did you study?”
He shrugs. “I came prepared to battle. I won the last time we came here and played, so I have a rep to uphold.”
“What was the topic? Hogwarts for smug bastards?”
Nolan chuckles under his breath. “Keep talking, Adams. That second-place energy is loud.”
That voice could belong in my future regrets folder.
Next: “Which boy band appeared in a 2001 episode of ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch?’”
Jeremy and I high-five. “NSYNC. Duh.”
Rishi groans. “Rigged. It’s always NSYNC.”
By the final round, we’re neck-and-neck. The screen flashes. The final question lights up: “Name the members of O-Town.”
Jeremy clutches his chest. “My moment has come.”
He slams his hand down on the buzzer and rattles off: “Ashley Parker Angel, Erik-Michael Estrada, Dan Miller, Trevor Penick, and Jacob Underwood.”
Nolan grumbles, “We’re doomed.”
The quizmaster shouts: “And tonight’s winners, by one aggressively niche fact… CTRL+ALT+DEFEAT!”
Jeremy shrieks like he’s just been knighted. I toss Nolan a slow, smug smile.
“Let’s review,” I say, sauntering over to him. “I’ve outwitted you at the rooftop, outscored you at trivia. What’s next? Arm wrestling? Strip poker?”
Nolan steps closer, eyes glittering. “Definitely strip poker.”
I walked right into that one.
“Fair warning though, my bluffing game’s strong. But my shirt removal game? Next level.”
I arch a brow. “You assume you’d win.” But even as I fire back, part of me is staring. Not at his body—though, yes, hi—but at him.
Something’s off. Not in a bad way. In a what-the-fuck-happened-to-you way.
This is not the same Nolan Rhodes who was on a rooftop with shadows in his eyes and a chip on his shoulder the size of Big Stream. That version was all storm clouds and clenched jawlines.
This one?
This one’s teasing. Lighter. Almost… playful?
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
“Oh, I wouldn’t need to win. Just need a reason to play.” He grins, all dimple and easy confidence, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It lands more like charm, feels like armor. And looks cocky until you realize it’s covering something heavier.
He doesn’t want me to see something that he’s pushed down deep. So maybe this new, lighter Nolan isn’t a shift. Maybe it’s a shield.
And suddenly I don’t know if I want to peel it off…or ask why he needed to put it on in the first place.
He flags the bartender. “Two of whatever she’s having. And a tequila shot.”
Jeremy perks up immediately, practically vibrating with delight. “Oh, this is better than Bravo and wine night. I might climax.”
Rishi chokes on his drink. “Jesus. Reel it in.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Don’t kink shame my joy.”
The bartender sets everything down with a smirk of his own. Lime wedge. Salt. One shot of tequila. And suddenly, the noise in the bar fades behind the pounding in my chest.
All eyes land on Nolan.
He hesitates for half a second, enough for me to catch it. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He drags a hand through his hair, rolls his neck like it’s going to help him breathe.
Oh, my, Nolan “Confidence Is My Love Language” Rhodes is nervous.
“Where?” he asks, voice low and rough.
Okay, now I’m nervous…as fuck.
My brow arches. “Dealer’s choice.”
His gaze sweeps over me, scanning his choices, and lands just beneath my collarbone. “Here,” he says, voice husky.
Grateful he picked a conservative body area, I nod once.
Nolan steps closer.
My heart hammers inside my chest when he brushes my hair back with one trembling hand before lowering his head. Salt first.
His mouth hovers near my skin, teasing, then his tongue drags over my collarbone, achingly slow. The heat of it punches me straight in the vagina. Holy shit.
I bite back a gasp as his breath fans over the wet spot he leaves behind. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the tension hang heavy between us. And God help me, it’s not the only place I’m wet.
Not even close.
Then, the shot.
He brings the glass to his lips and tilts it back in one fluid motion, grimacing as it burns its way down his throat.
And finally—the lime.
Which he takes from my fingers with his mouth, teeth grazing the tips just enough to send a current of lightning coursing through me.
When it’s done, he leans back, his face is flushed, his breathing is shallow.
And I see it.
A discreet shift. A hand adjusting his fly. Fast, controlled, like he’s trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
It did.
My brow quirks. “You okay there, Rhodes?”
He clears his throat. “Peachy.”
He won’t meet my eyes. That might be the hottest part of all.
Nolan excuses himself for the restroom.
The trophy is handed off—a glitter-splattered horror show featuring a decapitated Lance Bass. Jeremy lifts it like he’s won Wimbledon.
“We’re celebrating at the pool tables,” he declares. “Come dominate!”
“Maya, you in?” Rishi asks.
Maya eyes her drink. “Only if domination comes with a lemon drop chaser.”
I wave them off. “You all go. I’ll hold down the table.”
Translation: I need a minute after Nolan Rhodes just licked my neck.
Jeremy winks.
I rotate my cider glass slowly. Sip. Breathe. Sip. Breathe.
