Chapter 23
THE COCKTAIL WITH TEETH
NOLAN
Serious question, Carl: If you had to fight one animal in hand-to-hand combat, what would you choose?
Goldfish. No hesitation. I like to win.
I’d pick a goose. I want the glory.
I respect that. Goose fights are never one-on-one, though. That’s how they get you.
Okay, new question: Do you sleep with socks on?
Absolutely not. I’m not a psychopath.
Correct answer. You may proceed with digital friendship.
What’s your weirdest comfort habit?
When I’m stressed, I alphabetize my spice rack.
That is deranged and also extremely hot. Mine’s eating cereal dry, with a spoon, like it’s a meal.
Anarchy. I approve.
The first sip of bourbon doesn’t do shit.
I swirl it in the glass, watch the amber catch the light, and try not to visibly flinch as Shelby Davidson sips her cotton candy cocktail like she invented brand disruption.
I shouldn’t be irritated. This meeting’s actually going better than expected. Civil. Efficient. Almost like we’re functioning adults.
Which is… progress.
Not that it makes her silence any less distracting.
I take another sip. I hate this. Not only the pageantry of it all, but the knowledge that the fate of Big Stream’s invite to the Cross Island Pitchpocalypse rests in the hands of a woman who once posed on a yacht with the caption: brunch is my cardio.
That’s Shelby Davidson for you.
She’s one of those young (too young for me), influencer types who builds a brand out of food photos, designer loungewear, and perfect candids.
Tonight is no exception.
She’s dressed like a walking Vogue shoot–sheer black silk blouse tucked into impossibly tight ivory trousers, her neckline stacked with layered gold chains and pointy earrings that could probably take out a drone.
Strawberry blonde hair slicked back into a glossy power bun, her phone clutched like it’s both a weapon and a lifeline. And she’s checking said phone like she’s waiting for Taylor Swift to personally summon her to dinner.
God, I hope she does so we can cut this short.
Shelby sets it down so she can stab a straw into the ice floating in her side water with practiced flair. She takes a long sip then moves back to her cocktail.
“I read your email,” she says, swirling the cotton candy in her drink. “Your ideas are strong, Nolan. I’ll give you that.”
Oh, well, thank fuck. Gen Z’s crown princess approves. Forget my years of experience—over a decade worth—my track record, or the fact that I’ve closed deals bigger than her online following. What really matters is that Shelby Davidson deems my pitch strong.
“I appreciate that.” I manage not to grit my teeth. “So, does that mean Big Stream has a slot?”
Shelby tilts her head, amused. Then she pats my arm—light, condescending. “You know, this feels a little one-sided. It’s like you’re courting me but forgot to bring flowers.”
I give her a smooth smile. “Would you settle for a steak dinner?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
Right. Of course.
I check my watch. If I power through this last bit, I can still make it home in time to catch the final five minutes of Bachelor Barn and roast it in real-time with TF. Nothing like manufactured heartbreak and badly edited confessions to cap off the night.
“Look.” I lower my voice. “I know Asher has a lot of options. But this campaign? Big Stream can build it into something iconic. And if we’re at the table—”
“Oh my God, stop.” She waves a manicured hand. “You’re pitching. Relax. This is happy hour, not Shark Tank.”
The server comes by, places a fresh cocktail in front of Shelby.
I lean back in my chair, forcing a chuckle. “Fine. No pitch. Just drinks and awkward small talk.”
Shelby’s eyes glitter with mischief. “I do love awkward small talk with you, Nolan. Full confession, I honestly came for the free drinks. And to see you sweat a little.”
She snaps a photo of that free drink and then begins furiously typing what I can only assume is her latest caption.
“This drink has more fluff than my ex’s excuses. Ten out of ten would sip again. Hashtag sugar and spite. Hashtag networking but make it fermented. Hashtag she came she saw she sipped. And post.”
What a little bitch.
I’m about to ask if we can end this charade when the door opens behind her, and I freeze.
Rorie Adams walks in wearing a skirt that’s basically a suggestion, not a garment, and a dark green see-through top that short circuits my brain straight back to our kiss.
And my dick goes instantly, shamelessly, to prayer position.
She looks beautiful. Her skin glows like temptation incarnate, her cleavage catching the low light, and that sinful sliver of side boob should come with a security escort.
That woman is dressed to cause problems on purpose. Like she walked out of a fantasy and into my ruin. Confidence sprayed on, hips carved for chaos. And every single part of me—heart, brain, and dick—is volunteering as tribute.
