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I scoff. “The odds are fifty-fifty right now.”
“Just a hunch, but I’d put my money on the latter.” He cocks his head. “Am I wrong?”
I spin my glass, watching the ice swirl. If I’m honest, I don’t know how to answer. The part that’s still raw from the wrong number is at war with the part that wants another shot. It’s exhausting.
“I’m not making a move without more intel.”
“Does that mean you’re keeping her on? Because as your legal counsel, you’d be an idiot to get rid of the COO during the first phase of an acquisition.”
I set the glass down with a decisive click. “It means I’m willing to consider it.”
Caleb raises his drink in mock salute. “To unexpected turns. Let's hope this one works in your favor.”
I mumble something that might be agreement, then push back from the table. “Well, I've had my quota of two drinks and banal conversation. I'm heading home.”
“Oh, come on. It's Saturday.”
“I've got a six a.m. call.”
“It's barely even nine.”
“And I'd like a full night's sleep.” I straighten my cuffs. “Some of us didn't roll out of bed at noon today.”
He waves a hand. “One of the many perks of being unmarried and childless. I’m not sure why youdon’tdo it.”
“Because I’m married to my work, and the company is my child.”
He’s about to respond, then freezes, eyes locked on something behind me. Surprise first. Then... smug amusement spreads across his face like sunrise over Lake Michigan.
“What?” I ask, already bracing.
“Don't turn around.”
Which, of course, guarantees that I do.
I pivot, my neck muscles tensing against my will, scanning the host stand.
It takes less than a second to find her.
Layla Carmichael.
Not in a pencil skirt. Not in the sundress from the festival.
In a dress made of emerald light and gravity. It hugs her curves like it knows every secret she’s never told. Her hair spills in soft waves, catching the glow of the rooftop string lights like a halo. She's laughing—laughing—with the same friends from the festival, like the world hasn’t just turned upside down.
And for a moment, it tilts.
My chest tightens. My jaw locks. I forget how to breathe.
The acquisition disappears. So does the boardroom. The recall, the tension, the betrayal.
All of it vanishes beneath a pulse of need so sharp it feels like a blade.
Every nerve ending fires. Every inch of my skinsuddenly too tight. It’s not just want. It’s ache. The worst kind. The kind you can’t control.
The way her hip shifts. The way her head tips back when she laughs. The flash of collarbone. It’s all burned into me. Like I’ve known her longer than I have any right to.
Then it all crashes back. Cold. Loud. Too much.