“Careful,” comes a voice at my elbow. “Sit too long and I’ll start thinking you’re afraid of me.”
I glance up. Nolan’s there. Flushed from what I’ll generously blame on the tequila, hair tousled, grin weaponized. He looks like trouble with perfect teeth, and he’s riding this loss like it’s a win.
“Not afraid,” I say. “Just uninterested.”
He gestures toward the dartboard in the back corner. “Come on, Adams. One game. Unless you’re worried I’ll beat you this time.”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
“I’m annoyingly persistent.”
I stare at him.
He smiles. “Pretty please with cherries on top.”
I sigh. “Fine. One game. Then I go back to pretending you don’t exist.”
At the board, he grabs two darts, offers one. I snatch it from his hand. “I could aim for your eyeball.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s come at me with a pointy object and a grudge.”
My lips twitch. His eyes flicker to the movement for a half-second.
The dartboard is faded and crooked, the lighting overhead flickering. The scent of wood polish and spilled IPA strong in the air.
I take the first throw. Bullseye.
“Beginner’s luck,” Nolan mutters, stepping up.
He throws, hits a three.
“Did you mean to hit the wall, on the opposite side?”
“Just getting warmed up.”
We volley. Darts. Banter. Fire. The tension between us is tightening, threading through each quip like embroidery floss. And he watches me like I’m the riddle he’s dying to solve. The way I hold the dart, the way I tilt my head before I throw. Like he wants to memorize every movement.
“You always this intense?” I ask after my third bullseye.
He shrugs. “Only when I’m losing. Or when I’m trying to figure out how to impress someone I shouldn’t still be thinking about.”
My hand slips. The dart veers wide.
Nolan chuckles, the sound low and warm.
I keep my eyes on the board, ignoring the traitorous flutter in my chest. “So, who’s the unlucky girl?”
He doesn't miss a beat. Steps in close, his voice a low drawl that slides straight down my spine.
“I think you know.”
Lifting my chin, I force my voice steady. “Well, then you definitely shouldn’t. I still very much hate you.”
He smiles—not cocky, more like he’s okay being hated if it means being remembered.
“Good. Hate’s something. Means I’m under your skin.”
I scoff, turning to face him. “You’re more like a rash I can’t get rid of.”
He leans in, his breath ghosting my cheek. “Then stop scratching and admit you like the itch.”
Behind us, Jeremy groans. “For the love of margaritas, will you two just make out already or start throwing chairs? Either will suffice.”
Rishi raises his drink. “My money’s on chairs.”
Nolan’s still staring at me. That look in his eyes? It’s not a threat. It’s a challenge.
And god help me—I want to lose. But I don’t fucking like to lose.
Lifting my drink, I take a slow sip, and shrug. “You poached my clients and tried to set fire to my career. I’m not letting that slide just because your mouth got to wander somewhere it didn’t belong.”
“Poaching is a strong word,” he replies. “I prefer strategic acquisition.”
“Right,” I say, tilting my head. “I prefer strategic annihilation. But hey—semantics.”
He leans against the wall, suddenly serious. “How do we move on from Vanguard?”
The ember of heat I’ve been feeling for him flickers out.
“That wasn’t just a client to me. It was a year’s worth of trust-building, late-night pitch decks, and—hell—hope. And your billion dollar firm blew it up like it was just another line item by cutting your rates thirty percent.”
“You’re mistaken. I didn’t authorize a cut like that.”
“Someone at your firm did. And it wasn’t just Vanguard. You’ve done it with several. You’re cheating. I think an insider is feeding you intel so you can benefit.”
He steps closer. “You’re making a lot of excuses for losing.”
“Excuse me?”
He leans in. “It’s business. And Big Stream doesn’t just compete—we set the pace.”
“Is that your tagline or your Tinder bio?”
“Depends on the match.”
“You’re such a cocky bastard,” I say.
“And you’re even more beautiful when you’re pissed.” His lips curl. “Tell me, Adams—when’s the last time you lost a deal to someone less qualified?”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s what I thought.”
For a second, we just look at each other. Not talking. Not blinking. He’s too close. Too full of himself. Too… right there.
I move to walk away. He blocks me.
“Look, the industry is just a game. And if you’re not willing to play it…” His eyes dive into mine. “Then you’ve already lost.”
I smile sweetly. “Oh, you want to play then?”
“With you,” he says. “Absolutely.”
“Okay,” I start, looking up at him through my lashes. “Then let’s play, asshole.”
I push past him, cider forgotten, blood buzzing.
His eyes are still on me. I can feel them—hot, heavy, tracking every step.
And God help me, I kind of want to turn back around.
But fuck that. I’m not trading pride for a pair of perfect hands and a mouth that ruins reason.
I don’t care how good his lips felt on my skin or how they made my pussy tingle.
Let him watch me walk away.
Let him feel it.
Because if he wants another taste, he’s gonna have to earn it.