Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maddox
I watch as she laughs at something Griffin says at the table, head tilted just enough to show off the line of her throat.
I clench my jaw and lift the glass of bourbon to my lips without tasting it.
Every fucking time I think I’ve gotten over it—over her—she does something else that pulls the rug out from under me.
I’ve watched her dance with my teammates and a couple of corporate donors too handsy for my liking.
Jace started it, leading her around the floor with a firm hand on her waist.
Finn twirled her and dipped her too low.
Beau kept his hand polite but lingered just long enough.
And Logan—fuck—Logan made her laugh.
That sound. Soft and full, like it was just for him.
It wasn’t.
It’s never just for them.
She’s mine.
Even if I never get to touch her.
Even if I know better.
My glass hits the table harder than I mean it to.
The sound turns a few heads, but I don’t care.
I push out of my chair and cross the ballroom without thinking—without giving myself time to talk myself out of it.
Every step feels like surrender.
Griffin says something to her, and she smiles politely—until she sees me.
Her smile falters. Her spine straightens.
I see the question in her eyes before I say a word.
I stop beside her, hand extended.
“Dance with me.”
Her lashes lower just enough to give her time. One beat. Two.
Then she slides her hand into mine.
It’s not hesitation.
It’s surrender.
Her touch is cool from the glass of champagne she hasn’t finished.
But her skin, her presence, is heat.
Undeniable. Unforgiving.
The crowd doesn’t exist.
Neither does the damn gala.
Just the weight of her hand in mine as I guide her toward the dance floor.
The music slows—smooth jazz, silky and low. Something made for shadows and secrets.
I take her in my arms, one hand at her back, the other claiming hers.
She fits like I imagined. Like I remembered.
She’s taller in those heels, but I still have to look down to meet her eyes.
“Been avoiding me, Carrington?” I murmur.
She arches a brow, smile faint. “You’ve been brooding from the shadows. I didn’t want to get in the way of your aesthetic.”
My mouth twitches.
God, she’s good at this.
But not good enough to hide the tension humming beneath her skin.
“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here tonight.” I pause, eyes locking on hers. “Figured your date might’ve dragged you out early.”
Her smile barely flickers. “He’s not my date.”
I arch a brow, pressure tightening in my grip. “No?”
“No.” She draws in closer. “He’s my cousin. Griffin Ashford.”
The name lands like a puck to the sternum.
Griffin Ashford. Top-six forward in New Jersey. Makes headlines for charity work and model girlfriends.
And apparently? Related to the woman I’ve been trying not to want.
I drag my gaze over her—her bare shoulders, that neckline, the green glitter catching every ounce of light.
“Family lets you show up in a dress like this?”
Her lips curve. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
God, I love that fucking mouth, the sass.
It’s a fucking turn on, and it shouldn’t be.
“Well, he’s had a front-row seat all night.”
I lean in, my breath skating across her jaw.
“And so have half my teammates.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.
Just lets the silence stretch between us like a wire strung too tight.
“They asked,” she says finally, soft but steady.
“And it would’ve looked worse if I said no to everyone but you.”
I press my palm more firmly to the small of her back, pulling her that final inch closer.
Her chest brushes mine. Her breath catches.
“Let ’em look,” I murmur. “They won’t see this.”
“This?”
I lower my mouth to her ear.
“The way you’re shaking in my hands.”
She exhales sharply—barely a sound, but I feel it everywhere.
The song drags out longer than it should, and still I don’t let go.
Because there’s no going back now.
Not after this.
She doesn’t pull away.
Even when the music slows further, wrapping around us like silk.
Even when my hand slides a fraction lower on her back.
Even when her fingers tighten slightly in mine, like she’s holding on.
“You know,” I murmur low, “you could’ve danced with me first.”
Her eyes flick to mine, guarded. “You weren’t exactly asking.”
“Didn’t think you’d say yes.”
She tilts her head. “And now?”
