Chapter 1 Playing Dirty #3
“Hide his identity,” she says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Turn it into a persona, a whole stage presence. A mask, maybe. Something fans can latch onto. The mystery becomes half the buzz.”
I tilt my head, actually impressed. “You’ve thought about this before.”
She smiles knowingly. “We did something similar for a designer I worked for. No one ever saw his face—just his work. People went crazy trying to figure out who he was. Sales doubled overnight.”
I can’t help the low whistle that slips out. “That’s… brilliant.”
“I had great mentors,” she says. “It’s funny how things turn out. I never pictured I’d be taking over my father’s company, but I always knew you would.”
“It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Growing up around music it just seemed inevitable. Ever since we all got together at Jack’s summer kick-off parties growing up.”
“I loved those summers,” she laughs and it’s good to see her happy. “Even if I got stuck babysitting most of the weekend.”
A waiter passes by with champagne, and I grab a couple glasses off the tray. Holding it out to her she shakes her head. “I shouldn’t.”
“Come on, how often do we get a chance to enjoy one of these events?” I prod and she takes the flute from me.
“I don’t get out often. Hazel keeps me pretty busy,” she sighs.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s four going on sixteen,” she laughs. “She’s good—stubborn as they come but sweet.”
“She looks like you,” I say, thinking of her green eyes, determined chin and raven hair.
“Everyone says that, but the older she gets, the more she starts to resemble Christian.” There’s a hint of sadness in her tone.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
She smirks. “We got married mostly because of Hazel, and that’s not a reason to be together. He’s a great father when he’s around, but…” she trails off. “Anyway, I never expected to be divorced with a toddler at twenty-nine.”
I wonder what he thinks of Morgan moving to L.A., but I resist the urge to pry.
“And dating—how’s that going?” I ask not so subtly.
She smiles knowingly. “Smooth, Dylan,” she laughs, “but having a toddler puts a damper on dates. Besides, I’m busy getting settled in at Left Turn, so there’s no time for anything else.”
The words say one thing, but her body tells a different story.
She holds my gaze a beat too long, the corner of her mouth quirking up slightly.
Her fingers fidget with the stem of her champagne flute, twisting it back and forth.
She’s not looking away like someone shutting down a conversation. She’s waiting for my response.
“Well, since you’re back, you should come to Jack’s next weekend. We’re all gonna be there—it’ll be like old times,” I offer. “They’d all love to see you again under different circumstances. Bring Hazel.”
“Maybe,” she says, giving me hope of seeing her again. Her shoulders relax, angling toward me rather than away—another contradiction to her words. She leans against the table, closing the space between us by a few inches. “Will there be another Monopoly flipping incident?” she laughs hard.
“Jack landed on Park Place with four hotels.” The memory makes me laugh. “He accused Maggie of cheating.”
“Maggie was always a handful,” she reminisces.
“Still is.” I take a sip of the champagne.
Her gaze drops to my mouth when I lower my glass, lingering there before snapping back up to my eyes. Heat flares in my chest. That wasn’t casual interest. That was something hungrier.
“I always felt a little out of place though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, back then, being five years older was a huge gap,” she says.
“And now?” I ask, curiously as I lean against one of the high-top tables.
She shifts closer—definitely not accidental—her knee nearly brushing mine.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” she laughs, setting her glass down.
“Twenty-nine and twenty-four doesn’t seem quite so insurmountable, especially now that you’re a CEO and all.
” She lifts her eyebrows before picking up the flute and taking a sip of the champagne.
The room narrows to just us. The air is charged with something electric, making my skin prickle. She’s not moving away. Her pupils dilate slightly, her lips part. Everything about her screams interest, despite her words about being too busy for dating.
“You know, I’m not that skinny kid who used to follow you around anymore.”
“I know.” It’s the way she says it. Her gaze travels down my body, slow and deliberate, before meeting my eyes again. Hope blooms in my chest, making me bold.
“I had a crush on you back then,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can catch them. “Still do, if I’m being honest.”