Honestly? My soul’s packing a duffel bag and begging to go with.
She hasn’t seen me yet. Which gives me three seconds to get my shit together.
Three...
Two...
One…
She looks up.
Our eyes lock.
Yeah, I’m fucked.
Not because she looks hot. But because my night just went from politely kissing Shelby Davidson’s ass to navigating the emotional equivalent of a landmine field in high heels after two cocktails.
Maya and Jeremy flank her again, laughing, carrying on.
Rorie falters. It’s barely a second, but it’s there, a tiny hesitation, a glitch in her perfect entrance because she’s realizing she walked into the middle of something unexpected.
To be fair, she did.
Her chin lifts, a little too high. It’s her tell. And it lights up something feral in my chest. I love it when she plays tough.
Shelby perks up beside me. “Oh my God, there’s Rorie Adams.”
I sip my bourbon like it doesn’t matter. Like my pulse didn’t just trip all over itself.
“She made those drinks for Asher.” Shelby goes on, cheerful and excited. “Have you had one? The Mirage? Or the Titan? Obnoxiously good.”
“Nope.” My voice stays even. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Shelby, of course, waves her over.
Rorie hesitates, and I watch her weigh the scene with her chin at its most infuriating angle. She glides toward us.
Her blouse is doing things to my blood pressure. And her cleavage is a problem. Her legs? Worse.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to text you and set a date for drinks,” Shelby says. “I’m Shelby Davidson. Creative Director to Asher Cross.” She holds her hand out to shake.
Rorie takes her hand but her eyes are trained on me. “Shelby. Good to officially meet you.”
“Rorie,” I say as evenly as I can manage.
She says nothing back.
Shelby beams. “I loved what you did at Crossfire. And those drinks! Titan is a banger, but that Mirage? High-key obsessed.”
“Thanks.” Rorie’s eyes bounce from Shelby to me. Then back again. “So…what are you two doing here? Together?”
The question is light, casual. She’s connecting dots.
But her dots are all wrong.
I can literally see the two emotions swirling in Rorie’s eyes right now.
Caution.
And jealousy.
Caution, because she’s wondering if I’m making a move, charming Shelby to get a leg up in landing the Cross account—making it another win snatched out from under her.
And jealousy, because she kissed me, and now I’m here sipping drinks with a beautiful woman who’s three hashtags and a filter away from viral. A girl, really—not a woman by my definition, she’s only twenty-three—but Rorie sees it. And she doesn’t like it.
Not that she’d ever admit that. Not even under torture.
Sitting back slightly, a lazy smirk tugs at my mouth. “Talking shop.”
Which is technically true.
“You should join us for a round,” Shelby offers, patting the seat next to her.
Rorie glances at me. Then to her friends. Then back at Shelby. “Sure. Why not.” She slides into the seat, which is across from me. Her leg brushes mine under the table.
Not an accident.
She’s calm, poised, but there’s a current buzzing under her skin, making the tension between us is hot enough to warp metal.
She flips open a menu. She’s not reading. “So, is Big Stream’s hat officially in the ring? Or are you two…” Her gaze cuts to Shelby, pretending innocence. “Having a different kind of meeting?”
Oh, my little firecracker is fishing.
I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, casual on the outside. But inside, every cell is locked onto her.
Shelby cackles. “Oh my god!” she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Me and him? Please. That’s comedy gold.”
Rorie’s eyebrows lift. “Is it?”
“He thinks I belong at the kiddie table,” she says.
“Because you brought snacks to my keynote speech,” I reply.
“And you probably needed a nap after it, Boomer,” she shoots back. “Should I start calling you ‘Corporateasaurus’?”
Rorie chokes on a laugh she doesn’t bother hiding. My patience frays.
“So what does that make you, then?” she asks me, casually. “Professionally speaking.”
I smirk. “Unlucky.”
“Underestimating me,” Shelby says, all sing-song and sunshine. “As usual.”
“You make it easy.”
“Keep going and I’ll brand you your own adult diaper line,” she says sweetly. “I’ll even donate the proceeds to your retirement fund.”
Rorie snorts. Her eyes flit to mind and the temperature spikes again.
Shelby turns to Rorie. “Don’t you think Big Stream sounds like a frat house beer pong team?”
“Or a plumbing accident,” Rorie offers.
Shelby loses it. “Oh my god, yes. It gives ‘frat bro fell off a float mid-urination’ vibes.”
