Chapter 1 – Ashley #2
But no matter how hard I try to lock my focus onto the runway, my mind keeps betraying me.
Every time the bass swells, I feel the phantom vibration of that hard, muscular chest against mine.
Every time I glance toward the VIP entrance, my eyes automatically search for a tailored black shirt and striking, lazy blue eyes.
It’s irritating. I don’t get distracted. I don’t let arrogant, smooth-talking men occupy a single millimeter of my thoughts. Yet, the memory of his scent—woodsmoke, expensive whiskey, and pure, raw heat—clings to me like a second skin.
By midnight, the intense rush of the showcase finally begins to level out. The applause from the final walk has faded, the high-profile clients are filtering out toward the after-parties, and Maya has the breakdown crews fully under control.
Exhausted and needing a desperate escape from the suffocating heat of the backstage lights, I slip away from the main crowd.
I step out onto the secluded, dimly lit stone terrace at the back of the venue, leaning my hands against the cool marble railing.
I close my eyes, letting the crisp night air hit my face, finally letting my guard drop for the first time all night.
I take a slow, deep breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders as I listen to the muted hum of the city traffic below. Despite the broken headpiece and the minor disasters, the show was a triumph.
My team executed everything flawlessly. I’m quietly congratulating myself on pulling off another highly lucrative, successful event when the hair on the back of my neck suddenly stands on end.
“You know, you’re a hard woman to track down, Ashley.”
The deep, gravelly voice rumbles from the shadows of the terrace door. My eyes snap open, and I straighten up, my walls immediately locking back into place.
The arrogant jerk from earlier steps out into the dim light of the terrace. He has ditched his suit jacket, and his tailored black shirt is unbuttoned a fraction lower, the rolled-up sleeves revealing the sharp lines of his forearms as he leans casually against the stone archway.
The lazy smirk is gone, replaced by a much more deliberate, focused intent. He looks at me with an intensity that makes the cool night air feel suddenly thick.
“Are you stalking me now?” I ask, my voice cool, though my heart takes an annoying leap against my ribs.
“Not my usual style,” he says, walking slowly toward the railing until he’s standing just a few feet away, invading my space with that intoxicating scent of woodsmoke and expensive whiskey. “I came to apologize. For earlier.”
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh, you can apologize? I find that hard to believe.”
“Fucking hell, you really don’t make anything easy, do you?
” he rumbles, a low chuckle escaping him.
He rubs the back of his neck, his confidence still intact but tempered by a raw sincerity that catches me off guard.
“Look, I was an arrogant prick backstage. The glass slipped, but I shouldn’t have brushed it off.
I know how much work goes into a production like this, and I ruined a key piece of your show.
I’m sorry. For the mess, and for pushing your buttons. ”
It’s not the most polished apology I’ve ever heard, but there’s enough genuine weight behind his words to make my irritation falter. I study him closely, searching his striking blue eyes for any sign of a game, but he meets my gaze directly, completely locked in.
“The headpiece was an archival piece from Paris,” I say, my tone calmer now, though the heavy undercurrent of tension between us remains as thick as ever. “It took my team three weeks of customs negotiations just to get it into the country.”
“Then I’ll make sure my people handle the logistics to get it sent back to Paris for a full restoration, on my dime,” he says smoothly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more intimate register.
His confidence is still there, but instead of using it to provoke me, he’s directing every ounce of it toward drawing me in.
“No checks. Just a clean, hassle-free fix. Deal?”
I let out a soft, dry breath, looking out over the skyline before turning my eyes back to him. “You’re very used to getting your way, aren’t you?”
“Usually, yeah,” he admits, a slow, devastatingly handsome smile tugging at his lips as he steps a fraction closer. “But right now, I’m just trying to get on your good side.”
When I scoff, his smile turns even more patient.
“Let me get you that drink,” he says, his voice dropping a fraction lower, holding my gaze with absolute focus. “No strings, no business talk. Just starting over.”
I look at him, my arms still crossed, though the defensive posture feels more like a shield against his sheer physical presence than actual anger now. “I don’t even know who you are.”
A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that is entirely too charming. He takes a half-step closer, extending his hand. “Samuel.”
I look down at his hand. His fingers are long, his palm broad, and the dark ink of his tattoos catches my eyes.
Every professional instinct I have is screaming at me to walk away. I don’t mix business with pleasure, I don’t tolerate arrogant men, and I certainly don’t let strangers who break my cargo charm their way into my night.
But as I look from his hand back up to his striking, expectant face, my curiosity wins the battle. There’s something dangerously magnetic about him—a sharp, unpredictable edge beneath the smooth talk that makes my pulse race.
I reach out, letting my hand slide into his.
The contact is brief, but the warmth of his skin sends a sharp, electric jolt straight up my arm. I pull my hand back, keeping my expression cool and composed. “Ashley. But you already knew that.”
“I did,” he murmurs, his smile turning wicked as he gestures back toward the venue’s double doors. “After you, Ashley.”
We walk back inside together, leaving the quiet of the terrace behind as we head toward the VIP bar. As we cut through the lingering crowd, his massive frame naturally shields me from the bustling guests, his presence a warm, solid weight at my side.
The hostility is gone, replaced by a charged, intoxicating current of anticipation that tells me my night is far from over.