Chapter 2
JAMESON
The redhead was hot as hell.
That thought had taken up permanent residence in my head—every damn time I saw her. And after actually talking to her today? Forget it. She wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Sutton Ross. Twenty-three. Smart, confident, and entirely too young for me, but already sharper than half the people on my payroll.
I hadn’t realized she lived in my building until my assistant dropped her address on my desk. Then I couldn’t stop wondering why I hadn’t run into her in the gym, or the lobby, or anywhere I could meet her as a neighbor instead of her boss.
The limo rolled to a stop in front of my building, and I noticed I’d been staring at the same unfinished email for ten minutes. My focus was shot, hijacked by the image of red hair and green eyes.
I looked up—and there she was.
Sutton stepped out through the glass doors like she owned the place, dragging a bright red suitcase behind her. No concierge. No help. Just that fitted green coat hugging her curves and catching the light like a challenge.
My pulse kicked. My body followed.
Too long—it had been too damn long. The flings, the casual hookups, the polite dinner dates that went nowhere—all of it suddenly meaningless. Because the second I saw her, every other woman disappeared.
The realization hit hard, a punch to the chest. I shoved open the door and stepped out, ready to help her with her bag, but the driver got there first. His job.
Fine. Still, the sight of him touching what was hers sparked a sharp, unfamiliar possessiveness.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to help her with everything.
I had no idea what the hell to do with that feeling.
She froze when she spotted the limo, mouth parting slightly. Then her gaze locked on me.
“Is that—are we—” She gestured at the car. “I thought you were just sending a ride.”
“I did.” I gestured toward the vehicle. “This is it.”
“This is a limousine.”
“Good eye.”
She laughed—bright and startled, hitting me square in the chest. “I’ve never been in a limo before.”
“Never?”
“I’m from Idaho, Jameson. We don’t exactly do this there.” She waved at the car like it had landed from Mars.
The driver loaded her suitcase and held the door. I motioned for her to go first. She hesitated, then slid inside.
I followed, the door sealing shut with a soft, expensive click.
The space felt smaller than it should have.
She was pressed against the far side of the seat, her hands folded in her lap, taking in the leather interior, the ambient lighting, the small bar stocked with water and champagne—and the subtle garland wrapped around the privacy partition, tiny white lights twinkling softly.
“There’s champagne,” she said quietly.
“We don’t have to open it.”
“I know. It’s just—wow.” She turned to me, green eyes wide and bright. “This is insane.”
“It’s a car.”
“It’s absolutely not just a car.” She ran her palm over the seat. “This is nicer than my apartment.”
Her apartment was in the same building as mine—one of the most expensive buildings in Pleasure Valley. But I didn’t want to get into all that. Instead, I pulled out my tablet.
“We should go over the plan.”
Safe topic. Professional. Maybe it would help me stop thinking about the way her scent—warm vanilla and cinnamon—was winding its way under my skin.
“Right. The plan.” She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I think the booth should feel like a kitchen. Warm, lived-in. Not sterile.”
“Agreed.”
“And we should do live demos. I can handle them—people respond to real cooking, real mistakes, real problem-solving.”
Her hands moved as she spoke—graceful, expressive—and I found myself watching the curve of her wrist instead of the words.
Focus, McKnight.
“What kind of demos?” I asked.
“Holiday-specific. Feeding a crowd. Adapting for dietary needs. Maybe something about reducing food waste—like leftovers.” Her voice lifted, confidence taking hold. “And samples. People love samples.”
“You want to bake cookies at a tech expo.”
“I want to show that Stella isn’t just an app. She’s a friend in the kitchen.” She met my eyes, steady and sure. “That’s what we’ve been missing. We’ve been selling features instead of feelings.”
Damn. She was right.
“How’d you get so good at this?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
“At what?”
“Reading people. Knowing what they need before they do.”
A blush crept up her neck. “I don’t know. I just…talk to people who are trying to make their lives work. It was never about the food—it was about helping them feel capable.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Her smile faltered. “It stopped feeling real. I was performing this perfect life that didn’t exist. People don’t want to see someone eating ramen and dodging late-rent notices.”
“I would’ve watched that.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, searching for the joke. There wasn’t one.
“That’s the content people connect with,” I said. “The struggle. Not the highlight reel.”
She tilted her head. “Is that why North Star matters so much to you? Because it’s real?”
No one ever asked me that. Most people wanted projections, not purpose.
I looked out the window, city lights sliding by. “I built something once. Thought it would change things. Sold it to a company that gutted everything good. Made it about data, not people. I got rich and lost the part that mattered.”
“So North Star’s your second chance.”
“Something like that.”
She studied me quietly. “That’s why you care about Stella being helpful. Not just profitable.”
“Yeah.”
“I get that,” she said softly. “That’s why I said yes. You actually care.”
Her sincerity hit me somewhere I didn’t want to name. This was bad. She worked for me. She was twelve years younger. And I couldn’t afford to be distracted.
“We’re here,” the driver said.
We’d pulled up to the private terminal.
Sutton blinked at the window. “Wait—this isn’t the airport.”
“It is.”
Her eyes went wide. “Jameson…is that a private jet?”
I couldn’t hold back the grin. “You didn’t think we were flying commercial, did you?”
She stared at me. “I absolutely did. Who has a private jet?”
“Technically, I charter it.”
“Oh, well—technically.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m going on a private jet.”
The car stopped. The driver opened her door. Sutton stepped out slowly, staring at the Gulfstream like it was a mirage. I followed, watching the wonder in her face, the way excitement lit her up from the inside.
“This is real?” she asked.
“This is real.”
“Wait. I have to text Danika—she’s never going to believe this.”
“You can text from the plane.”
“It has Wi-Fi?”
“Sutton, it’s a private jet. It has everything.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and followed me up the stairs. The attendant greeted us, and Sutton’s expression turned pure awe. I watched her walk ahead, her red hair catching the light, and fought the urge to rest my hand on her lower back.
Professional. Stay professional.
She turned in a slow circle once inside. “There are actual seats.”
“They recline,” I said. “All the way.”
“Of course they do.” She slid into one, fingertips tracing the armrest. “I feel like I should take a picture.”
“Take it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She snapped a selfie, then looked at me. “Do you want to be in it?”
No. I hated cameras. But she was looking at me like it mattered.
“Sure.”
She moved beside me, close enough for her perfume to hit again. “Smile.”
I didn’t—until she leaned in, shoulder brushing mine. Then I did.
She grinned at the screen. “Perfect. Danika and Gabriella are going to freak out.”
The attendant returned for the briefing. Sutton listened, rapt. I watched her, fully aware I was in trouble. This wasn’t just attraction. This was dangerous.
When the engines started, her hand gripped the armrest. Without thinking, I covered it with mine.
“It’s smoother than commercial,” I told her.
She nodded, relaxing beneath my touch. I left my hand there a moment too long before pulling back, pretending to study my tablet.
The jet began to roll. Sutton turned to the window, eyes wide with wonder.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For bringing me. For trusting me.”
“You’re the reason this will work.” And I meant every word.
Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip. Christ.
As the plane lifted, she let out a quiet gasp, pure joy lighting her face as the city fell away below—a grid of lights and Christmas decorations stretching into the distance. I watched her instead of the clouds. And I knew—this trip would change everything.
If I was lucky, it wouldn’t destroy me in the process.