Page 1

Chapter

One

T hey'd lost.

Stacia stood outside the now-silent campaign headquarters in the Marriott hotel suite, the air thick with the stale scent of sweat, coffee, and shattered ambitions. The energy that had once pulsed through the room, driving them toward an inevitable victory, had dissipated into an eerie hush. Campaign workers moved like ghosts, their gazes hollow, their movements mechanical. The weight of disappointment pressed down on them all, an invisible force they couldn’t shake.

The loss wasn’t just a defeat. It was a landslide. An embarrassment. A spectacular collapse no amount of spin could salvage. And the worst part? It wasn’t supposed to happen.

They had the numbers. They had the endorsements. They had the strategy—her strategy. The digital media blitz, the town hall engagements, the attack ads timed with surgical precision. They had it all. But they hadn’t accounted for the one thing no campaign could withstand: a scandal that exposed the very hypocrisy their candidate had built his platform on.

The image was burned into her mind. The candidate slinking out of a hotel room with an intern barely out of college, followed by a second intern, hair mussed, makeup smeared, clearly intoxicated.

A candidate who championed family values, who thundered on about moral integrity and personal responsibility.

He’d torched his own career, and her father expected her to douse the flames with her bare hands.

Her phone buzzed, the vibrations pulsing against her clenched palm. She didn’t need to look at the screen. She already knew.

Senator Kendall.

Nausea curled in her stomach, the antacids she’d downed earlier doing nothing to soothe the burn.

She exhaled sharply and answered, forcing steel into her spine. “Father.” Her voice was steady, controlled. “Give me a second to find somewhere private.”

She stepped away from the hushed room, down the corridor, and into a small alcove—a relic from the days of pay phones. She perched on the narrow bench, gripping the phone as if it were a lifeline.

“Okay. I’m alone.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re alone or not.”

His voice sliced through her, sharp and cold. “What the hell happened? A primary should’ve been a cakewalk. I put my name on this, Stacia. I stumped for him.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. “I know Representative Glazier was your hand-picked candidate, and I was assigned to keep him in line.” She sucked in a breath and offering a placating offering for the failure, knowing it wouldn’t suffice. “He made a few unfortunate comments about the governor?—”

“The most popular governor in the country! Where were you?”

Anger flared hot in her chest. She wanted to scream. To tell him the truth in words so blunt they’d cut. Instead, she breathed in, measured, even. “The comments weren’t the problem, and you know it. He wasn’t just reckless. He was stupid. He should have known better.”

A heavy silence settled between them, charged and dangerous.

When she spoke again, her voice was unyielding. “He walked out of a hotel room at two in the morning with two drunk interns. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. His choice. There was no spinning that, not even for me. Not for anyone.”

Her father exhaled, the sound a blade sharpening. “Unacceptable. We hired your firm to control him. To control the message. You were raised for this.”

A cold shiver trailed down her spine, but she pushed it away. She had spent her whole life being “raised for this.” Trained like a show horse to be trotted out when necessary. It had taken her years to realize that wasn’t a compliment.

“You should have been there,” he continued, voice low and brimming with disappointment. “If you had been by his side, presenting him as a respectable family man?—”

Her stomach turned. She knew where this was going.

“You should have accepted his proposal when I suggested it.”

There it was. The suggestion—no, the directive—her father had made months ago. A political marriage. A union not of love, not of partnership, but of optics.

Her jaw locked. “You wanted me to marry him to clean up his image. You knew this was a possibility.”

“It would’ve worked.”

“For him,” she snapped, anger surging to the surface, unstoppable now. “Not for me.”

“You could have done worse.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “Oh, absolutely. I could have been humiliated on a national stage when my so-called fiancé got caught with two interns. I could have hitched my entire future to a man who doesn’t know how to keep it in his pants. I could have spent the rest of my life cleaning up his messes while he smiled for the cameras. What a dream.”

His silence was a warning, a coiled viper waiting to strike.

“You’ve always been dramatic.” His voice was quieter now, more dangerous. “This is how politics works. You’re too emotional about it.”

“I’m not emotional. I’m realistic.” Her nails dug into her palm. “And I’m done.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Then, cool as ice, he delivered the final blow. “You’re off the campaign. I’ll have you reassigned.”

Her pulse roared in her ears, but she didn’t let the silence swallow her. She forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.

His words could break her career, but they wouldn’t break her.

“Is that all?” Her voice was even, smooth, betraying nothing.

“I’m disappointed in you.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, she sat frozen, her fingers still wrapped around the phone. The cold finality of his words settled over her, but instead of crushing her, it ignited something inside her—a quiet, burning fury.

A shadow moved in her periphery.

Sophie Duncan, campaign photographer and one of the few people in her life who actually gave a damn, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “That sounded like a fun chat.”

