Chapter 11 #3
Sutton turns her body so she faces me fully. “You know, I just want to sum up my issue with that man. It’s not just about him, it’s about me. I want to prove I’m here on my own merit,” she says, her voice and gaze steady.
“You are,” I assure her. “And if Victor can’t see that, nor anyone else, it’s their loss.”
As dessert arrives—decadent chocolate mousse—I take a moment to savor the scene. The laughter, the conversation, the way she leans in closer when she talks; it all feels effortlessly intimate.
“So, Sutton,” one of the other guests at our table pipes up, “what do you think about the new NHL team coming to Alexandria, The Dominion? Exciting news, right?”
Sutton brightens, her previous tension melting away. “Absolutely! I can’t wait to meet the new owners and see how our teams can collaborate. The Renegades are set to have a good relationship with them, especially since we’ll be feeding players through their system.”
“Do you know who the owners are yet?” another guest inquires.
“Not yet, but I’ve heard from the board that everything is still in the works. I can’t wait to see how it unfolds,” she replies, her enthusiasm infectious.
A woman at the table adjusts her glasses as she peers across a floral arrangement at Sutton. “I met a gentleman here earlier, I think his name is Victor Lawson. He said he’s one of the investors for the new team. Is that true?”
Sutton’s expression shifts slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing over her face. “I have no idea. I do know he’s been trying to position himself as a big player in River City for a while now.”
I can sense her tension returning, and I reach out to squeeze her hand under the table, a silent gesture of support. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m rewarded when I see her shoulders visibly relax.
As the conversation flows back to the new team, I take a moment to sneak a glance at Sutton with a little side-eye and admire her.
She’s effortlessly beautiful, and there’s something about her that draws me in.
I find myself mesmerized when she flicks a hand in the air, making a slight gesture as she explains something to one of our tablemates, but it’s the faint hint of gardenias that catches me off guard.
The way she talks about her passion for hockey, the excitement in her voice—it’s all so very captivating.
Except for the whole deal that she is my boss, technically. There is that.
As we finish our dessert, I can’t shake the feeling that tonight is more than just a work commitment. There’s something in the air, a promise of possibility, and as I look into her eyes, I know I want to explore it further.
“Let’s make a deal,” I say, dropping my voice just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Do you like milkshakes?”
Her smile widens, and for a moment, the world outside fades away. “Love them.”
“After all this, let’s ditch the crowd and go through a drive-through, get a couple of milkshakes to finish off the night. Deal?”
“Deal. But first, let’s get through the speeches.”
“Right,” I say, chuckling. “One step at a time.”
The clink of silverware and hum of conversation fill the ballroom, but then a flash goes off a few tables away, catching my attention. An event photographer weaves through the crowd, snapping candids, a bouquet of red roses tucked under his arm like some kind of badge of honor.
He stops at each table, handing out the flowers to couples, coaxing them into lovey-dovey poses while everyone around them laughs and claps. When he finally makes his way to us, he grins, holding out a stem between two fingers.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice carrying that practiced charm of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “Here’s one for you two. Maybe a quick cuddle and a kiss for the camera, yeah?”
Sutton straightens in her chair so fast you’d think she just sat on a tack. Her hand goes up like she’s warding off a vampire. “Oh—no, no. We can’t. I’m his boss.”
The photographer chuckles, clearly unfazed, pushing back his already-too-slick mat of hair.
He’s all sharp elbows and restless energy, the kind of guy who can’t walk past a mirror without winking.
And yet, with the flowers tucked in the crook of his arm now, he somehow looks like he was born for the bit. “Boss, schboss. It’s only a photo.”
I lean back, grinning, because honestly? This is too perfect to pass up. “C’mon, Sutton. It’s just a fun picture from the night.” I pluck the stem from his hand and hold it out for her to accept. “See? Harmless.”
She shoots me a look, the kind that says don’t you dare, but I just widen my grin, leaning in slow, playful. “Just one little photo,” I tease.
The plan, at least in my mind’s eye, is to lean in like I’m going to drop a quick kiss on her cheek, keep it light. Fun. In my strategy, my lips aren’t going to even connect with her skin, there will be no touching at all.