Rorie grins. “I saw a guy once at Mardi Gras piss off a balcony like he was auditioning for the Bellagio.”
Shelby gasps. “I was there!”
I drop my forehead into my hand. Great. They’re bonding.
“To Big Stream,” Shelby toasts. “May it flow strong and straight.”
“To Big Stream,” Rorie echoes, clinking her glass. “And may the PR team survive it.”
I watch her laugh at my expense, loose, unbothered. She tilts her head back and grins at something Shelby says, and it hits me like a sucker punch. The way her mouth curves, the way the light slides along her cheekbone, it all scrapes against something raw in my chest.
I still want her—badly, stupidly—despite the fact that she’s sitting across from me laughing like we’re not about to go to war over the biggest pitch of the year.
I should let her go.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
Not when she looks like that. Not when part of me wants to win her just as much as I want to win this deal.
And that, right there, is the real problem.
Shelby claps her hands. “Okay, no more sparring. You both have invites. Let’s drink.”
Three color-shifting Mirages land on the table. They shimmer like mood rings and smell like they were brewed in a cauldron.
“I took the liberty of downloading your recipe, and sent it to the bartender,” Shelby says. “Market research, obviously.”
“Careful, these will mess you up,” Rorie warns, eyeing mine like it’s a trap. “Make you do things you might regret the next day.”
“Is that a threat or an invitation?”
No answer. She eyes me as I take a drink.
It’s sweet, and citrusy with a strange little kiss of licorice at the end. A drink that sneaks up on you, sinks its claws in, and refuses to leave.
Like her.
“What’s in this?” I ask.
Shelby launches into a breakdown worthy of its own infomercial. Mezcal, dark rum, Velvet Falernum, a whisper of absinthe, lime, butterfly pea flower, champagne float, smoked glass.
I stop listening after “seductive and smoky” because Rorie is watching me like she’s daring me.
“Sounds mediocre.” I finish off the drink.
Rorie lifts hers, swirls it. “We’ll see how mediocre you think it is once it hits your bloodstream?”
And just like that, we slide into another round. Then another. Her knee brushes mine under the table again. And again.
Shelby gets louder. Rorie gets bolder, turning into a storm I want to chase.
And me?
I’m not getting reckless.
I’m getting sure.
This is tension with teeth. I’m ready to risk it. Reputation, rivalry, restraint—whatever.
Rorie’s circling me, and I’m circling right back—with my eyes open and hands ready.
And then she decides to get feisty. Not the fun kind—the kind that ends with moaning and sweat. No, she brings up the goddamn campaign.
Awesome. Nothing gets me off like professional tension.
It’s fine. Totally fine.
“So,” Rorie says to me, spinning the ring on her finger, “what’s your play gonna be? Hashtag campaigns? Instagram filters? A limited-edition candle that smells like Asher’s armpit?”
I take a sip. “You know that’d sell.”
“I’m sure it would,” Rorie replies. “But Cross doesn’t want trending. He wants timeless.”
“You really want to talk about this right now?”
She shrugs.
I lean forward slightly. “So what’s your play gonna be, Adams? A mood board? A viral dance? Maybe you’ll create a line of pet wear for him, name it after his childhood dog.”
Her lips part, and all I can think about is sliding my cock between them. Gripping her hair, watching her take me deep, those pretty lips stretched around me, wet and eager. Possession with her on her knees and me coming down her throat.
Then her phone lights up on the table with a text from her sidekick friend and co-worker, Jeremy.
I don’t mean to look, but I do.
If you don’t sit on that man’s face, I swear to God, I’m going to do it for you—I will change his world and I won’t feel bad about it.
My grip tightens around my glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
I look at Rorie. She doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Only stares at that message until eyes flick back to mine.
I don’t say a word. Don’t need to.
She doesn’t smile. Not quite. It’s more of a grimace. A you-caught-me slip type expression that she’s already trying to bury beneath a glare so cutting it could slice granite. The phone might as well have slapped her across the face.
In a way, it did.
Color floods her cheeks. Her spine straightens. She shifts in her seat, like movement might erase the message. I’ve got news for her. Nothing is going to erase that message. Not from her screen. Not from my memory.
And now I can’t stop thinking about her thighs caging my head. Her nails digging in my hair while she rides my face like it was her throne and my mouth demolishes her in the best possible way. I’d die happy serving under her reign.
Yeah.
Good luck pretending that didn’t happen.
Her cheeks are pink from embarrassment. Her eyes lift again and narrow.
I don’t look away. I drink her in. And smile.