Page 19

Chapter 19

Paige

T he second Ryker left, I felt like I could breathe again. My chest loosened as the door clicked shut behind him. I closed my eyes, trying to banish the lingering sensation of his mouth on me. The heat of his breath, the way he had brought me to pleasure—it all surged back, unbidden.

No. I needed to get that out of my head. Ryker was dealing with enough, and the last thing I wanted was to add another scandal to his plate. Especially not after what happened at Michigan.

I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the papers strewn across my desk—crinkled and in disarray after what happened. The PR strategy for the back-to-school event needed my full attention. My fingers trembled slightly as I shuffled through the documents, trying to find the right notes.

"Get it together, Paige," I whispered to myself, pressing my palms flat against the desk. "You can do this."

The memory of Michigan clawed at the edges of my mind. Sam, that ill-fated night... It had taken months to clean up that mess, and even now, whispers still followed me like shadows. It was my fault. I knew that.

But still.

I didn't want that to happen with Ryker.

I couldn't afford another mistake. Not here.

I threw myself into work, trying to drown out the chaos of my thoughts. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I drafted emails, finalized press releases, and updated the social media schedule for the back-to-school event. Each task became a lifeline, anchoring me to the present and away from the tumultuous memories of Michigan and Ryker's heated gaze.

I sifted through spreadsheets, analyzing data with a precision that left no room for error. Numbers and statistics were my refuge, their cold logic a welcome distraction from the emotional storm brewing inside me. The hum of the computer was a comforting constant as I double-checked every detail, ensuring that nothing slipped through the cracks.

My office door remained shut, a barrier against interruptions. The world outside might have been spinning into chaos, but within these four walls, I maintained control. I meticulously planned each step of the PR campaign, envisioning how it would unfold and preemptively addressing any potential issues.

A stack of notes from my earlier meeting with the sponsors caught my eye. I sorted through them, organizing thoughts and ideas into actionable items. The rhythmic tap-tap of my pen on paper was almost meditative. Each line I drew across the page felt like a small victory—a reminder that I could still make order out of disorder.

As the hours ticked by, my phone buzzed with messages and calls. I answered each one with practiced professionalism, my voice steady and composed. There was no room for hesitation or doubt here; every interaction needed to be seamless.

The clock on my wall showed it was nearing seven, but exhaustion hadn't yet set in. Adrenaline fueled me as I finalized the logistics for the event—vendor contracts, guest lists, media coverage plans. Every detail mattered; there could be no room for error.

Papers littered my desk in organized chaos as I cross-referenced schedules and timelines. Each completed task felt like another step away from uncertainty. From weakness.

From Ryker.

But just as quickly as he came to mind, I pushed him away again.

This was about proving myself—to Ryker, to the team, but most importantly to myself.

I could handle this.

By the time seven thirty rolled around, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. My desk, once a chaotic battlefield, now looked organized and efficient. I looked at my planner and everything I managed to accomplish.

Deciding it was time to head home and relax, I gathered my things. But as I stepped into the hallway, I bumped into Gideon.

"Dinner," he said. It wasn’t a command or a question.

I nodded, understanding it had to do with work.

"Do you know where Le Petit Maison is?" he asked.

I nodded again, though I'd never been there.

"Good," he said. "Meet me there. I've already called ahead."

With that, he walked away, leaving no room for further discussion.

I sighed, my stomach rumbling as if on cue. I just hoped the menu at Le Petit Maison wasn't too fancy. Fancy food always made me feel out of place, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't.

I put the address into my phone and headed out to my car. The cool night air brushed against my skin, waking me up from the haze of work. Sliding into the driver's seat, I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive through downtown felt like a much-needed break. Streetlights cast a warm glow over the city, illuminating pockets of life as people milled about on sidewalks or chatted at outdoor cafes. The hum of my car was a comforting backdrop as I navigated through familiar streets, turning each corner with practiced ease.

