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“You gonna start calling her babe in the hallway?”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not playing games.”

“Sure,” Jax says. “But you picked her. Not exactly low profile, considering her brother wants to rip your damn face off.”

I don’t answer. Because if I open my mouth, I’ll admit the real reason. It’s not strategy. It’s not PR.

It’s that she’s already under my skin. In my head. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there— In the shower, in my bed, crawling into every damn fantasy I didn’t ask for.

And if this spirals?

I won’t just lose my place on this team.

I’ll lose the last shot I have at undoing the damage Griffin caused when he torpedoed my rep.

The gym empties out after that.

I stay behind, burning through a cooldown that does nothing to loosen the coil in my chest. By the time I hit the showers, I’m still wired. Hot water pounds against my shoulders, but it doesn’t rinse away the tension.

My body’s exhausted. My mind’s still sprinting.

And every damn road leads back toher.

The deal. The press. The fact that I’m supposed to play boyfriend to the one woman in this entire facility who could ruin me without trying.

Perfect.

I towel off and pull on a clean tee, barely registering the sting in my biceps. I should head home. But my feet don’t take me there.

They take me to her.

I don’t knock to be polite. I knock to let her brace herself.

Then I push the door open and step inside.

Katarina’s behind her desk, laser-focused on her laptop. Hair up. Sleeves rolled. She’s got that whole sleek, dangerous vibe going—and it hits me like a punch to the sternum.

I should be mad. Iammad. But none of it dulls the way she gets to me.

She looks up. That perfect, PR-ready smile flashes like she’s been waiting for me.

“Liam,” she says smoothly, standing. “I was hoping you’d come by. We need to plan our first public appearance. I mean, I barely know you. I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

I raise a brow. “Black. Obviously.”

She ignores that. “We can’t just show up somewhere and wing it. It’ll look awkward. People notice that.”

She’s not wrong.

If someone asked me her favorite anything, I’d freeze. I don’t even know if she prefers coffee or tea—though my gut says neither. She’s a green juice girl with a grudge.

Still, she didn’t have to say yes to this. She could’ve bailed. But she’s in it now, same as me.

“I came to walk you to your car,” I say.

She pauses. “You what?”

“If you were mine for real,” I say, tone casual, “I’d do that. Every night we worked the same shift.”