Stacia released a slow breath, shaking off the last remnants of her father’s hold. “Oh, you know. The usual. Apparently, I should’ve married Glazier so he wouldn’t feel the need to bang interns.”

Sophie made a disgusted sound. “Christ. Your father is?—”

“Senator Kendall,” Stacia interrupted dryly, slipping into her well-trained political mask. “And, apparently, I’m out of a job.”

Sophie studied her, blue eyes sharp. “You know he’s not your boss, right?”

Stacia laughed, a raw sound that had absolutely no humor in it. “And you know Michael will do anything my father tells him. The campaign has no need for my services.”

Sophie shrugged. “So, what’s the plan?”

Stacia pushed off the bench, straightened her blazer, and lifted her chin. “We go deal with Glazier.” Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held the promise of one. “And then, I need a drink.”

S tacia hesitated at the door of the local bar, her fingers tightening around the brass handle. The night air was thick with the scent of fried food and distant cigarette smoke, a stark contrast to the suffocating staleness of politics. The echoes of her father’s voice and the sneering accusations of the campaign advisers still clung to her skin, but she forced herself to breathe through it.

She wasn’t going to let them dictate her night. Not anymore.

A pint of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a Netflix binge had been the original plan. But hiding away and licking her wounds wasn’t her style. Not tonight. Tonight, she was reclaiming something they had tried to take from her—her agency, her power, her damn sense of self.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you going in?”

Three men stood nearby, their jeans dusty, their skin bronzed from hours in the sun. Construction workers, probably. Honest work, honest lives—something she had rarely encountered in the pristine, snake-pit world of politics. One of them held the door open for her, a small but genuine act of chivalry that made her lips twitch.

She stepped inside, the warm, dim glow of the bar wrapping around her like a promise of escape. The smell of beer, whiskey, and old wood replaced the artificial sterility of her former life. She let herself absorb it, let it ground her.

The men brushed past, barely sparing her a glance before reuniting with their friends. But she didn’t mind. She wasn’t here for them. Her gaze swept the room, past the clusters of blue-collar workers winding down, past the TVs blaring a baseball game, and landed on him.

A man in the corner booth, alone, sipping what looked like scotch.

There was a quiet intensity to him, an edge that spoke of experience rather than arrogance. He wasn’t like the businessmen she usually encountered, the ones with their designer suits and empty promises. His designer clothes didn’t scream boardroom. They whispered something else. Something she couldn’t quite place.

Then he looked up.

Their eyes met, and a slow, simmering heat unfurled inside her. The kind that started in her stomach and spread outward, tingling along her skin like static before a storm. He didn’t look away. He held her gaze, assessing, waiting.

Her body responded before her brain could catch up. Awareness coursed through her, a reminder that she was still alive, still capable of feeling something other than exhaustion and disappointment.

“Stacia, over here!”

Sophie’s voice cut through the moment, and with effort, she tore her gaze from the stranger.

She wove through the crowd to the bar, where her friend studied her with narrowed, knowing eyes. “Those assholes fired you, didn’t they?”

Stacia took the drink Sophie shoved into her hand, Southern Comfort sour. “The politically correct term is ‘removed from the campaign, effective immediately.’”

Sophie snorted. “Bullshit. You’re the only reason Glazier had any shot after he got caught with his pants around his ankles.”

A sharp laugh escaped her, some of the tension loosening in her shoulders. “Thanks, Sophie. Really.”

“What did they expect you to do? Be his dick guard?” Sophie scowled. “He’s a pig. No, that’s an insult to pigs.”

Stacia avoided her gaze, fixing her eyes on the television behind the bar. Her former boss was about to give his concession speech.

“Deon, change the channel?”

The bartender shot her a flat look and slid the remote across the bar. “Do it yourself.”

She smirked and flipped him off, but he grinned, softening the exchange. He placed another drink in front of her without asking.

“So, what’s next?” Sophie asked.

Stacia shrugged, the weight of uncertainty settling on her, but this time, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like freedom. “No idea.”

Sophie lifted her drink. “Then we drink until we figure it out.”

Stacia tilted her glass in agreement but turned her attention back to the man in the booth.

The pull was still there.

She wasn’t looking for forever. She wasn’t even looking for tomorrow. She just wanted one night to remind herself that she wasn’t defined by politics, by her father’s expectations, by the wreckage of this campaign.

She wanted to feel something real.

And he looked real.

Time to make a move.

“ T hat’s my only offer?”

Jason Friar slumped in the back booth of a no-name bar, cell phone pressed tight to his ear, his fingers digging into the worn leather of the seat. The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses barely penetrated the storm of frustration in his head. He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to let his agent hear the raw desperation clawing at his insides.

