Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Maverick
I should have left as soon as the event started.
I had no interest in standing around, pretending to enjoy small talk with executives who only cared about the next deal or employees who suddenly felt bold enough to strike up conversations they wouldn’t dare have on a Monday morning.
But I had come anyway, mostly out of obligation and partly because I was already losing control of the one thing I had tried to avoid all week.
Solenn.
She was here, somewhere in the crowd of Spencer & Co. employees and business associates, and I had spent the last hour not looking for her but somehow always knowing exactly where she was. It was becoming a problem—one I had no solution for.
I stood near the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon, forcing myself to engage in conversation while my mind kept drifting to where she stood across the rooftop lounge.
She was talking to Lillian, laughing at something, her eyes bright, completely at ease in a way that made me grip my drink just a little tighter.
She was wearing white today, the soft fabric hugging her frame in a way that was too distracting, too tempting, too fucking much.
I exhaled sharply, pulling my gaze away, only to find Adrian standing beside me, his arms crossed, smirking as if he had just caught me doing something I shouldn’t. I didn’t react, but he had known me too long to need confirmation.
"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Adrian asked, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
I lifted an eyebrow, bringing my drink to my lips. "Keep what up?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re a control freak, but even you have limits."
I sighed, staring straight ahead, my voice clipped. "Not when it comes to this."
Adrian hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Interesting. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re one wrong move away from losing your mind."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. He wasn’t wrong.
The past few days had been unbearable. I had thrown myself into work, into meetings, into anything that kept me from thinking about that night, about her in my bed, about the way she had slipped out before I could stop her.
But even that hadn’t been enough. She was still there—in my thoughts, in my space, in every goddamn room I walked into.
I needed space. I needed to breathe.
Without another word, I set my glass down and walked toward the far end of the rooftop.
The view was vast, the skyline stretching beyond the glass railing, the city humming below in its usual chaotic rhythm.
I inhaled deeply, letting the cold air settle in my lungs, trying to shove down the restlessness clawing at my ribs.
And then, of course, she found me.
"You do realize this is a social event, right?"
Her voice was light, teasing, but I could hear the undercurrent of curiosity beneath it.
I turned my head slightly, watching as she stepped up beside me, a fresh drink in her hand, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. She was always watching, always reading me in ways most people never even attempted.
"I was being social," I said, turning my attention back to the city.
She scoffed. "Brooding in a corner doesn’t count."
I smirked slightly, though I didn’t let her see it. "I was enjoying the quiet."
She didn’t leave. Of course, she didn’t. Instead, she leaned against the railing beside me, her eyes scanning the view before flickering back to me. "Do you ever let yourself enjoy things, Maverick?"
The question was unexpected. I glanced at her, but her expression remained unreadable as if she hadn’t just pried open something I wasn’t ready to examine.
"Work is enjoyable," I said finally.
She made a sound that was almost a laugh. "That’s not what I meant."
The silence stretched, heavier than before, laced with something I didn’t want to name. I knew I should have walked away, and ended the conversation, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned slightly toward her. "And what do you enjoy, Solenn?"
She didn’t hesitate. "Coffee on a rainy morning. A really good book. The sound of the ocean." She paused, a small smirk playing on her lips. "And croissants."
Something in me tightened.
I didn’t let it show. "Sounds simple enough."
She tilted her head slightly. "And you? Besides work?"
I hesitated. I didn’t have an answer. I never had an answer.
Her gaze softened just slightly, and I hated it. Hated the way she could see through me, hated the way she didn’t fill the silence with assumptions or jokes. She just let the moment exist, let the question hang between us, waiting.
And I couldn’t stand it.
So I did something I shouldn’t have done.
I reached up, my fingers grazing the edge of her jaw, just barely. She inhaled sharply, her breath catching, but she didn’t move away.
The tips of my fingers brushed her skin, soft, warm, too damn tempting. My thumb ghosted over the corner of her mouth, the touch so light it could have been a mistake.
But it wasn’t.
Because she leaned in.
Just slightly.
Just enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath, could see the way her eyes flickered with something reckless, unguarded.
And for one second—one goddamn second—I almost let it happen.
Almost let myself close the distance.
Almost let myself ruin everything.
But then, I froze.
Every rule, every reason why this was a terrible idea slammed back into me all at once.
I dropped my hand. Stepped back. The air between us snapped like a live wire, and the second it did, I saw it— the shift in her expression, the flicker of something that looked a lot like disappointment before she masked it completely.
I forced my voice to stay even. Cold. Detached. "This isn’t going to happen."
She blinked once, then exhaled, letting out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Right."
I clenched my fists at my sides. "You work for me."
Her gaze sharpened. "I’m aware."
"This isn’t personal."
She let out another laugh, this one sharper. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her steps quick, purposeful, done.
I watched her go, my chest tight, my pulse uneven, my jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Because I knew—she was done pretending she didn’t want more.
And I was terrified because I knew I did.