Chapter 4
STARE HARDER, I DARE YOU
RORIE
Maya leans over. “Who. Is. That?”
“Rishi Patel from Big Stream,” I bite out. “He’s the fuckstick who pitched against me at Vanguard today. Or—sorry—strategically undercut our value, dragged it into a flaming dumpster, and somehow got a standing ovation for it.”
Jeremy leans over, squinting in the direction I’m burning holes through. “The tall one with the untouchable bone structure, feral heartbreak eyes, and smolder levels set to brood?”
I don’t answer. My gaze shifts a fraction to the left, lands on the man standing next to him.
Broad shoulders.
Carefully-rolled sleeves.
A glass of amber liquid in his hand.
The smile he gives Rishi is tight. Uncomfortable. And when he glances up, our eyes lock.
Everything inside me goes very, very still. I know that face. That dimple. Those eyes.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
Oh, God.
It’s him.
“No,” I say. “That’s Nolan Rhodes. The fuckstick’s boss.”
Jeremy whistles low. “Well. If that’s corporate evil, sign me up for corruption. He looks like a bad idea written in cursive. I’d let him emotionally devastate me and then thank him for the experience.”
“You need therapy,” Maya chuckles.
“I need five minutes and a closed door,” Jeremy says. “Preferably with him.”
“Stop fanning yourself,” I scold Jeremy. “They’re the enemy. Remember?”
I glance back at Nolan. Same calculated intensity as the last time I saw him. He’s leaning over a high-top table. Expression unreadable.
My mind tumbles back to the day at Stanfield. Dropped phone. The flash of contact when our hands brushed. That tiny pause—the one I told myself meant nothing. Weird poetic line.
Crack’s mean change. They let the light bleed in.
Except in my case. It was darkness.
“Okay, well you didn’t tell me the enemy was so delicious. Mmm…mmm…mmm. I want to lick him up…and down.”
Maya sips her drink. “They’re heading this way.”
“No, the fuckstick is heading this way,” Jeremy corrects. “Oh god, the hot, broody one is doing that thing. The tall guy hover.”
“He’s probably calculating the ROI of ruining my night,” I say flatly.
Maya purses her lips. “Or staring at you like he wants to fill your—”
“I swear to god, if you finish that sentence,” I cut in.
“What?” She smiles. “It’s obvious he’s checking you out.”
“Brace yourself,” Jeremy whispers. “The Smug One approaches.”
A few seconds later, Rishi hits our table with the confidence of a man who definitely didn’t lose an account today. Must be nice.
“Ladies,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Gentleman.” With narrowed eyes, points at me. “Rorie Adams, right?”
“Yeah.”
Rishi’s all swagger and good lighting. He waves to the bartender. “Another round,” he calls out.
And sidling up next to him—
The hot, broody one.
“Thought I’d come over and say hi,” Rishi begins, flashing a grin as he drapes one arm over the back of an empty barstool. “That Vanguard pitch was tight. You made us sweat.”
My smile is all bite. “Oh, you must run hot, Rishi. Didn’t see a drop of sweat when you slid in with a proposal that felt... familiar. I swear I’d seen someone else pitch it recently. Taylor and Blythe maybe. Or was it Halston, Inc.”
I’m lying. Rishi’s pitch was very much original. I just want to be a bitch. Although I wouldn’t put pitch theft past these Big Stream boys.
Jeremy sips his drink audibly while Maya’s eyes bounce between us, that third drink is taking effect.
“Whoa,” Rishi raises his hands in mock surrender, “that was all original.” He taps his temple a few times, still grinning. “Straight from here.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “So, it’s pretty bold of you two to show up in my line of sight after today.”
Nolan almost smiles. Almost.
“Came over to compliment a worthy opponent and order drinks with embarrassing names.” He turns back to the bartender. “Make it four Flirtinis and one Dirty Misunderstanding.”
“I feel seen,” Jeremy says.
Rishi winks. “You should.”
Meanwhile, Nolan still hasn’t spoken. He stands there quiet, awkward, observing like he’s filing away every micro-expression for later use. It’s weird. And unsettling. His eyes keep drifting to me, but I refuse to look away.
Let him blink first.
Rishi follows my gaze, then sighs. “And this is Nolan Rhodes. Our agency’s closer. Human spreadsheet. Professional smolderer. And Chief Creative Officer.”
Nolan shifts, like he’s about to say something more—then doesn’t. Instead, he slides his hands into his pockets and just stands there, silent. Stiff. Weirder than before, somehow.
How is this guy their highest exec? Rishi carries on better conversations. At least he cracks jokes, charms the table, keeps everyone’s attention. Everyone except Nolan.