I dip my mouth toward hers, just enough that my words graze her skin.
“Now I think you want to know what it feels like when I do more than ask.”
Her breath stutters.
Her spine straightens.
But she doesn’t let go.
I guide her through the next slow turn, and for a second—just one—we move like this is all we’ve ever done.
Like we know each other’s rhythms.
Like the chaos we create outside this moment doesn’t matter.
“I’m not some charity case you can fix,” I say quietly. “And I’m not one of your rookies.”
“I know.”
“I’m not safe for you, Sloane.”
Her eyes hold mine. Steady.
“No one ever changed the game by playing it safe.”
That’s it. That’s the moment.
The one that slices through me like a blade and buries deep.
Because I’ve fought to keep her at a distance for weeks—told myself it was about the job, the team, the goddamn clause.
But the truth?
I just wanted to make sure she’d fight back.
The music fades.
But neither of us moves.
Not until someone brushes past us and the moment cracks just enough for her to step away.
Her fingers slip from mine like she’s peeling off a layer of skin.
She gives a tight smile meant for anyone watching.
Then she turns and walks back into the crowd, spine straight, shoulders high, leaving behind only the scent of something sharp and devastating.
And I stand there, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw tight, knowing damn well I’m not going to make it through the night without her.
And I shouldn’t still be watching her.
But I am.
She’s back at her table, calm and composed, sipping champagne like her body wasn’t just pressed against mine, like I didn’t feel her ribs expand under my palm when I whispered in her ear.
I drag a hand through my hair and make my way toward the bar.
Need to cool off.
Need space.
Need a fucking lobotomy if I think I can get through another hour of this without touching her again.
“Lasker.” A voice cuts through the noise behind me.
I turn, jaw tight, already bracing—another donor, another handshake, another conversation I don’t want.
It’s worse.
It’s Griffin.
His jaw’s set, smile professional, but his eyes aren’t friendly.
“You and Sloane have an interesting rhythm.”
I take a slow sip of my bourbon and let the burn settle. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “She’s important to me. She’s my family. Don’t fuck with her head.”
My jaw flexes.
Not because he’s wrong.
But because he’s right.
“I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” I say evenly. “But she can handle herself.”
“Yeah. She can. Don’t forget it.”
And then he walks off, back toward her table, sliding into the seat beside her like he’s always belonged there.
I’m still watching when she turns her head just enough to glance my way.
It’s brief.
Barely a second.
But it hits like a punch to the chest.
Because that look—sharp and soft and knowing—that’s not the kind of look you give to someone who means nothing.
That’s the kind you give to someone you don’t want to mean everything.
Fuck the drink — I need air.
I head outside, drink in hand, and shit, I wish I smoked. It sounds like the kind of thing that would help right now.
Instead, I pace the sidewalk beside the front entrance like a caged panther. Gala attendees linger at the valet stand, their laughter looser now—glazed from champagne and ego.
I catch a flash of that green that’s burned into my brain.
Sloane.
She stands near the front entrance, Griffin a step behind her, murmuring something too low for me to hear. She smiles—small, polite—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
The valet pulls her car up.
She thanks him with a nod, slipping into the back seat like she’s done it a thousand times.
Like she didn’t just light my whole fucking night on fire with a look.
Griffin doesn’t get in. He stays behind, phone in hand, giving her space.
Good.
I stay half in shadow, jaw locked, watching her car ease down the drive and disappear into the dark.
I could’ve said something. Could’ve walked her out. Could’ve offered to take her home.
But I didn’t.
Because she’s my boss.
Because she’s too young.
Because the line between us is already frayed to hell, and if I cross it now, I won’t stop.
My grip tightens around the empty glass in my hand.
She doesn’t need a man like me.
Doesn’t need the baggage or the bruises I carry.
But Christ…
I want her anyway.
A shuffle of footsteps drags my attention to the side.
“Hey, Lasker.”
I turn.