The Georgia Knights. A team perennially so far down in the standings they’d become a punchline. A purgatory for washed-up veterans and desperate rookies. He was supposed to be past that.

“The Knights?” Disbelief twisted his gut. “The cellar-dweller team filled with minor league hopefuls and major league has-beens?”

“The Knights are in first place this year,” Scott countered. “They have a real shot at the championship.”

Jason scoffed, the sound bitter. “Great. So they need an old dog to teach the pups a few tricks. Fantastic.”

“I’m sorry, Jason.” Scott Thomas sounded genuinely regretful, which only made it worse. “I’ve been calling both leagues. It’s mid-season. No one needs a first baseman.”

Jason stared into the amber swirl of his twelve-year-old scotch, wishing it could burn away the sting of rejection. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his temples throbbing. Two years ago, he had been on top of the world. Gold Glove. Batting champion. A career most guys would kill for. Now? Now he was an afterthought, his name barely worth a whisper in the majors.

Scott hesitated. Jason knew that hesitation. It meant more bad news.

“Look,” Scott finally said, voice cautious, measured. “Your shoulder injury limits your worth. A first baseman post rotator-cuff surgery? That’s a risk. Most guys don’t come back the same. You know that.”

Jason gritted his teeth. He’d heard it a hundred times, from doctors, analysts, scouts. It didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“I took the time off. Did the rehab. The doctor cleared me. Said it’s solid.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “That’s not the only thing holding you back, Jason.”

He closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.

“Karma’s a bitch,” Scott said bluntly. “Years of partying, the rumors, the Senate hearings. Teams don’t want to touch you.”

Jason’s fist slammed against the table, rattling the glass and scattering popcorn onto the sticky surface. A couple in the next booth startled, casting wary glances in his direction. He forced himself to inhale, exhale, the way an old girlfriend—one of the more level-headed ones—had taught him.

Lowering his voice, he ground out, “I never took steroids. No one proved a damn thing. That witch hunt was all for Senator Kendall’s publicity.”

Scott sighed. “Didn’t matter. The damage was done. Teams are gun-shy. They don’t want an injured player with bad press.”

Jason let the silence stretch between them, thick and suffocating. The truth was, no one wanted him.

He leaned back against the booth, rolling the glass between his fingers, the ice clinking softly. His career, his pride, his identity. It had all unraveled so damn fast. One minute he was untouchable, the next he was a cautionary tale.

Scott cleared his throat. “The Knights need an experienced player. It’s not a great contract, but it’s a start. You perform well, keep your head down, stay out of trouble and next season, you’ll be in a better position.”

Jason laughed, but it was hollow, humorless. “You mean, maybe next season someone will consider me worth more than a journeyman’s contract?”

Scott hesitated. “Do you really have a choice?”

The words sliced deep, raw and undeniable. Jason had spent years blowing through money like it was infinite, trusting the wrong people, believing he was invincible. Now, thanks to a thieving accountant and his own reckless decisions, he had nothing. No safety net. No fallback plan.

Pride told him to walk away. Practicality told him he didn’t have that luxury.

“Damn it,” he muttered, gripping his phone until the edges dug into his palm. “You know I don’t.”

Scott didn’t gloat. He knew better. “Then take the deal, play your ass off, and rebuild what you lost.”

Jason stared into his drink, the ice melting, diluting the whiskey into something weaker than it should be. Just like him.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “Get the details. Set up the meeting.”

“Jason—”

“I’ll be there.”

A long pause. Then Scott said, “Watch yourself. Everyone’s watching.”

Jason huffed a bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to watch. No scandals. No women. No groupies hanging around. No one to see. No one to do.”

He ended the call before Scott could say anything else and slumped back against the booth, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The resentment rolled off him in waves, thick enough that even the bar’s regulars steered clear, giving him wide-eyed, sidelong glances.

He had to take the offer. Had to let a team dictate his life, tell him how to behave, like a damn teenager on probation. His fingers twitched with the urge to do something reckless, something defiant, something to prove that he was still in control of his own goddamn life.

The crowd shifted, and then?—

Her.

A woman. Sitting at the bar, legs crossed, sipping a real drink, something strong. Not a white wine spritzer. Not some neon-colored sugar bomb. A real woman drinking real liquor. A woman who looked like she didn’t play games.

His gaze traced the curve of her long legs, the arch of her foot in that lethal-looking high heel. She didn’t belong here, not in this dive, not in those dark-wash jeans that fit too perfectly or the silky blouse that whispered of money. The half-hearted pickup lines from the men around her bounced off like raindrops on stone. She was above them. Above this place.

Then, as if she felt his eyes on her, she turned.

Met his gaze.

And unfastened a single button on her blouse.

Heat slammed into his gut, a gut-punch of lust and challenge all wrapped into one. His groin tightened, his body waking up, reminding him that he still had something left to offer—even if it was just sex appeal.

