Chapter 18 #2
Nolan’s still there when I step outside, leaning against the brick like he belongs to it, like Queens is a stage and he’s been waiting for his cue. One foot crossed over the other. Thumbs scrolling over his phone screen.
His gaze finds me and slides from my neckline to my heels with no shame and enough reverence to keep it from being a crime.
“Alright.” I brush past him, pretending there’s zero heat blooming across my chest. “Let’s go toast to our mutual talent.”
“Ruin and sabotage?” he drawls, falling into step.
“Exactly.”
His head tips, that half-smirk catching fire under the glow of the streetlamp. “Can’t wait, Adams.”
The wine bar is tucked into the corner of an old brownstone, all exposed brick and low lighting.
The air is cloaked in warmth and red wine and whispered conversation.
A string of Edison bulbs trails overhead like the last remnants of a forgotten constellation.
The whole place smells of roasted garlic and candle wax.
I slide into a booth by the window while Nolan heads to the bar, his silhouette cutting clean through the candlelit crowd. His shoulders flex under his t-shirt as he reaches for his wallet, and I try to ignore the way every woman within arms reach turns to look at him.
After a minute or two, he returns with two glasses of deep crimson. “Tempranillo,” Nolan says, setting one in front of me like he’s unveiling a rare gem. “The bartender said it pairs well with tension and rivals who secretly want to make out.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Then I snort. “Wow. Okay. That’s a line.”
“Is it?” He takes a seat, one brow arched like he’s genuinely unsure. “Felt more like a public service announcement.”
I pick up my glass, mostly to hide the way my face is doing weird, traitorous things. “I do not want to secretly make out with you.”
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t,” I insist, sipping to cover the sudden dryness in my throat.
It’s good. Bold. A little smoky.
Nolan leans back, all long limbs and easy relaxation. “Sure.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here we are. You. Me. Wine. A guaranteed good time.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You really do come with your own PR campaign, don’t you?”
“Only when I know the product’s worth selling.”
His tone is light, but no one’s ever looked at me like the way he’s looking at me right now. Like I’m not just here, but I’m inevitable.
I sip. Let the taste linger. Let him watch my mouth. I meet his gaze and say, “Careful, Rhodes. Keep looking at me like that and you’re going to end up making promises with your eyes you can’t take back.”
Eyes narrow and voice deep, he replies with a zinger, “I always make good on my promises.”
I clear my throat and change the subject. “So, what’s your deal? You’ve got layers. Like a smug onion.”
He exhales a dry laugh, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Smug onion.? That one’s new.”
“I’m full of creative descriptions.”
“You are,” he says, then spins his own glass slowly. “So, full tragic origin story or the spark notes version?”
“Tragic,” I say immediately. “Always.”
“Alright.” He leans in, forearms braced against the table.
“Grew up in Chicago. My father and uncle were business partners, but we moved here when my uncle passed. I was around nine years old. Dad was a corporate raider. Think Gordon Gekko without the good hair. He taught me how to negotiate over breakfast and to pick profit over people. Every time. I wanted more than that. So, I decided I could do it differently. With ethics.”
“With ethics?” I question.
“It’s a work in progress,” he says, voice even. “But yeah. That’s the goal. I’ve spent years trying to unlearn what he drilled into me. And lately…” He pauses, runs a thumb along the rim of his glass. “Lately, I’ve been reevaluating things. Especially after what you said about Vanguard.”
I stiffen.
His eyes meet mine again. No smirk. No charm. Just clear-eyed intent. “Rest assured, I’m looking into it.”
“You should,” I say, more steel in my voice than softness. “It’s unethical otherwise.”
A spark flickers behind his eyes. A subtle shift. Not defensive, really. Just…listening. It throws me, this version of Nolan Rhodes—less swagger, more substance.
He might actually give a damn.
“You’re serious?” Although is not quite a question. More like a verbal prod, testing the weight of his words.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I am.”
I glance down at my drink then back up at him. “Well, shit. Now I feel bad for calling you a corporate sociopath in my group chat.”
A smile ghosts his lips.
Nudging my glass toward his with a clink, I add, “You might be doing the right thing now, but you’re still part of the machine.”
His eyes warm. “Maybe it’s time someone rewired it.”
My head tilts, my lips twitch. I need to steer us back to the previous conversation before I crawl across this table and prove I’m a liar about secretly wanting to make out with him.
“So, let me guess,” I say, “your dad told you idealism was cute until it cost money.”
He takes a sip. “Said I’d either be devoured or delusional. Still waiting to find out which.”