But isn’t there a saying that we make plans and God laughs at them? Well, he’s up there cracking up tonight because right as I lean in, she turns her head to protest…and instead of an air kiss for the camera, my lips brush hers.
For a second, everything stills. Her lips are soft, warm, and I forget about the photographer, the table, the entire gala. Renegades what?
Then she lets out a tiny laugh, startled and shy, and turns her face, presenting me with her cheek like a compromise. I press the kiss there, and the camera flashes, catching the moment in a burst of white light.
The photographer beams, clearly satisfied, and moves on, leaving behind the faint smell of roses mixed with a heady scent of Sutton and her gardenias, and the memory of something I’m not sure I’ll be able to shake anytime soon.
The lights begin to dim around us, and the emcee for the night takes the stage, clinking a spoon against a champagne glass to call the room’s attention.
Polite applause rolls through the hall, but all I can focus on is Sutton’s hand still resting close to mine on the tablecloth.
Her laugh from a minute ago still echoes in my head, soft and nervous, like it slipped out before she could stop it.
I’m supposed to be paying attention to the welcome speech, but all I can think about is the way her lips brushed mine—accidental or not—and how fast my brain went blank the second it happened. No game plan, no witty comeback, nothing. Just soft lips touching mine.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning back in her chair with that composed, all-business posture again, as though nothing just happened between us. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to act like I’m not replaying every millisecond in slow motion.
The slick photographer strolls past our table again, glancing at the preview screen on his camera. He grins when his eyes flick to me, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he left behind. I fight the urge to scowl at him.
Sutton shifts, her knee brushing mine under the table, probably accidental—but it still feels like a spark straight to my chest. She doesn’t move it right away, though.
I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to the podium. Applause rises around us as another speaker heads up. Sutton claps politely, her face lit by the soft glow of the chandeliers, and I find myself wondering if she’s thinking about that kiss, too.
Probably not. She’s a professional powerhouse. She doesn’t let moments get to her. Not like I do.
Still, I catch her sneaking one quick glance my way, her lips curving in the smallest smile, and it’s enough to tell me maybe, just maybe, I’m not imagining all of this.
The driver passes two milkshakes through the open divider, the scent of vanilla and chocolate flooding the car. Sutton accepts hers with both hands like it’s a priceless artifact.
“Chocolate, extra whipped cream,” she says, her voice lifting with satisfaction. “You are my hero.”
“I’ll take that compliment, as long as I get to wear a cape next time.” I dig for my wallet, reaching to hand the driver my card. “That was a night of suits and buttoned-up personalities, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, when I was little I wanted to grow up and get to go to balls and galas, and all the things like my mom and dad did.” She takes a sip of her drink and chuckles. “I thought life was a dinner and dance, that’s all. Boy was I wrong.”
The driver hands my card back to me and we pull out of the drive-through lane, and I settle back into my seat. “Hey, it was dinner, we just didn’t stay for the dancing part.”
Her laugh is like music, and I can’t help staring at her profile—the curve of her lips, the way her eyes light even in shadows.
I clear my throat and reach into my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing the slightly crumpled stem I tucked away hours ago. “Speaking of bad choices,” I say, pulling the rose into view, “I think stealing this might’ve been one of mine.”
She blinks at the red rose, recognition dawning instantly. “Wait—you kept that?” Her voice tilts up, equal parts surprise and disbelief.
“Couldn’t let it go to waste.” I hold it out to her, the petals still lush despite the chaos of the evening. “Besides, I figured if that photographer was going to hand out props like party favors, I might as well make good use of one.”
Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, soft and lingering, and the car feels suddenly smaller, charged. She looks at the rose, then at me, her smile softer now, less guarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I admit, “but you’re smiling.”
And in that moment, with the scent of chocolate and whipped cream filling the space between us and the rose resting in her lap, I realize just how much I want to close the gap entirely.
She tilts her head, studying me. “This your way of saying ‘I’m sorry that I kissed my boss in front of an entire ballroom’?”
I take a long sip of my shake, keeping my eyes on hers over the straw. “Technically, you turned your head. So if anything, you kissed me.”
Her eyes widen. “I did not.”