Her cheeks flush pink and she glances away, vulnerability flashing across her face. But she doesn’t step back. Instead, her teeth catch her bottom lip briefly—a gesture that sends my blood rushing south.
She meets my eyes again, then taking in my outfit, drifting down to my feet and glistening with amusement. “I see you didn’t inherit Wade’s obsession with Italian leather.”
I teasingly pick up a scuffed and battered Converse as if I didn’t know I was wearing them. “Didn’t you get the memo? I was adopted. It’s not in the genes,” I wink.
She laughs, a soft sound laced with memory. “You’ve changed—a little more sure of yourself, a little harder. But there’s still something in your eyes… something that feels like home.”
I smile, lifting my eyebrows. She has no idea what those words do to me, how they bloom inside like a living thing.
“Do you still play the drums?” she asks.
“On occasion, when I need to blow off steam. I head over to Studio A…”
“My dad’s favorite. He always like the vibes there.”
A silence settles between us, but still filled with shared memories.
“When did you get this?” She reaches up but stops short of touching my lip ring. “I bet your fathers love that.”
I smirk, running my tongue over the metal, and my heart races as her eyes track the movement.
The flicker of heat in her gaze sends electricity straight down my spine.
Her breath hitches, barely perceptible, but I catch it—the slight parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her collarbones.
She’s not just looking; she’s imagining.
“About the same time I stopped caring what people thought about my choices.” I catch her hand.
“How do you even kiss someone with that?” Her voice drops lower, husky at the edges. Her pulse jumps visibly at the base of her throat.
No time for dating, maybe. But this tension between us isn’t dating. It’s something honest and unfiltered, stripped of pretense.
“If you want to find out, step forward another inch,” I challenge, with broken breath.
She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—like summer.
The jasmine stronger now, mixed with the champagne on her breath.
My entire body tenses with anticipation, every nerve ending firing at once.
She doesn’t hesitate or pull back—her body gravitates toward mine as if we’re completing a circuit, inevitable and electric.
“Dylan.” A familiar voice breaks through the moment. We pull apart and spot Jaxson Steele grinning at us. “Don’t forget about our meeting tomorrow.” He slaps me on the back as he passes through.
Morgan stiffens beside me, and the disappointment on her face makes me grimace.
“Are you trying to poach my artist?” she asks in outrage.
Her face transforms, hurt flashing across her features before hardening into fury.
“Wait. Is that what all this was about? Getting me to admit how badly Left Turn is struggling?”
“Morgan—”
“You used our history to soften me up.” She steps back, hand flying to her mouth. “God, I actually told you about our marketing gaps. Our release issues. And now you’re meeting with Jaxson?”
“It’s not like that, I swear—”
“The drinks, the reminiscing, the ‘I had a crush on you back then.’” She barks out a laugh, hollow and bitter. “Trying to trick me. God, I almost fell for it.”
Trick her? Fuck. No.
The accusation knocks the air from my lungs.
My skin prickles hot, then cold. Is that what she thinks?
That I manufactured all of this—the conversation, the memories, the almost-kiss—to extract company intel?
The worst part is I can’t even blame her.
Not when Jaxson’s smug interruption confirms exactly what she’s thinking.
The impulse to explain everything wars with the surge of pride burning up my throat. She’s looking at me like I’m Kane—like I’m the enemy. Like I’m nothing but a corporate shark circling her bleeding company.
“Believe me, Clemson,” I take a step forward into her space. “I don’t need to trick women into kissing me,” I say confidently, my eyes dropping to her lips.
“You’re such an asshole.”
She slaps me. The sting on my cheek is like fire. I stand firm and take it because maybe I deserve it.
“You’re just like the other sharks that want to tear this business apart,” she accuses.
“I don’t want to tear anything apart,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice. “I’m offering you a lifeline.”
I realize my mistake too late.
“By buying me out? That’s what you’re really after. Left Turn.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Wow. I actually thought… never mind. If you want to play dirty, Dylan, I’m game. Just stay out of my way.”