It’s Cal. Jacket half-buttoned, tie crooked, face flushed and unsteady. He sways slightly, holding up his phone with a grin like we’re drinking buddies instead of professional colleagues.
“You good?” I ask, voice rough.
He grins wider. “Totally. Just needed air. You?”
“Same.”
A beat of silence.
Then he shrugs and sways again. “I need to go home. Gonna head out.”
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
That yanks me straight out of my spiral. “Fuck that; you’re not driving now.”
“Nah,” he says too quickly, “I’m fine, man.”
“Fine my ass.” I step in, voice low but sharp. “You’re drunk as hell, and you’re not getting behind the wheel.”
Cal stiffens, trying to puff up. “I’m good. I’ve driven worse—”
“I don’t give a shit. That was fucking stupid anyway. You’re not getting anywhere near the driver’s seat of a car tonight.”
He blinks at me, surprised.
I step closer to him, hands in my pockets. “Look, man. You got a team now. You’re part of something. You don’t fuck that up because you’re too proud to call a ride.”
He scowls, then shrugs again, all bravado melting. “Fine. I can’t feel my damn knees, anyway.”
I sigh, pulling out my phone. “Give me your address.”
He hesitates.
“Cal.”
“I don’t know it.”
What the actual fuck? “You don’t know your address?”
“I can’t remember it right now.”
I sigh the long sigh of a man who wishes he was anywhere but here but knows he’s right where he needs to be.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see your wallet.”
A semblance of anger that only makes him look like a petulant boy crosses his face.
Damn, he’s so young.
“Lasker, you got fucking money; you don’t need mine!”
Jesus, is the whole world out to fuck with me tonight?
“I want to see your license. It has your address on it.”
“Oh.” He steps back. “That’s true. Hold on.”
He fumbles around, feeling all of his pockets except the back left one where I can see the outline of his wallet.
“Shit, I lost my wallet!” he slurs loudly.
“No, you didn’t.” I gesture to his pants. “Try that back pocket.”
He feels it and pulls it out, drunken relief on his face. “Whew, thought I’d lost it.”
Handing it over to me, he stumbles but manages to catch himself. “I’m cool, I’m cool.”
I roll my eyes and open his wallet.
Well, hell. He lives on the opposite side of town from where I’m going.
This just isn’t my night.
I text my driver and within moments, he’s pulling up to the curb. Opening the back door, I gesture for Cal to get in. When he does, I nod to my driver.
“Take him home. Make sure he gets in the door. Text me when he’s in.”
I rattle off the address to the driver who—to his credit—only hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lasker.”
“Wait,” Cal says, eyes wide. “What about you?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“But it’s your car—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Cal stares at me for a second, then nods, sheepish. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t make it a habit. And buckle up.”
He chuckles, and I shut the door. I wait until it pulls away before I let out a slow exhale.
I meant it when I said I’d figure it out.
But I sure as hell didn’t plan on needing to.
Pulling my phone out, I open the ride share app, thumbing through to get an Uber. The screen lights up indicating the car’s three minutes out.
I drop onto the stone bench outside the entrance, elbows on my knees, empty glass dangling between my fingers.
I think of Sloane in that dress. In her car. In her penthouse.
And me—sitting here, chasing restraint like it’s some kind of moral high ground.
Every cell in my body is pulled toward her.
But I don’t move.
Because I’m not that guy anymore.
Because I’m trying to do the right thing.
Because wanting her doesn’t make me worthy of her.
My Uber pulls up.
I stand, tip the glass into the valet’s trash can, and climb in without a word.
We drive toward The Apex in silence, the city blurring past.
When the car stops at the front entrance, I get out and walk into the building I’ve lived in for a little over a month now, nodding at the night doorman.
In the elevator, the PH button taunts me. But I stab the number seven button like it personally offended me, heading to my apartment.
Alone.
Because for now, restraint still wins.
But I know damn well it won’t last through the night.