Chapter 17
NAOMI
The second Naomi steps into the hallway, the din of the ballroom hits her like a cymbal crash. Laughter, clinking glasses, a string quartet sawing cheerfully through a pop medley.
And standing ten feet away—of course, of course—is Mila.
She catches sight of Naomi and Tall exiting the coat check together, and her brows lift.
Not in judgment. But in that uniquely Mila way of saying “you’re going to tell me everything” with a single, surgically precise micro-expression.
Panicking, Naomi does the only logical thing and bolts for the ladies’ room.
Her heels whisper on the ballroom carpet as she hustles away, avoiding the eyes of someone at a nearby table giving her the once-over. Her hair is in disarray. Her lipstick is probably on Tall’s face. Her heart is hammering like it’s trying to escape the dress she just squeezed herself back into.
Inside the ladies’ room, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a month.
The mirror doesn’t lie.
She looks...ravished.
Lipstick smudged. Hair wild. Her skin flushed in a way that screams something unprofessional happened.
“God,” she mutters, bracing both palms on the counter. “You absolute dumbass.”
She fumbles in her clutch for concealer and a comb, dabs and smooths and re-strategizes her entire face. Fixes her lipstick with trembling hands. She tries to calm her breathing. Tries to calm her everything.
But her body still hums like an aftershock of an earthquake. Like every nerve ending is standing up to applaud.
Because—Jesus.
That orgasm was seismic. An off-the-charts, Richter-scale-breaking, category-five experience. Tall’s savage kisses, his voice, his hands. The way he claimed her, unraveled her, left her a panting, aching mess.
And then, like the neurotic, undeserving idiot she is, she ruined it.
The memory of her words plays on repeat.
“This wasn’t…a thing, right? We’re not catching feelings?”
Ugh.
She saw it—the flash in his eyes. The hurt. Then the wall slammed down again, replaced by that icy, impassive mask he wears so damn well.
Naomi leans closer to the mirror and scowls at herself. “Why are you like this?”
All she wants to do is crawl back into his lap and un-say every panicked, backpedaling word.
Reality slams through her almost as hard as her orgasm.
She’s at work, for God’s sake. And Richard is somewhere out there, watching her like a hawk, mentally docking points for any whiff of unprofessionalism.
If anyone besides Mila had caught them, she wouldn’t be known as the capable, rising-star at Hollis—she’d be that girl.
A cautionary tale. With great shoes and questionable decision-making skills.
Naomi didn’t run her mouth because she regretted him.
She’d panicked because, for once, she has something to prove—and she can’t afford to mess it up.
Splashing cold water over her wrists, she stares at her reflection and then blots her lipstick again. Forces her face back into professional mode.
She smooths her dress, fixes her posture, and walks out.
Back into the sharks.
She’s not sure what happened in that coat check.
But whatever it was, she’ll figure it out after she salvages her reputation.
Naomi spots Richard at the far end of the ballroom, posted up at a linen-draped table with Glen and a handful of Whalers front-office suits.
He’s kicked back in his chair, with a wine glass in hand and posture so relaxed it makes her jaw clench. Like he hasn’t spent the evening watching her run herself into the ground with quiet condescension.
She winces as the straps of her heels pinch her feet as she beelines for them.
Glen notices her first. He perks up, face warm with recognition.
She likes Glen—he’s been easy to work with all week, quick to respond, if slightly clueless about the amount of logistics required to run an event of this scale.
Now, with cheeks ruddy and tie askew, he gives off friendly drunk-uncle-at-a-wedding energy. It’s almost comforting.
Richard glances up but doesn’t move. He tracks her approach with that cool, disinterested expression that makes her want to lob a canapé at his forehead.
Naomi stops short of the table, lungs burning. Her words pour out in one breathless stream.
“Silent auction issue’s being resolved. The quartet was reset to the original playlist, and the dessert buffet has been replenished.
I also redirected the press away from the players who were getting rowdy by the bar earlier, spoke to the rental company about shifting cleanup from eleven to ten-forty-five because the venue wants everyone out of here by eleven-thirty. ”
She exhales.
Glen lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Richard, ever unmoved, takes a leisurely sip of wine. “Have a drink with us.”
Naomi startles, her heart giving an ungraceful lurch like it missed a step on the stairs.
“I—what?”
He gestures to an empty chair, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Sit.”
Her eyes flit to the chair in question—wedged between Richard and a man with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut she recognizes as the Whalers’ President of Operations. “I actually need to double-check the valet situation, and—”
“Naomi,” Richard says, voice devoid of inflection. “Sit. Have a drink.”
Her body, traitorous as ever tonight, obeys. She lowers herself onto the edge of the chair like it might bite her.
Richard pours her a glass of wine without asking—naturally—then turns to her with a look that somehow feels both like a performance review and a scolding from a disappointed vice principal.
“Why do you look like I just asked you to commit a felony?”
Naomi hesitates. Then shrugs, trying for breezy and landing somewhere closer to guilty. “I thought you were glaring at me earlier. Figured you thought I was slacking off.”
Richard lifts an eyebrow. “I was watching you run yourself ragged.”
Naomi blinks.
“That’s not a compliment,” he adds, swatting away any delusions she might have. “It was inefficient. You didn’t delegate, you tried to do everything yourself, and your panic was visible from space.”
Naomi stares at him. The absolute nerve of this man! The smugness. The gall. And also—the sheer, infuriating accuracy.
He leans back, swirling his wine again. “The event was a success. You and Mila pulled it off. Too many sparkles for my taste, but fine.”
“Next time?” he continues. “Delegate. Learn to use the team you hired. And for god’s sake—” he glances at her feet, then back at her face “—choose different shoes. I know as a male lead I’m not supposed to comment on my subordinate’s attire, but I’m in pain just watching you.”
Naomi looks down at her strappy black heels. The red welts. The faint outline of impending blisters.
Goddammit, he’s right again.
Naomi looks up at him, flushing. She wants to throw her wine at him. Also maybe cry. Also maybe hug him? Which is the clearest sign yet she’s fully, completely lost it.
She folds her hands in her lap. Composes her expression. “I’ll add ‘less ragged’ to my Q1 goals.”
Richard smirks. Glen coughs into his wineglass, failing spectacularly at hiding his laugh.
Someone brings over a tray of champagne flutes. Naomi grabs one with a hand that’s still trembling from adrenaline and...whatever that coat check incident was. She sips, letting the fizz distract her for a second.
The ballroom’s thinning out. A few players hover near the dessert table. Somewhere, Carter’s laugh rings out.
Tall is nowhere to be seen.
Naomi sinks into the chair and lets her spine touch the back for the first time tonight. She breathes. And for once, no one asks her to fix anything.
She closes her eyes for a beat. The memory of Tall still burns behind her lids—the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the look on his face when she ruined it.
This wasn’t a thing, right?
She opens her eyes again and scans the room.
Still no Tall.
And all she wants—stupidly, recklessly—is to find him.