Page 5

Chapter five

~LIVIA~

The heels are the first thing I notice. Sharp clicks echoing down the polished hallway, getting louder with each step. I look up from my phone and spot her, tall, poised, and elegant, like she just stepped off the cover of Perfectly Intimidating Magazine with strawberry-blonde hair swept into a sleek bun, a tailored designer dress, and a gaze that could probably cut glass.

And she’s walking straight toward me. Great.

“Livia Moody, I presume?” Her voice is smooth and controlled, but there’s a hint of command behind it like she’s used to people snapping to attention when she speaks. “I wanted to meet our new public relations agent myself.”

I straighten up, shoving my phone into my bag and holding out my hand. “That’s me. And you are?”

“Alegra Harrison.” She shakes my hand, firm but not crushing.

Oh. Oh. The team owner’s wife. No pressure or anything.

“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself,” she keeps going. “I heard you’ve been talking to CBK Media regarding their annual charity ball.”

“Yes,” I say, plastering on my professional smile. “It’s still in the early stages, but I’ve been sketching ideas and talking to their PR team.”

Her lips curve into a small, polite smile, but her eyes are sharp, assessing me like I’m a job candidate.

“I’d love to hear more. Charity balls are kind of my specialty. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. Internally, I’m already rehearsing everything I need to say so I don’t sound like a rookie.

She leads me down the hall to a quiet lounge overlooking the practice rink. Through the wide glass windows, I can see the players gliding across the ice, the faint sounds of their skates and shouts muffled by the thick panes. Alegra gestures to one of the plush chairs, sitting down with the kind of grace I’m pretty sure only exists in movies.

“So,” she says, folding her hands in her lap, “tell me about this charity ball. What’s your vision?”

I dive into my spiel, telling her about my conversation with CBK Media, one of the team’s partners, the silent auction, and how we plan to get the players involved. She listens quietly, nodding every so often, her gaze sharp and focused.

“And the team?” she asks after a moment, her smile tightening just a fraction. “I assume they’ll all be attending?”

“That’s the plan,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “It’s important for them to engage with fans, the press, especially given the…image issues the team’s been dealing with lately.”

“Image issues.” Alegra laughs softly, the sound smooth but a little too knowing. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.” She pauses, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“I need to make the players see this is an amazing opportunity.”

“I take it Rowan DiMarco is one of the players you’re referring to?” Her perfect brow arches.

“Rowan’s been…a bit resistant to the PR strategies, yes.” I try not to let my surprise show.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Rowan can be…difficult. But it’s part of his charm.” Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something else in her eyes now. Amusement? Maybe.

I study her closely, my curiosity piqued. Her tone shifts when she says his name, softening just slightly, like there’s a story there. Something personal.

“You’ve known him a while?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.

“Oh, yes. Rowan’s been with the team for years. He’s quite the character.” Alegra leans back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the rink. “He’s quite the man.”

There it is again, that little flicker in her voice like Rowan isn’t just another player to her. I file the observation away, adding it to the growing list of mysteries surrounding Rowan.

When our conversation wraps up, Alegra stands gracefully, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her dress. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for the ball, Ms. Moody. I’m in touch with all of our partners, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrison,” I say, managing to sound polite, even as my brain churns with questions.

As she strides away, heels clicking against the floor, I glance back at the rink. I spot him immediately, moving like an unstoppable force. And now, I have another piece of the puzzle to figure out. What’s his deal with Alegra Harrison?

The training area smells like sweat, rubber mats, and faint traces of disinfectant. Considering the morning rush of players finishing up practice, it's quieter than I expected. Most of them have probably cleared out for recovery, leaving behind only the faint echoes of weights clanging and occasional voices down the hall.

I spot him before he spots me.

Rowan’s in the stretching room, his back to me, his body folded over one of his outstretched legs. He’s shirtless, wearing only black gym shorts that cling just enough. His broad back flexes as he leans deeper into the stretch, the tattoos covering his arms and torso catching the dim lighting.

Holy hell.

I’ve seen plenty of athletes shirtless—it comes with the job—but Rowan’s a different story. The tattoos are artfully placed, some sharp and angular, others intricate and detailed. There’s a massive, inked design sprawled across his shoulder blades, something that looks like wings, but it’s more jagged, almost menacing. And then there’s the way his muscles ripple like every inch of him was carved from granite and wrapped in sin.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the way my brain just short-circuited.

Snap out of it, Liv.

“DiMarco,” I call out, my voice echoing in the empty room. I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin from the way his lithe fingers brushed my hair aside. I had to splash cold water on my face afterward.

He straightens and turns, his green eyes locking onto mine immediately. There’s no surprise in them, just a flicker of mild annoyance that quickly melts into his usual cool detachment.

“Ms. Moody,” he greets, standing to his full, imposing height. His tone is as flat as the mat beneath his feet. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Again .”

“I wanted to inform you that I moved your interview.” I keep my tone polite, walking closer. My heels click against the floor, sounding almost absurdly loud in the stillness.

“I told you to cancel it,” he says, grabbing a towel and wiping the back of his neck.

“And I didn’t say I would,” I counter, planting myself firmly in his line of sight.

