Page 3

Miranda stopped beside him, gaze softening as she took in the portrait.

Her lips curved into a bittersweet smile.

“He always had a praline for me when I visited,” she said quietly.

“I wasn’t supposed to have candy—pageant rules—but he always had one hidden in his desk.

I’d sneak in before games or when Dad was in meetings, and Uncle Jacob would stop everything, just to talk to me. ”

Lucas swallowed the knot in his throat. “He always had time for everyone.”

She glanced up at him, the warmth in her voice cooling as her words turned edged. “Is that why you’re here, Mr. Wainright? Revenge?”

His eyes cut to hers, sharp as a blade. “Are you questioning my ethics, Ms. Callahan—or my motives?”

Her expression remained unreadable, the faintest hint of amusement curving her lips. “Never your ethics. But let’s not pretend your motives are simple.”

He held her gaze, sensing the shift in current between them, the tension sharpening to something taut and magnetic.

“They never are.” His voice dipped, teasing, deflecting the sting of emotion still coiling inside.

“Since we’re going to be working closely, don’t you think you should call me Lucas? We practically grew up together.”

A flush rose to her cheeks, coloring her cool poise with something more human, more vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered.”

“Oh, I remembered.” He allowed a slow, knowing smile. “You were adorable. Not even awkward. And when I heard you won Miss Georgia? I bragged about knowing you for years. Told all my friends a beauty queen used to follow me around.”

She stiffened, lips pursing as if biting back a retort. “That’s ancient history. I earned this role. Pageants didn’t get me an MBA.”

“Easy, princess.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender, though his eyes never left hers. “Wasn’t trying to insult you. I know you’re smart. I just wonder how much power you really have. Are you the one making decisions? Or are you here as your father’s stand-in?”

It was a critical question. If Miranda was a puppet, this turnaround would be twice as hard.

But if he could gain her trust—her alliance—it might tip the scales.

Lucas stepped closer, tightening the space between them.

Not enough to touch, but enough to be felt.

A move she would recognize for what it was: deliberate. Intimate. Strategic.

Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing, refusing to retreat. But then, with a flick of her gaze, she stepped sideways, slipping free of the invisible box he’d constructed around her.

“Here, we operate as a team,” she said coolly. “On and off the field. If your ideas are worth pursuing, we’ll consider them. Until then, your office is down this hallway. It’s the best I could pull together on short notice… Mr. Wainright.”

The title was a deliberate distance. A wall rebuilt between them.

“Lucas,” he said, letting his voice linger on the sound. He didn’t know why it mattered, only that it did. He waited, holding the moment.

She hesitated, then, almost unwillingly, murmured, “Lucas.”

Her voice saying his name wrapped around him like silk.

Satisfied, he began walking again. “Excellent. I’m sure it’ll do for now, Miranda. Let’s get to work.”

But he didn’t miss the flicker in her eyes when he stepped closer. The pulse at her throat. The way her breath caught, just for a second.

Attraction. Undeniable. Dangerous.

Yes, he’d have to be very careful with Miranda Callahan.

L ucas deliberately ignored Miranda as he perched on the edge of the chair opposite her desk, letting the silence settle like a velvet curtain between them.

After their unexpectedly intimate moment in the foyer—standing shoulder to shoulder beneath his father’s portrait, hearts cracking open in unspoken ways—he needed the distance.

Space to recalibrate. To recover his senses before they betrayed him again.

He’d expected a pampered princess. A figurehead. A glossy front for her father’s iron will. His first mistake had been assuming she’d still be the same girl he remembered—polished, poised, and just a little too perfect. A teenage beauty queen with big eyes and bigger dreams.

But time had worked its magic.

The woman before him now carried that same beauty, but honed to lethal precision. Her grace was no longer girlish, but deliberate. Her intelligence wasn’t coy—it was honed and weaponized. Maturity suited her. And so did power, even if she didn’t quite know how to wield it yet.

He had watched her push back against Seamus earlier, sharp-edged and defiant, only to retreat when cornered.

It had been a disappointment. He’d hoped she would stand firm, that she might be an ally.

If even she cowered in her father’s shadow, what hope was there of dragging this crumbling franchise back from the edge?

Still, she intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. That made her dangerous.

He stole a glance across the desk. Miranda sat stiffly upright, her spine a perfect line, hands folded in her lap with the poise of a courtroom witness or a debutante under pressure. She was quiet—unnervingly so—not filling the silence with empty words or nervous chatter.

But she wasn’t as composed as she seemed.

Her fingers trembled ever so slightly, betraying nerves. Her gaze was cast downward, lashes veiling her thoughts. From a distance, she looked like the image of control. Up close, she was a study in restraint barely held together by pride.

His frown deepened. He closed the folder in front of him with a soft snap. “So, what do you think?”

She looked up slowly, eyes steady now, her voice calm and clear. “We have troubles, sure. We need to do better. But we’re not a lost cause. Not completely.”

He leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers before his lips, watching her over their tips.

“Do you know what I do, Miranda? I help teams like yours adapt. Survive. Evolve. There’s always room for improvement—but in your case, it’s urgent.

You’ve got to find a way to turn a profit. Stop the bleeding.”

She didn’t flinch. “Fine. But you also recommend selling teams that don’t meet your standards.

You lay off staff without blinking. You cut without considering the human cost.” Her lips curled into a cool smile, and for a moment, the softness vanished.

“I had you researched before you got here. I know how you work. I wonder what else I’ll find with a little more time? ”

The heat behind her words was subtle but unmistakable. Challenge laced with curiosity. She wasn’t backing down now. Good.

He arched a brow. “You’re just a guppy in this pond. Sometimes hard decisions have to be made if there’s any hope of saving the ecosystem.”

“The ends justify the means?” Her tone was arctic now. “I thought you understood this is a family business. These people have been here since the beginning. