Chapter 13 Too Scared to Want #2
“I wasn’t exactly taking in the architecture.” Now I wish I had been. The thought of watching us together, seeing his face as he—I cut the thought off before it can fully form.
“Oh my god. Do you think there’s security footage? Because if there is, I need it for my mood board.”
I blink. “What?”
“‘Enemies with benefits’ is a whole aesthetic, Morgan. I could build a brand around that.”
“Oh god,” I groan, suddenly horrified. “What if there is security footage?”
She snorts. “There’s probably a very happy security guard watching it as we speak.”
“You’re not helping,” I grumble.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” I hear typing on her end.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking Pornhub.”
I cover my face. “It was a blackout. If there were cameras, they weren’t recording.”
“Always the logical one,” Ava laughs. “So, what’s the ’ship status?”
“There is no status. It didn’t mean anything,” I insist weakly. “We were stuck in the elevator. One thing led to another…”
But it’s a lie. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, feel his hands on my skin. The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing that mattered in the dark.
“Sweetheart,” Ava says between gasps, “you had dirty, aggressive, elevator sex with your nemesis… I’m so proud.”
“We have a meeting about the showcase today,” I admit. “I can’t get involved with someone right now, Ava. Especially not Dylan.”
“Why not? It sounds like exactly what you need.”
“Because I recently got divorced, for one,” I say, my voice dropping. “Because I have Hazel to think about. Because I moved across the country to start fresh, not to jump into bed with the first available man—especially one who’s trying to take over my father’s company.”
“You’re living my dream. I’m surrounded by models—who fit into sample sizes—if there’s a man who isn’t gay within fifty feet, I’m basically invisible,” she says with sarcasm.
“Please, you have men falling all over you,” I remind her.
“I’m a magnet for deadbeats,” she sighs. “Enough about my nonexistent love life. Let’s continue to focus on yours.”
“He’s trying to rattle me.” And doing a damn good job of it. “I can’t let myself get distracted. Not with everything at stake.” I check the clock. “I have to leave for my meeting.”
“Wear the shoes. Maybe he’ll fuck you in them on his desk.”
“Ava!”
“You deserve to feel good, Morgan,” Ava says, her voice serious now. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it scares you.”
I think about Christian. I can’t make that mistake again. “Just reach out to your contacts for me,” I tell her.
She cackles. “Go get ’em, killer.”
I hang up and stare at the shoes a minute longer, rolling my eyes before I flip open the folder to the performer wishlist, scanning names, most of them pipe dreams we can’t afford. Then I spot it—Ivy Nova.
Her name sits there under Stonewall’s side of the lineup. Dylan got her. A spike of jealousy prickles along my skin.
I remember crashing that dinner, the way Ivy’s eyes lit up when she complimented my dress—the way she leaned in like she meant it. The memory coils tight beneath my ribs.
Her style is unique—bold yet elegant, demanding attention.
I start sketching out ideas in the margins of the showcase notes.
A dress with sharp angles and flowing edges, something that would move like music itself.
Something Ivy would wear—or rather, should wear.
The West Coast has already started influencing my designs—more relaxed but no less striking than what I’ve created before.
The pencil flies across the page like it has a mind of its own.
And God, it feels good.
My hand moves with muscle memory, the lines flowing effortlessly. The fashion world had worn me down. Watching other designers take credit for my work, fighting to be taken seriously, always having to prove myself. It had exhausted me.
Every reckless, needy, furious part of me cracked wide open the second Dylan touched me in that elevator.
It didn’t have to mean anything more than it was. Two people. A blackout. A need too sharp to ignore.
A hate fuck.
And now I’ve gotten it out of my system.
That’s the lie I keep telling myself.
Because nothing about Dylan feels gone. He’s under my skin now—lodged deep in places I thought were locked.
The bruises on my hips will fade, but the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands dragging moans from my throat, his voice rough in my ear like gravel and gasoline—those are carved into me like a signature I never asked for.
My body betrayed me once. I won’t let it happen again.
I catch the time on my phone. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my meeting with Dylan—and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m avoiding him more than I already have. I snatch up the folder and head for the door, but something shiny catches my eye.
The shoes. Of course.