He scoffs, tossing the towel aside. “Listen to me very carefully, Livia.” He takes a step toward me, and my heart flutters at the sound of my name from his mouth. “I don’t do interviews outside of post-game press conferences.”

“I’m here to ensure that changes.” I cross my arms as a barrier between us as I fight to keep my eyes on his face and not his body. I don’t like what his presence does to me.

He steps even closer, and damn, he’s enormous. Even without his skates, he towers over me, all heat, tension, and barely leashed irritation.

“You’re like a damn mosquito.” His voice drops, low and rough.

Mosquito. That’s better than a leech, at least.

“You can swat at me all you want, but I’m not going anywhere,” I shoot back. My heart’s pounding, but I keep my tone steady.

“So it seems.” His green eyes narrow just before they drag down my frame and back up to my face.

I try to ignore the way my skin tingles under his gaze.

“What do I have to do to make you agree to the interview?” I ask, my voice firm but slightly strained. I hate how my body reacts to him, but there’s no way I’m backing down.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes roam my face, lingering on my lips for a beat too long before flicking back to mine. The corner of his mouth curves upward, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s about to say will knock me off balance.

“Kiss me,” he says, his voice low, the words wrapping around me like a live wire.

For a moment, the air in the room vanishes. My heart drops into my stomach, and then it’s racing so fast I swear he can hear it.

“Kiss you?” I manage, my voice cracking slightly.

“You asked. That’s my price.” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I feel the blood rush to my face, my cheeks burning hotter than the damn sun. “That’s not funny,” I say, even though I know he’s not joking. Is he?

“Who said it was?” He arches a brow, his smirk deepening.

My mouth opens, then closes. I’m entirely unprepared for this turn of events. My brain is a jumbled mess of indignation, shock, and, God help me, a tiny flicker of intrigue. And arousal. Crap.

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“No?” he asks, stepping even closer. The distance between us is almost non-existent now, his eight pack almost brushing against my crossed arms. “You asked what it would take, and I answered.”

My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I can barely think straight with him this close. His scent invades my senses, muddling my already scattered thoughts.

“I…” My words catch in my throat as his smirk softens, shifting into something else.

And then he chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Relax, Moody. I’m messing with you.”

“Real mature.” I glare at him, my embarrassment quickly morphing into irritation.

“You called me a big toddler.” He shrugs, still looking down at me.

I take a steadying breath and step back, refusing to let him rattle me further.

“Two days,” I say. “That’s plenty of time to fit it into your schedule.”

“You really are a mosquito.”

“And you’re a stubborn mule,” I shoot back. “You’re doing the interview, Rowan. I don’t care how many jokes or games you throw at me.”

“And I don’t care how many times you insist,” he counters.

There’s a heat in his gaze now, something intense that makes me want to back up and stand my ground all at once.

“Fine,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “If you don’t agree to the interview, I’ll just report this little ‘kiss me’ stunt to HR.”

“You wouldn’t.” His eyes darken, the playful glint vanishing.

“Oh, I absolutely would,” I say, injecting confidence into my voice, even though my palms are sweating.

“It was a fucking joke,” he grits out.

“Let’s see what HR makes of it.” I lift my chin.

“Are you blackmailing me?” he asks, his tone deadly calm.

“Me?” I raise my eyebrows in mock innocence.

The room feels eerily quiet as Rowan stares at me, his jaw tightening. The playful glint in his eyes is gone, replaced by something darker and angrier. His posture stiffens, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.

He’s pissed.

No, furious.

And I can’t even blame him. I know blackmail is unethical, but what choice do I have? He basically handed me the leverage on a silver platter with that little “kiss me” joke, and I’m not about to let it go to waste.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Moody.” His voice is a low growl when he finally speaks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I shrug, keeping my expression as neutral as possible, even though my heart is pounding in my chest.

His nostrils flare, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve finally pushed him too far. He takes a step toward me, the heat of his fury radiating off him like a storm about to break.

“I don’t like being cornered,” he says, his tone razor-sharp.

“And I don’t like being ignored,” I fire back, refusing to let him intimidate me. “So, I guess we’re even.”

“Do you know who you’re playing with?” His eyes narrow, the green storm swirling with a dangerous edge.

“The team needs this interview, Rowan. You need to flip your image in the press. I’m going to help you do it. And if that means playing dirty to make it happen, so be it.”

The muscles in his jaw flex as he stares me down before he just exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, turning away from me.

Is that…Did I just win?

“Two days,” I remind him, dropping my hands at my sides as I watch him grab his towel and sling it over his shoulder.

He doesn’t look back at me nor say anything as he walks toward the door.

The weight of what I’ve done settles over me like a lead blanket. I run a hand through my hair, my stomach twisting with guilt and adrenaline.

I know it was a low blow. I know I shouldn’t have gone there. But Rowan DiMarco is as stubborn as they come, and if I don’t push, nothing gets done.

I bite my lip, staring at the door he just walked through.

He’s furious now, sure. But I’ll win him over.

As soon as he’s gone, I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest to steady my racing heart. My face is still warm, and my thoughts are a chaotic mess.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Kiss me.”

And why, for the life of me, can I still feel the heat of his words lingering on my skin?