The city had a rhythm to it at night—a slower, more relaxed pace compared to the daytime hustle. Traffic was light, making the drive almost therapeutic. As I passed by storefronts and neon signs, my mind drifted to thoughts of Ryker again, despite my best efforts to push them away.

His intensity lingered in my thoughts like a shadow I couldn't shake. The way he looked at me—half judgmental, half something else—gnawed at me more than I'd like to admit.

But tonight wasn’t about Ryker; it was about work. And food. Hopefully food that I actually wanted to eat. Like a burger. Or a hot dog.

I turned onto a quieter street, following the GPS directions to Le Petit Maison. The restaurant came into view, its elegant facade bathed in soft light. I parked and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car, smoothing down my outfit. It wasn't exactly fancy, but since my clothes were professional, it would work.

As I approached the entrance, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass doors—determined but tired eyes staring back at me. Pushing through the doors, I was greeted by the soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of silverware against plates.

I walked up to the hostess stand, my heels clicking softly on the polished floor. The hostess, a young woman with neatly pinned hair and a bright smile, looked up as I approached.

"Good evening," I said, offering a polite nod. "I'm meeting Gideon Strong here."

The hostess's eyes widened slightly, and she blushed. "Of course. You must be Ms. Adams. Right this way." She led me through the restaurant, weaving between elegantly set tables and diners engaged in quiet conversation.

As we reached Gideon's table, I saw him already seated, looking composed as always. The hostess gestured toward an empty chair with a slight bow. He looked up as I walked over, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment before returning to whatever urgent matter occupied his screen.

I took a seat across from him, trying not to feel out of place in this fancy setting. The menu lay in front of me, an array of dishes with names that seemed more art than food.

Gideon finally set his phone down and looked at me.

Before I could say a word, a waiter appeared at our table, pouring a glass of wine with practiced precision. The deep red liquid swirled into the glass, catching the dim light of the restaurant.

"Good evening," the waiter began, his voice smooth and polished. "May I recite tonight's specials for you?"

I nodded, trying to focus on his words as he listed off dishes that sounded more like poetry than food. Seared scallops with truffle-infused beurre blanc, rack of lamb with rosemary jus, something called a 'consommé' that I had only vaguely heard of. Half of it went over my head.

Gideon glanced at me briefly before turning to the waiter. "Just bring us the artichoke dip as an appetizer," he said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

"Of course," the waiter replied with a nod before disappearing back into the flow of the restaurant.

I picked up my menu and pretended to study it, though the words seemed to blur together. The tension from earlier still hung between us like an unspoken challenge. Gideon’s calm demeanor did nothing to ease my nerves.

"Paige," Gideon finally said, his voice breaking through my thoughts. "We need to discuss the event strategy."

I looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were steady, assessing me in a way that made me feel both scrutinized and important.

"Yes," I replied, trying to match his composure. "I've outlined a detailed plan for media engagement and sponsor interaction. I believe it will maximize our reach and impact."

He nodded slowly, as if weighing my words. "Good. We can't afford any slip-ups this time."

His words carried an unspoken weight. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

"There won't be any," I assured him, my voice firm. "I've learned from Michigan. This will be different."

He studied me for a moment longer before picking up his wineglass and taking a sip. The silence stretched out between us, filled with unspoken history and future expectations.

Finally, he set the glass down and leaned back in his chair. "Let's hope so."

The waiter returned, interrupting the charged silence between us. He stood poised, ready to take our orders.

"I'll have the pasta," I said, hoping it would be similar to spaghetti.

The waiter nodded, jotting down my choice before turning to him.

"I'll have the pan-seared duck breast," he said without looking at the menu. "Make sure it's medium-rare. I want the skin crispy but not burnt, and please use the cherry reduction instead of the usual orange glaze."

The waiter nodded, jotting down the details with a practiced hand. "Very well, sir. Anything else?"

Hen glanced at me briefly before shaking his head. "No, that will be all for now."

The waiter left us alone again, and his attention returned to me, his expression serious. I took a sip of my water, trying to steady myself.