I slide them on. They hug my feet like a dare.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside Dylan’s office, the showcase folder tucked under my arm, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
Then I see them—his ratty Converse propped on his desk.
God, he’s infuriating.
I square my shoulders and walk in without knocking.
He looks up from his laptop, and for a heartbeat—just one—his eyes soften. Not smug. Not arrogant.
Almost… hopeful.
“Morgan.” He swings his feet off the desk and leans forward, voice lower than necessary. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I say breezily, pretending like my pulse isn’t climbing. “We have work to do.”
“You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
“I’m very busy,” I counter, stepping forward and slapping the folder onto his desk. Not too hard. Just enough to make a point.
He watches me carefully, like he’s trying to read beneath the words.
“About what happened…” His voice drops, rough and dark, coiling something tight inside me.
“We don’t need to talk about it.” I cut him off with a wave, like his hands on my body aren’t still echoing through every nerve. “We both lost our heads. Let’s keep it professional.”
“And yet, you walked in here wearing my apology.”
His gaze drops, deliberate and slow, dragging heat along the length of my body.
I glance down at the shoes, shiny emerald against the tile. “Thank you. They’re lovely. But the ones you ruined were black.” I tap my toe with mock defiance.
“I know.” He smirks, smug and dangerous. “But these match your eyes.”
I clear my throat, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck. “We should get started.”
“If that’s what you want.” He sounds disappointed. Like he wanted more than logistics.
“It is the reason I’m here,” I say tightly, sitting across from him and crossing my legs.
His gaze lingers. I pretend not to notice.
“Did you lock down a venue?”
“The Avalon.”
I blink. “It’s a tough room for sightlines, especially if we’re stacking multiple acts. Their backstage flow is a nightmare—if one band runs long, the whole schedule goes to hell.”
“You did your homework.”
Of course I did. “Great acoustics, central location, the owner owes you.” I remind him.
He answers without missing a beat. “Not to mention it’s available, within budget, and they’ve got a built-in tech crew to handle sound, lighting, and live-streaming. Saves us three separate vendor contracts and keeps the footprint tight.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are we actually agreeing on something for once?”
“You wanted to get down to business,” he counters.
I cross my arms. “It’s still a little too polished. I don’t want this to feel corporate.”
“Then don’t make it corporate,” he says simply. “The space is just a frame. You decide what to hang in it.”
I hate that he makes sense. “We’ll need to overhaul the branding,” I admit, flipping through the folder. “It needs to feel more like an experience than just a concert.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” He leans back, watching me. “You’ve got that kind of eye.”
The compliment knocks something loose in me, but I keep my voice steady. “You’re not getting a cookie.”
“I thought I already got dessert.”
My eyes snap up to the smug smirk on his face. My cheeks burn, and for a second, I’m back in that elevator, his body pressed against mine, his voice rough in my ear.
I try to ignore that.
“Jack O’Donnell is confirmed.”
“Bringing out the big guns. But you do realize this is a new artist showcase?” He looks rattled.
“He agreed to be the opening act, kick things off. He is Left Turn’s oldest artist. It felt fitting.” I know the power of having Jack O’Donnell on the roster, even if he’s not as active as he used to be. His name still carries a lot of weight in the business.
“Emphasis on the old.”
I narrow my eyes. “Careful, Dylan. You wouldn’t want me to tell Uncle Jack you don’t think he’s relevant,” I challenge.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He might act smug but he knows damn well Jack would put him in his place.
“Anyway, I’ve got a few other acts I’m reaching out to. And Ava’s working on sponsorships with a couple of the fashion houses.”
“Ava?”
“My best friend, Ava Ramirez. We worked together in New York. She’s great with PR and has an in with a lot of brands,” I explain.
He nods slowly. “You’re going all out.”
I meet his gaze. “I have to. This might be Left Turn’s only chance to prove we’re still in the game.
If this showcase doesn’t bring in new business, we won’t make it through the next quarter.
” The admission costs me, but he needs to understand what’s at stake.
“This showcase isn’t only about exposure—it’s showing potential artists and investors we can still deliver something exceptional. Something that matters.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, or concern—but he doesn’t voice it.
Instead, he asks, “How did it go with Harrison?”