Who’s still not talking.
Still not smiling.
Just staring.
At me.
Hard.
It’s making me twitchy.
Heat simmers low in my chest. One part annoyance, two parts leftover disappointment from my loss today. And they’re all wrapped up in vodka.
Which has fully kicked in. I don’t want them here. They could’ve stayed on the other side of the bar with their victory poses and overachiever jawlines.
But no.
They slithered over, all faux humility and quiet arrogance, and I’ve had just the right amount to drink to let my bitch flag fly.
Nolan Rhodes is still eyeing me like he’s trying to solve for X.
So, I say, “Stare any harder and I’m invoicing you.”
Nolan blinks, finally snapping out of whatever analytical fugue he was lost in.
“Jesus, I’ve met statues with more game.”
“Are you always this prickly?”
Well, well, proof of life.
“Oh good—it speaks.” I arch a brow. “I was starting to think your jaw was decorative.”
He grunts.
“To answer your question, only when provoked,” I say sweetly, picking up my drink just as the bartender drops off our technicolor disasters.
“She’s actually being polite,” Jeremy chimes in. “Usually there’s more swearing.”
Out of nowhere, Nolan decides to get snarky. “Well, sorry to crash your post-loss pout parade.”
He tilts his head a little, like he’s trying to figure out what part of me bites and what part breaks.
Fuck around and find out, Rhodes.
“I had to buy my guy a drink after he cleaned up at Vanguard,” he adds, lifting his glass. A toast. To salt in wounds.
And I see red.
“Oh, so you’re a funny guy?”
He takes another sip of his drink, eyeing me from the rim of his glass.
“You know, there for a second, I mistook you for someone who actually does the work, instead of hiding behind account managers, like Rishi here, who cut budgets and take insider tips to win accounts.”
That wipes the smile right off his handsome smug face.
Rishi steps in. “I didn’t—”
“You think we cheated in order to beat you?” Nolan cuts him off.
“I think you needed a coupon and a mole. But sure, spin the narrative.”
Nolan's gaze flits to Rishi briefly before returning to me, cold and unbothered. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect to run into someone who speaks in weaponized subtext tonight. What a treat.”
In the background, gazes volley.
“And I didn’t expect to run into someone who flirts like it’s a hostile negotiation,” I shoot back.
“Oh, I’m definitely not flirting.”
I arch a brow, sharp as glass. “Sure you aren’t. Must’ve been someone else mentally guessing my bra size from across the bar.”
His jaw ticks.
“No come back?” I smile. Deadly. “Next time, try starting with hello instead of a slow striptease.”
Maya eventually leans in, pretending to whisper but failing spectacularly. “Should we leave you two alone or should we set up a boxing ring?”
Jeremy drags her back. “Nah. This is the foreplay portion of the night. Let it play out.”
When did toe-to-toe rooftop banter with the enemy become my kink?Is that something I should unpack in therapy? Because Nolan smirks—and that smirk short-circuits my brain, sends a pulse straight between my legs, like my vagina’s a damn smoke detector and he’s hellbent on setting off the alarm.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Nolan says.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You always this arrogant?”
“Yes,” him and Rishi say in unison.
“Well, at least you’re self-aware. That’s one trait we can build a personality around.”
“I hate how hot this is,” Maya whispers.
“This…” Rishi lifts his glass, grinning. “This is exactly what he needed. A good old-fashioned head-to-head to knock the heartbreak right out of him.”
The words hit Nolan deep, and I snatch them up instantly.
“Heartbreak, huh?” I’m all faux sympathy. “Is that why you’ve been brooding like an abandoned groom at the altar? Definitely explains the sad eyes. Guess she picked someone who does close deals.”
Nolan stiffens. His jaw tightens. No words. Then he sets his drink down and walks away.
Jeremy’s head swivels to me. “Well. That escalated sexily.”
I stare at the space where he was. No retort. No final jab. Just silence.
I should feel victorious. On some level, I do. But the burn of triumph fades fast when Nolan turns the corner toward the elevators. What’s left behind feels sickening. Like I missed the mark, and hit something softer instead—something raw.
Because the look in his eyes before he turned away wasn’t ego. It was loss. And I know that look. I’ve worn that look.
It’s hollowed me out when I stood in an empty hospital room. It crept in when people stopped calling, when the world kept spinning, and I didn’t know how to keep up.
I wouldn’t wish that on any human, no matter how much I hated them.
My jab was reckless, and unthinking. I threw a punch, and I hit bone. And now Nolan “The Rate-Cutting Rat Bastard” is gone, walking away in a pair of polished Oxfords with my claw marks still in his pride and a deeper emotion I didn’t mean to touch.