She licked her lips, slow and deliberate. The invitation was clear.

Jason leaned back in his booth, fingers drumming on the table, that reckless part of him stirring to life. Maybe, just maybe, the best way to forget his shitty life was sitting at the bar, waiting for him to make a move.

S he met his gaze and, with slow, deliberate movements, flicked open a couple of buttons on her blouse, revealing a teasing glimpse of lace and soft curves. Heat flared in his dark eyes, something primal and unspoken stretching between them. A thrill skated down her spine, pooling low in her belly.

“Yum,” she murmured under her breath, not intending anyone to overhear. But, of course, Sophie, her ever-present conscience, caught it immediately.

“Yum, the drink, or yum something else?” Sophie followed Stacia’s gaze to the back of the bar. She exhaled a low whistle. “Damn. Tall, dark, and, most importantly, not your usual type.”

Stacia tilted her glass, letting the amber liquid slide over her tongue as she studied the man in the shadowed booth. He exuded a quiet dominance, a raw magnetism that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with confidence.

“What are you doing, Stace?” Sophie groaned. “I know I said you should open up a little. But this?”

“It’s time for this good girl to cut loose.” Her voice was steady, resolved. “Just once, I don’t want to make decisions. Just one night.”

“We always talk about one-night stands in theory, not in execution,” Sophie said, but there was a knowing edge in her voice. “This is real.”

A man sitting next to her swiveled on his stool, blinking at her through bloodshot eyes. Clearly, he’d been here long before happy hour, judging by the slight sway in his posture and the tremble in his hand as he lifted his beer. A slow, sloppy grin stretched across his face.

Stacia sighed, already anticipating the tired pick-up line forming in his drunken brain. “I’ll stop you right there, Randy,” she interjected smoothly, not even looking his way. “We’ve been over this. Not interested. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Randy gave a lazy shrug and turned his attention to the woman on his other side, who swayed almost as much as he did but seemed flattered by his attention.

“Okay, that’s it. You’re cut off,” Sophie declared, snatching Stacia’s fresh drink before the bartender could set it down. “A one-night stand is the last thing you need. As of seven o’clock tonight, you’re unemployed, remember?”

“Not unemployed. Just… between assignments.” Stacia reached for her drink and took a slow, purposeful sip. She wasn’t going to let anyone—not her father, not her former employer, not even Sophie—tell her what she should or shouldn’t do.

Sophie’s frown deepened, her expression morphing into that of a stern headmistress. “I meant start with some flirting. Some conversation. Ease into it. Not dive headfirst into impulsivity.”

“Maybe impulsive should be who I am.”

Heat coiled in her stomach as she continued watching the man in the corner. He hadn’t looked away. If anything, his gaze had intensified, like a predator assessing his prey. Except she didn’t feel hunted. She felt… desired. Wanted. The sensation was intoxicating.

“Maybe it’s the four Southern Comfort sours talking,” Sophie countered, her voice laced with exasperation.

“Does it matter?” Stacia tilted her head, letting her hair spill over one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her neck. A silent invitation.

Sophie groaned. “You’re really going through with this, aren’t you? Damn it, you are.” She grabbed Stacia’s shoulders and turned her toward her. “This is the alcohol talking. You’ll regret this in the morning, on top of your already crappy day.”

“He looks lonely.” Stacia’s voice was softer now, thoughtful. “Maybe he could use some Southern comfort.”

She slid off the stool, smoothing her blouse and adjusting the buttons just enough to tease. A moment of nerves made her hesitate. This was so far out of her comfort zone it was practically another continent. What if he laughed? What if he wasn’t even interested? Worse—what if he was?

She toyed with the hem of her blouse, fingers hesitating over the buttons again. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re looking for sex.” Sophie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not what I should be saying right now. This is still a bad idea, Stace.”

“Perfect.” Stacia smiled, a slow, wicked thing. “Wish me luck.”

She picked up her drink and walked toward the back booth, forcing herself to move with confidence, letting her hips sway in what she hoped was a seductive rhythm. The moment his gaze locked onto hers, her pulse kicked up a notch.

He didn’t just look at her. He devoured her with his eyes. The slow curl of his lips sent a shiver racing down her spine. It was a smile that promised wicked things. A smile that hinted at rough hands and tangled sheets and a night she wouldn’t forget.

Her throat went dry, and her steps faltered for just a fraction of a second.

Sophie’s voice trailed after her. “Wait! Right now? How about something to eat? Another drink?” Then, muttering, “Like she needs more alcohol. Wait for me!”

Stacia ignored her, drawn forward by an invisible force stronger than reason, stronger than doubt.

For once in her life, she wasn’t going to overthink.

For once, she was going to act on impulse.

And God help her, she was going to enjoy it.