There’s something in the way he says that—like the sting hasn’t dulled, like part of him still wonders if his father was right.
I open my mouth to ask more, but he beats me to it.
“He’s retired now,” Nolan offers. “Lives in a community upstate.”
“Is your mom there too?”
“No, my mom died when I was seven.” The words fall clean, practiced—but they land hard.
“Oh—”
“I don’t remember her, not really. A few stories. Some secondhand memories. She liked lilacs. Played solitaire. That’s all I’ve got.”
I study him for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Nolan.”
Eyes glued to his glass, he shrugs. “Don’t be. It’s a gap. One you don’t know is missing until someone else points it out.”
It hits something deep in me, and I don’t push. I know better than to ask for things someone isn’t ready to give.
Still, I find myself softening toward him in a way that isn’t strategy or rivalry or lust. It’s just human. And I realize Nolan Rhodes and I have more in common than I thought.
“And now you’re the guy everyone wants in the room,” I say. “So, looks like you figured life out.”
“Some days I believe that.” His brow furrows. “Others…not so much.”
The conversation continues. It flows easily. He asks how I got started in marketing. I tell him about marching into The Laurel Group at twenty-three with more ego than experience.
“Laurel and my mom were roommates in college,” I admit. “That opened the door. But I had to kick it down.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, voice quiet.
“I had one shot,” I continue. “So I handed her a single sheet of paper. No resume. Just six words: Stop chasing trends. Start dictating them.”
Nolan huffs out a laugh. “You’ve got guts, Adams, I’ll give you that.”
“Damn right, I do.”
We sip. We flirt. We edge closer without even realizing it. And then we stop talking about work.
Instead, we drift toward relationships—or the minefield where they used to be.
He asks why I’m single. I lie and say I’ve been busy.
I ask the same, and he says nothing, lifts his glass and drinks.
We keep going. Stories. Jokes. He tells me about the worst first date of his life. It involved a bearded dragon named Princess and a girl who tried to hand-feed him sushi.
I nearly choke on my wine.
“Okay, that’s unhinged,” I wheeze. “But I’ll raise you. Once, I went on a date with a guy who brought his mom. As in, she sat with us. Ordered the steak. Critiqued my posture. Told me I have ‘fertile eyes.’”
Nolan coughs, covers his mouth with a hand to keep from spewing his drink. “Fertile eyes?”
I nod solemnly. “And then she asked if I’d ever considered natural childbirth. During appetizers.”
He stares at me, torn between horror and fascination.
“Still not sure if the date was for me or for her,” I add.
And then, when the second bottle is nearly empty, I lean forward, elbows on the table.
“Tell me something real,” I say. “Not a headline. Not a stat.”
He meets my eyes. “I like your thought process here.”
“Nope,” I say, wagging a finger. “No marketing answers. No branding. Just Nolan.”
He considers that, fingers tapping the table. “I’ve never had a one-night stand,” he says finally.
That earns a blink from me. “Seriously?”
He give me a shameless grin. “Not for lack of opportunity.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“I don’t do surface-level. Even when I try to keep it light, I end up going deep. It’s annoying as hell.”
“You get attached?”
“I get curious. Then invested. Then stuck. And by that point, it’s not casual anymore. It’s complicated but with better lighting.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I look at him. Really look at him.
“You know, I’ve got to admit.” I pick at varnish on the table. “I had you pegged as a full-blown fuckboy.”
His brow arches, but he stills, subtly. I’ve brushed a nerve he didn’t expect to feel.
“Big firm. Big ego. Bigger charm,” I add, flashing a saccharine smile.
He leans in, voice dipping low. “Is that your way of asking if something else might be... proportionate?”
The line hangs in the air—unapologetic, daring me to flinch.
I don’t. I refuse to let him see the heat his words ignite. My breathing does stop for half a second too long though.
“Well,” I say, biting my lip. “I figured all that confidence was compensation. You know—great suits, chiseled jaw, big dick energy. Classic misdirect.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time.
My body falls back against the booth. “You’ve surprised me, Rhodes. And that’s annoying.”
“Annoying?” he echoes, amused.
“Yes. Because now I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or keep you talking.” Holy shit I said that out lout. But, you know what? Fuck it.
“Why?” he asks, voice deeper than before.
“To see what other honest, messy, human thing you’ll admit next.”
That dimple reappears with his lazy smirk. It does things to my nether regions. Tickly things.
“Kiss me.” His voice is threaded with heat. “And you won’t hear another word. Not one.”