Chapter 28
ASTRONOMICALLY SCREWED
RORIE
I did something naughty the other night and I can’t believe I actually went through with it.
Define “naughty.”
Are we talking “I used someone else’s Netflix account?” OR “I’m now legally banned from a zoo in three states?”
Not giving specifics, Carl. Just know that I blushed the entire time
That tells me nothing and everything
Good. Sit in the mystery.
Fine. But if you end up on a watchlist, I’m not testifying in your defense.
Unless you bribe me with details. Or visuals.
A demonstration?
Tempting, but I’m taking this one to the grave.
My body’s launched a full-scale rebellion, addicted to one specific memory: Nolan Rhodes pinning me against porcelain.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I let that man finger-fuck me in a bar bathroom and rode his clothed cock like it was my patriotic duty.
And I regret nothing.
Except maybe everything.
Honestly, I don’t even recognize myself. Who makes a decision like that? Obviously, someone with the blind confidence of a woman who’s never met shame.
I was possessed. Rabid. Possibly concussed. Drunk. Tipsy?
Nope. Horny.
No doubt about it. There’s nothing else I can blame this on except raging hormones. And maybe that dimple.
Definitely that dimple.
Groaning, I slump over the tiny café table outside my office, my forehead thunking against the cold metal. I deserve punishment. If karma had any decency, a sink would fall from the sky and crush me on the spot.
Of all my problematic life choices, this one ranks somewhere between giving myself side bangs in ninth grade and telling my grandma her famous potato salad tasted like feet. I’ve never actually tasted feet, but I’m confident they would’ve been less… rubbery
Clutching my latte like it’s my emotional support beverage, I sip. It’s useless. Caffeine can’t compete with lust-fueled psychosis.
I’m sitting here like an over-sexed feral goblin, replaying it all on a loop, dissecting every sound, breath, and whimper like it’s the goddamn Zapruder film.
Did I moan too much? Or too little? Was the finger fucking supposed to ruin me like that, or am I over the top fragile with a clit that knows no chill?
Dear God, the dry humping! Was it enthusiastic or just... tragic?
Is there a proper technique I missed in health class? Because if so, I need the syllabus and a certified instructor immediately.
Shit, what if I peaked in that bathroom?
Taking another long, shaming sip of my latte, I close my eyes.
I am never recovering from this.
I should be thinking about high-level meetings that could make or break my career. Or the literal job that pays my bills.
But no. I’m sitting here wondering if Nolan is also experiencing a post-hump existential spiral. Is he sitting in his corner-office throne, staring out the window like a man who’s known my thighs? Who’s tasted sin and can’t go back?
Jesus. I need therapy.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You are a smart, competent woman. You are not going to be undone by one man’s hands. Or mouth. Or cock. Or—ugh—those unfairly hot forearms.”
I groan again, because I’ve officially become the problem.
He could ask me to burn my career to the ground in exchange for one more round against that sink, and I’d be asking if he wanted matches or lighter fluid.
My phone buzzes. Laurel.
Come see me.
I toss my latte in the trash like the broken woman I am and stand up.
Time to pretend I’m not absolutely incinerated inside.
The invitation rests on Laurel’s desk, printed on thick ivory cardstock with a foiled teal border and embossed rose gold lettering that catches the light like it’s been kissed by ambition.
Everything about it screams important right down to the velvety texture of the raised font beneath my fingertips. It feels like success. Like pressure. Like déjà vu.
I should be ecstatic. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been chasing. A dream client. A high-stakes pitch. A chance to remind the industry that Rorie Adams still knows how to win.
But instead of excitement, my chest is tight. Because I’ve stood here before. Dressed up in potential. Full of promise. And I walked away empty-handed.
Thanks to Big Stream.
Thanks to Nolan “Enemy Number One” Rhodes.
And now, I’ll be standing across from him. Again.
He’ll be confident, hungry. He’ll be charming and cocky and probably wearing some sinfully fitted suit that makes my bloodstream do gymnastics.
I can still hear his voice, low and smug: It’s not personal, Adams. It’s performance.
That’s how he views it. Just another board to play. Another checkmate to land. And God help me, I hate that part of him almost as much as I want to kiss it out of his mouth.
He was right about one thing, though. If you’re not willing to play, you’ve already lost.
But I don’t want to play his game.
I want to win mine.
My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the armrests. I don’t need tricks. I don’t need backroom deals or slashed prices. I don’t need to sleep with the enemy to get ahead.
