Chapter 2
JACE
The conference hall smells like too much cologne and desperation.
Men in sharp suits circle each other like buzzards, tossing around acronyms that don’t mean a damn thing outside these walls.
I sit through another panel about “next-generation cyber defense” and wonder if anyone in here has ever touched a real firewall in their life.
Morgan Enterprises isn’t a tech firm. We’re land, cattle, steel, and a logistics arm big enough that security matters.
That’s why I’m here, to see which of these companies is worth my money.
But listening to another man brag about his “unbreakable encryption” is about as exciting as watching paint dry on a barn door.
After the keynote, Richard Kane, the CEO of AegisTech, makes a beeline for me. I’ve seen his type before: expensive haircut, thousand-dollar watch, handshake like he’s trying to prove something.
“Mr. Morgan,” he says, voice slick as oil. “I’m glad you could join us. I think you’ll find Aegis has solutions tailor-made for an enterprise like yours. We should talk.”
I let him shake my hand, but it’s a formality, as my gut is already waving red flags. He’s too polished, too hungry—the kind of man who’ll cut corners and then bill you double for it.
“I’ll think on it,” I tell him, keeping my tone flat. “But I’d still like to explore more options.”
His smile falters a fraction, and I roll right past him before he can trap me in more talk.
The air feels stale in here, recycled and fake. I need to leave and get a drink, so I wheel out of the conference room and take the elevator down to the lounge, where I believe I spotted a bar earlier.
The bar’s ambience is exactly what I’m looking for—a relief after the conference hall, less noise, fewer sharks in suits.
I maneuver my wheelchair through the crowd, scanning faces, noting movements, and reading tension lines like I always do. It’s second nature. It’s true what they say after all: you can take the ranger out of the army, but you cannot take the army out of the ranger.
Every time I roll across the carpet, I feel eyes glued to me.
The chair’s always the first thing they notice.
Half of them can’t stop staring; the other half pretend not to, which is worse.
I’m used to it, but it still irritates me.
My hands grip the chair’s arms a fraction tighter when someone brushes past too close, but I don’t let it show. Nobody gets to see the cracks.
And then I see her, all bright pink hair and a black leather jacket.
It’s the woman who slammed into me an hour ago like she was running from the devil.
She’s standing behind the bar, a faint flush on her cheeks, glass in hand, that tiny spark of defiance in the set of her shoulders.
Her eyes sweep the room once, like she’s measuring it all and daring it to move her, daring it to care.
I know that look. I’ve seen it on people who fight battles you don’t see, the ones who carry more than the world knows.
My first thought is that she works here.
It makes sense since she sure as hell didn’t fit with the polished crowd at the conference.
I approach, keeping my presence measured but deliberate. When I stop beside her, she looks up. I angle closer. “Whiskey, neat.”
Her green eyes spark fiercely. “Do I look like a bartender to you?”
The edge in her voice makes me sit back a little. Not in retreat, just to watch her. She’s all fire and bite, quick to defend. And damn if I don’t like it. My mouth quirks before I can stop it. “Well, you’re standing behind the counter, holding a bottle. Thought I was putting two and two together.”
She huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, you thought wrong.”
I chuckle. “Guess I owe you an apology then. How about I buy you a drink to make it even?”
Her brow arches. She looks like a sharp girl, not easily charmed. But there’s a flicker in her eyes—she’s curious. I caught it when she nearly bowled me over earlier, the way her pulse jumped. And I see it now, the hesitation that’s not really hesitation at all.
She walks around the bar and slides onto the stool beside me, legs crossing, knee brushing my thigh just enough to make heat pool low in my gut. The stools are low enough that she’s not towering over me, even while I’m in my chair.
“Fine. But only because I’m thirsty,” she relents.
“Fair enough.” I lift a hand to the real bartender who’s finally made his way back to his position. “Two whiskeys. Make ’em strong.”
Her lip quirks like she’s trying not to smile. And for the first time all damn day, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The bartender sets down two glasses in front of us. She curls her fingers around hers without hesitation, nails painted a chipped black that makes me think she doesn’t give a damn about keeping up appearances. It’s refreshing.
“Apology accepted,” she says, lifting the glass like a toast. “Though you should work on your observational skills. Not everyone behind a bar is here to serve you.”