"About the back-to-school event," he began, leaning forward slightly. "We need to ensure that all our key sponsors feel adequately represented. I don't want any complaints afterward."

"I've already started coordinating with them," I replied, my voice steady. "Each sponsor will have their own booth, and I've scheduled time slots for media interactions to give them maximum exposure."

Gideon nodded approvingly. "Good. What about security? We can't afford any disruptions."

"I've spoken with our security team," I said. "They're increasing patrols and setting up checkpoints at all entrances. We're also working with local law enforcement to have a presence on-site."

"Excellent," he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you were the right person for this job."

His words sent a warm rush through me, but I quickly reminded myself to stay focused.

"I appreciate your confidence," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'm committed to making this event a success."

His eyes softened slightly as he studied me. "I know you are. Just remember, if you need any support or resources, don't hesitate to ask."

I nodded, feeling a sense of solidarity between us that hadn't been there before.

The waiter returned with our appetizer—the artichoke dip—and placed it in the center of the table with a flourish.

"Enjoy," he said before retreating once more.

I reached for a piece of bread and dipped it into the creamy mixture, savoring the rich flavors as they melded on my tongue.

He reached for the artichoke dip and scooped some onto a piece of bread. He took a bite, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Tell me about Kane," he said, voice steady. "How is he holding up?"

"Ryker's doing fine," I replied, forcing a smile. "He's dedicated and hardworking. He wants to make this right. The team's lucky to have him."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're lying."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued.

"Kane is a pain in the ass, but normally, I can count on him to be steadfast and stoic. Your presence irks him."

I nodded slowly. "He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust most," he said, leaning back in his chair. "If he ever becomes a problem?—"

"He won't," I insisted, cutting him off.

His gaze bore into me. "The team can't afford any more scandals."

"We're on the same page," I said softly, meeting his eyes once more.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied for now.

The conversation hung in the air like unfinished business as we waited for our main courses to arrive.

The waiter arrived with our main courses, setting the plates down with practiced grace. The aroma of the pasta wafted up to me, rich and inviting. I glanced at hi's plate, noting the precision with which the duck breast had been prepared.

Gideon meticulously cut a piece of his food, his movements deliberate. He chewed thoughtfully before looking up at me.

"Give me your thoughts on Jared Crowder," he said, his voice steady.

"Like I said, he's a good player?—"

"How would he fit in with our team dynamics?" he interrupted. "His sister and Weston Cole had a dalliance. Jared was furious. I'm not going to rehash the story. But I want to ensure we bury that footage of Kane and the others."

I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "I think Crowder could hold his own," I said carefully. "And I think you have to figure out what's best for the team as a whole. Because things are going to get worse before they get better."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he listened.

"Can the team handle Crowder?" I continued. "Will Crowder make them play harder?"

He said nothing for a moment, his gaze piercing through me as if weighing my words.

Then he started to eat his meal again, cutting into the duck with precise movements.

I took a bite of my pasta, letting the flavors distract me momentarily from the tension that still lingered between us.

"I want you to set a meeting up with him," he said, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the restaurant. "I suppose there's no point in worrying about his effect on the team if he refuses to play with us."

I nodded, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. "Noted," I murmured, my gaze dropping to my plate.

The pasta now seemed like an afterthought. My mind raced with the logistics of arranging a meeting with Jared Crowder, knowing it wouldn't be as simple as sending an email or making a phone call.

As I twirled a forkful of pasta, I considered the implications. Jared was a wild card, and his tongue was legendary. Convincing him to join our team would be a delicate balancing act. But this was my job—to handle the impossible and make it look easy. I glanced up at him, who had resumed eating his duck. His calm demeanor was both reassuring and intimidating.

"I'll reach out first thing tomorrow," I said, trying to match his composed tone. "We'll need to approach this carefully. If we come off too strong, he might shut us down before we even get a chance to present our case."

He nodded in agreement, but his eyes remained on me, assessing my resolve.

"Well," he said. "If anyone can handle it, it's you."

I forced a smile before taking another bite. I hoped he was right.