Chapter 38 F.A.A.F.O
F.A.A.F.O
Harlee
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and the gala fades into a soft, muffled hum, like somebody threw a blanket over the whole room.
Cool air kisses my shoulders. Lavender soap. Marble that’s been polished so hard it feels like the building has a skincare routine.
I catch my reflection and pause.
Still flawless. Praise be to the makeup gods and the boob tape engineers holding the line. This dress is painted on, and these titties are not going anywhere. Score one for the big-titty committee.
I duck into the stall because champagne, adrenaline, and networking at Olympic levels will humble your bladder.
While I pee, the night flickers through my head in quick flashes: warm laughs, sharp handshakes, the clink of flutes, the kind of smiles people give when they’ve decided you’re worth listening to.
Benjamin Oliver asked me what I’m working on.
Not in a “cute little internship” way.
In a “tell me more, here’s my card” way.
Josiah Washington wanted to know how I think about forecasting volatility and budget behavior, and I didn’t stumble. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t laugh it off like a joke. I answered like I belong in rooms where people buy and sell the future.
Because I do.
Me. Harlee Quinn Prince. DMV-bred, math-brained, anxious as hell, still standing.
Then my brain tries to slide to August, and I shut it down immediately.
Girl. Focus.
I wash my hands slowly, letting the heat anchor me. I’m drying them when the door swings open with a dramatic whoosh.
And in walks a problem in silver sequins.
Blonde. Wobbling. Perfume so loud it feels like it’s trying to pick a fight. She stumbles into a stall like gravity has been personally targeting her all night.
“If I have to hear one more sob story about sick kids… Jesus,” she mutters.
I grind my teeth.
This isn’t brunch. This isn’t a fashion week afterparty. Tonight is families standing in front of strangers, trying to sell their grief without choking on it. It’s glioblastoma, relentless and underfunded. But sure. Let’s complain about the vibe.
The toilet flushes. She emerges with mascara smeared like war paint, meets my eyes in the mirror, and gives me a smile like we’re girlfriends.
“Long night?” I ask, voice flat.
She scoffs. “You have no idea. I only come to these for the champagne and couture. Can’t wear this to brunch, right?” She smooths her hips like she’s proud of herself.
I stare at her. Blink once.
She leans closer, breath sour with alcohol. “And the money goes into a black hole anyway. My husband talks about ‘philanthropic ROI’ like it’s fantasy football. These people will just waste it.”
These people.
The way she says it is a door slamming.
“I hope,” I say, slow and measured, “you never need the kind of help you’re mocking.”
She laughs like I complimented her. “Aw, you’re sweet. Love your dress, by the way. Very… bold.”
Then she flounces out, heels clacking like an insult.
I stare at myself again, my pulse ticking in my throat. My hands curl around the edge of the counter, not because I’m about to fall, but because I want to break something on principle.
My fingertips find the locket at my throat. Grounding. A reminder. Mama’s voice in my head: You don’t have to match everybody’s ugly.
I smooth my dress. Lift my chin.
Time to go back out there and be impressive.
I make it two steps before the door opens again and a hand catches my wrist.
Strong. Familiar. Warm.
August pulls me back inside like the hallway can’t have me yet.
My back hits cool tile. My breath disappears.
“August,” I whisper, half warning, half prayer.
His mouth is on mine before my brain can finish the sentence. Not gentle. Not slow. Like he’s been holding himself together all night and the moment the door shuts, he stops pretending.
His hands find my hips. My waist. The curve he’s been avoiding in public. He kisses me like the gala never existed, like there weren’t donors and cameras and HR policies hovering over our heads like storm clouds.
“Fuck,” he mutters into my mouth, voice wrecked. “You have no idea how hard it’s been not touching you.”
I kiss him harder in response, teeth grazing his lower lip just enough to make him groan. His hand tightens at my waist, fingers digging in through silk like he’s grounding himself there.
My body is already on fire. Pulse loud. Thighs pressing together because my brain has officially left the building.
This is reckless. Delicious. Stupid.
And I want it.
His mouth drags to my jaw, then my neck, slow and hot. My head tips back without asking me first. He presses his forehead to my collarbone for half a second, breathing me in like he’s trying to commit me to memory.
“Mami,” he murmurs, low and hungry. Spanish ghosts through his breath, warm and dangerous, the kind of words you only say when you’re losing.
My knees go weak.
I grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him back up to my mouth, kissing him like I might actually forget my own name if I don’t. His body answers immediately, heat everywhere, the kiss deepening until the line between us blurs.
And then it hits me.
Halloween.
The club lights. The whispers. The texts. The aftermath. The way everything spun faster than either of us could control once the internet got involved.
The reminder lands like a hand on my sternum.
I break the kiss with a shaky laugh, pressing my forehead to his chest.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
He stills instantly.
Not sulky. Not annoyed.
Present.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, searching. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow, forcing my brain back online. “We said we wouldn’t do this again. Not like this. Not in public. No more Halloween-level chaos.”
His jaw flexes. He exhales slowly, like it costs him something to remember, too.
“You’re right,” he says. Immediate. No argument. “We don’t need another incident.”
His hand slides from my waist to my cheek, thumb brushing gently like he’s grounding me now. “Doesn’t mean that I’m happy about it. But you are right. The brains between the two of us.”
The way he says it makes my chest ache.
“Well, my brain and my pussy are not agreeing right now,” I admit, voice soft but steady. “Just… not at the expense of everything else.”
He nods once. Leans in. Presses a slow, lingering kiss to my mouth that feels like a promise instead of a mistake. His hands cup under my ass, as he pulls me closer.
“Then we stop,” he says. “Right here.”
He steps back first. Gives me space. Lets me breathe.
I smooth my dress. Fix my lip gloss. He straightens his tie like his hands aren’t still shaking just a little.
We meet each other’s eyes in the mirror.
We both look flushed. Kiss-swollen. Dangerous.
But contained.
He opens the door for me, palm warm at the small of my back as we step back into the hallway.
His hand smacks my ass the moment I step over the threshold. I giggle and for half a second, I let myself think we pulled it off.
“Ready to go be respectable?” he murmurs.
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
He offers his arm. I take it because my legs are still remembering what his hands feel like.
And then the universe, being the petty auntie she is, clears her throat.
“So,” a voice says behind us, thick with liquor and entitlement, “this is why you haven’t been returning my calls.”
My whole body goes cold.
August goes still.
I turn slowly.
Spencer stands there in a charcoal suit and a bad attitude, holding a tumbler like it’s a weapon. His eyes are glassy, his smile a little too loose, his posture that specific kind of sloppy that says he’s been drinking with intent.
Late. Drunk. And already acting like the hallway belongs to him.
Of course.
He looks at August’s arm around me, then down at my dress, like he’s cataloging me. Like he’s deciding what version of me he wants to claim out loud.
“I thought that was you,” Spencer says, pointing at me with the tumbler. “I know that ass anywhere.”
My stomach drops and my eyes roll.
It’s not even the words. It’s the casualness. The way he says it like we’re still something. Like he’s allowed.
August’s hand shifts at my waist, firmer now. Anchoring. Not yanking me behind him, not taking over. Just letting Spencer know there’s a line and it’s already drawn.
I lift my chin.
“Spencer,” I say, voice calm on purpose. “You’re drunk.”
He laughs like I’m adorable. “And you’re ignoring me. That’s new.”
“It’s not,” I reply. “You’re just late to the reality.”
He squints at me, then glances at August like he’s just now noticing I'm not alone.
“Oh.” Spencer’s smile turns sharp. “So, this is the mystery man.”
August turns slightly, still composed, still CEO-smooth even in a hallway outside a bathroom. His voice is polite in a way that feels dangerous.
“Augustus James,” he says, extending a hand he knows won’t be taken. “And you are?”
Spencer looks at the hand like it offended him, then smirks.
“Spencer,” he says, like the name should ring bells. Then his eyes flick back to me. “Harlee and I go way back. Right, babe?”
That word makes my skin crawl coming out of his mouth.
“No,” I say, crisp. “We don’t.”
Spencer’s smile twitches. He swallows, regains his footing in his own mind, and decides to go lower because that’s what he does when he feels small.
“Funny,” he says, leaning in just a little, breath carrying bourbon and something sour. “My dick was all up in her mouth not that long ago. I’m sure you’ve tasted me.”
For one second, the hallway is silent.
Not empty-silent. Blackhole silent.
August’s hand stills on my waist.
His face doesn’t change. But the air around him does. Like pressure building behind glass.
“Watch your mouth,” August says. Low. Even. Deadly.
Spencer’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for that reaction all night.
And I… I feel something snap into place inside me.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Anger so clean it feels holy.