The corner of my mouth pulls higher. I lean in, letting the drawl roll thicker. “Noted. Though I’ll say this, if you were the bartender, I’d let you serve me all night.”
Look at me flirting with this woman! She looks younger than me, and I’m supposed to be here for business, not pleasure, but I can’t seem to stop myself. At least she’s of legal age if she’s drinking, and for tonight, that should be enough.
Her lips twitch, and she tries to smother it, but I see it; she’s fighting a smile.
“Smooth,” she says, voice dry. “Bet that line works back home in Texas.”
“Texas, huh?” I tilt my head, watching her reaction. “Guess my cover’s blown.”
She shrugs, pink hair slipping over her shoulder like a dare. “The accent gave you away. Not exactly local.”
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim of my glass. She doesn’t flinch or look away. Most people do when they realize I’ve got wheels under me, not boots. Not her. Her gaze is steady, curious without being pitying.
“What about you?” I ask, setting my drink down. “You from around here?”
“Unfortunately.” She tips her head back, eyes rolling like the whole city’s an inconvenience. “D.C. and I don’t exactly get along. But I’m stuck with it.”
I laugh, low in my chest. “Can’t imagine why. Seems like you brighten the place up.”
That earns me a real smile. She shakes her head, muttering, “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Nope.” I let the word hang, simple truth. “And you don’t scare easily, do you?”
She leans in, elbow brushing the bar, body angled toward mine. Close enough that I catch her scent—sweet vanilla with a trace of something sharper, electric. “Takes more than a cowboy with his own set of wheels to scare me.”
She’s flirting back. It leaves me feeling all hot and bothered, and for the first time in a long time, I’m surprised. She’s not playing it safe, not dancing around me like I’m breakable. She’s poking, testing, and waiting to see if I’ll bite.
And damn it, I want to.
Her next question catches me off guard. “So, what’s your room number?”
The words hang between us, light on her tongue but heavy as hell in my chest. I study her, waiting for the punchline, the nervous laugh, anything that would let me write it off as a joke. But she doesn’t, just looks at me, daring me to make her take it back.
Christ.
She doesn’t realize what she’s poking at. I’m not the kind of man you tease with an invitation like that. I either walk away or I take you up on it, and something tells me walking away stopped being an option the second she opened her mouth.
“You don’t seem like the type who makes that kind of offer lightly,” I say, voice low, testing her.
“I’m not.” Her eyes don’t waver, though I can see her pulse racing in the curve of her throat. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”
Fuck, that does it.
For a beat, I fight myself. Remind myself I’m here for business, not distraction. Remind myself that I don’t know her, that she’s trouble wrapped in pink hair and sharp eyes. But trouble’s exactly what I want right now, and the way she’s looking at me? It’s not going away.
My jaw locks, the decision landing heavy in my chest. “Room 1104.”
Her lips curve, soft and defiant. “Lead the way.”
The elevator ride is quiet, too damn quiet.
The kind of silence that isn’t really silence at all—it’s loaded, humming, every second stretching taut between us.
She keeps sneaking glances at me, like she’s not sure if she’s testing me or herself.
I don’t look away. I want her to feel it. The weight of me watching.
By the time the doors slide open, my pulse is a steady drumbeat in my chest. I wheel out, and she follows close, her heels clicking against the carpet like a countdown. My room feels too far, then suddenly it’s right in front of me, and my keycard’s in the slot before I can think better of it.
The door shuts behind us, muffling the rest of the world.
The room’s half-lit, curtains pulled just enough that the city glow spills in, painting her in silver and shadow.
She doesn’t hesitate or give me a chance to second-guess.
Her hands are on my shoulders, firm, pushing me back until the chair rocks slightly under the sudden shift.
Then she swings one leg over and settles onto my lap like she owns it, like she’s been planning this all along.
Her eyes dare me to stop her.
And hell, if that doesn’t light something in me I didn’t know I’d been holding back. She thinks the chair sets limits. Thinks she’s the one in control because she climbed on top. Cute.
My hand slides up her thigh—rough, deliberate. “You think you get to set the pace?” My voice comes out low, darker than I intended.
Her smirk flickers, not quite gone, but tempered by the sharp inhale she tries to hide. “Maybe I do.”
Challenge accepted.