…Right?
Then why can’t you stop thinking about him? Or his cock?
Which felt really big.
The door opens. Laurel glides into the room like she always does, poised, a quiet power in heels. She sees the look on my face and doesn’t say a word. She crosses to her desk and sits.
I brace myself. Laurel notices everything. And right now, I’m too fragile to hide.
“You look like you were about to eat that invitation,” she says softly.
“It deserves it.”
Her lips twitch. “Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing,” I exhale. “Really, I swear.”
Laurel pauses, making the silence heavy. “I’ve heard some talk, Rorie. Did something happen between you and Big Stream’s Creative Director?” Her ask is gentle.
I hesitate, then shake my head. “Nothing I’m ready to define.”
Her gaze reviews me, trying to read pages I haven’t written yet. “He’s competition, Rorie.”
“I know.”
She waits a beat. “And competition gets messy when emotions are involved. Especially when they’re unresolved.”
“I know that too.”
“So what are you really afraid of?”
That question splits something open inside me. The part I keep hidden. The grief I don’t let breathe. The fear I don’t name.
“I’m scared.”
“Of?”
“That I won’t be taken seriously in this space.
Or that I’m too much.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Too emotional. Too impulsive. Too messy. I’m not cut out for this—this pressure, this constant push to prove I belong.
And yeah, so there’s a tiny something going on with Nolan Rhodes.
And now I feel…ashamed, embarrassed…also alive. Very much alive.”
Laurel doesn’t look away. She smiles at that. “Is that fear you have your voice, or your mother’s? Because you sound just like her.”
The tears come fast, no warning. Laurel rounds the desk, kneeling in front of me.
“I don’t know. Things are happening. And I don’t know which way is up, or down. And God, I miss her,” I choke out. “She’d know which direction to point me. She believed I’d make it. Even when I didn’t.”
Laurel’s voice is steady. Fierce. “She was good at direction. And you, Rorie…you are the storm and the strategist. The fire and the finesse. You belong here because you built your place. With talent. With grace. With heart.”
Nodding, I blink hard, but the tears flood out anyway.
“She’d be proud of you,” Laurel adds, softer now. “But more than that, she’d want you to be proud of yourself.”
Nodding, I yank a few tissues from her desk.
“And I love that you feel alive with whatever this tiny something is with Nolan. You deserve that. Forget about the others.”
“It’s not professional,” I reply. “You said yourself, things get messy when competition is involved.”
“It can,” she says. “When it isn’t handled with care. But you’re also two grown ass adults. Be mature. And trust the right things will work themselves out.”
I swallow hard. “It’s just…everything with Nolan is this… avalanche. Like I was standing on solid ground and then—boom—buried.”
“Then dig out,” Laurel says, like it’s simple. Like it’s survival, not surrender.
I laugh, watery and small. “I just keep wondering if this—him and me—maybe it’s not the best idea. I think we’re happening at the wrong time.”
Laurel leans back, studying me the way only she can. Measuring. Waiting. “I guess you just need to ask yourself one question?”
I meet her gaze, feeling my chest rise, then fall. “What’s that?”
“Is he worth is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you better figure that out,” she says. “Without losing yourself.”
Her words sink in. Not like a knife. More like a slow tide—pulling at everything I’ve been trying to hold in place.
The truth is…I’ve lost myself before. Bent too far.
Bit down on every sharp edge just to make someone else more comfortable.
I swore I wouldn’t do it again. So maybe the question isn’t just whether he’s worth it.
Maybe it’s whether I can pursue something with him without leaving pieces of myself behind.
And if I can’t—well, that’s a problem I’ll need to conquer. Alone.
I stand.
Laurel rises too, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. “One more thing.” Her voice is casual, but her eyes make me freeze. “I got an email today. From Bone Dust.”
My breath catches. “And?”
She lifts a shoulder, playing it off but her smile gives her away. “It seems Big Stream pulled out of the running.” She lets that hang for a beat, then adds, “They’re going with us.”
It takes me a second to process. Another second to find my voice.
“Why?”
Laurel’s smile turns knowing. Soft in a way she doesn’t often let anyone see. “Apparently, Nolan Rhodes sent them an email.” She meets my eyes and drops the final blow like it costs her nothing. “Stating you were the better choice.”
I stare at her.
Rattled.
Winning feels good. Winning because he stepped back? Not so much.