I stiffen but recover quickly.
“Didn’t click.” I don’t elaborate and flip through the folder.
Dylan’s brows draw together. “What happened?”
I let out a slow breath. “Don’t worry, Dylan. I can handle myself. When he tried to grab my thigh under the table, he got a bowl of soup in his lap.”
He doesn’t speak right away—instead drums his fingers on the desk in a steady, measured rhythm. His jaw tightens. Something simmers behind his eyes.
“If you’d come to me first—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do I need to run everything by you?”
He leans forward, voice taut. “You wouldn’t have needed an investor. I could have helped, if you had just…”
“If I had what? Trusted you?” My voice sharpens. “Right before you tried to take my artist and my company?”
He flinches like I slapped him.
“That’s not what I was trying—”
“Save it. I’m not your project. I don’t need saving.”
“I’ve been in this business a long time.”
“Ah, yes. Making executive decisions since five minutes ago,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood despite the tension crackling between us.
He smiles like it doesn’t faze him. “Taking lessons from Rachel. The two of you team up, and I might be moderately worried.”
His arrogance annoys me.
“I may have recently taken over the company from my father, but I’ve interned here since before I could drive. And I spent time in almost every department.”
I straighten my spine, refusing to be underestimated again. “I had dreams, too,” I snap. “I went after them. And what did it get me? Years of sketching designs someone else took credit for and a marriage that looked better on paper than it ever felt in real life.”
His expression shifts—something unreadable flickering in his eyes—but I barrel on.
“Somehow, I thought things would be different here.” I look pointedly at him.
“They could be if you weren’t so stubborn.” He rubs at his chin as if in challenge.
“What do you mean?”
“Tapping your friend Ava for sponsorships when you could use the showcase to finally get your own designs noticed and have the credit you deserve,” he says, fueling my anger.
“I’m not in fashion anymore,” I bite out. “I’m a record executive; in case you forgot.”
“So you keep saying.”
I slap the folder closed. “Admit it. You went after Ivy because you couldn’t take Jaxson from me,” I accuse, desperate to shift the focus away from my abandoned career.
He pushes to his feet, rounding the desk. “I don’t like to lose,” he says hoarsely.
“Get used to it,” I challenge.
He steps closer. “Don’t blame me because you couldn’t close the deal with her.”
“We connected at dinner,” I say, voice low and shaking. “She liked me.”
“Yes,” he says sharply. “She liked your designs. Not what Left Turn was offering.”
“You don’t know,” I snap.
He exhales, frustration flashing across his face as he rounds the desk. “Too bad connection isn’t currency.” His voice cuts like a blade. “It doesn’t matter to artists like her.”
I step in, nose to nose, tension pulsing in the inches between us.
“Funny,” I snap, “because she didn’t strike me as someone only in it for the money.”
“And that’s what you don’t understand about this business.” His voice is hard, unrelenting. “You can’t run a company on connections. The artists aren’t your friends. Neither are your employees.”
I step forward, chest heaving, a breath away from him. “My dad built this company on connection,” I say. “Your dads were like family to him. Are you saying that was bad business? Or have you gone so far off the rails you forgot why they started the company in the first place? The music, Dylan.”
He flinches, almost imperceptibly.
“Funny, because music was never your first love.”
“You don’t know me, Dylan.”
“Don’t I?” His voice drops an octave. Dangerous. Knowing. “I know how you sounded in that elevator,” he says, gaze locked on my mouth. Heat floods my body like a wave crashing over me. “I know how you tasted.”
My breath hitches. I take a step back, but he grabs my wrist—gentle, but firm.
“This can’t…” my words falter as I avert my gaze, body betraying me. “I need to focus on saving my company.”
His brow furrows.
“I know enough to know your father wouldn’t have wanted to see you give up on your own dreams,” he argues.
His words knock something loose inside me, and I take a step back. “You have no idea what my father wanted.”
“Morgan…”
“Whatever happened between us—it was a mistake.”
His expression hardens.
“Just like everything else you’re too scared to want.”
I flinch, his words cutting too close to home.
“Go to hell.” I storm out of his office, my new shoes clicking a sharp staccato on the tile, the sound echoing in the hallway like gunshots.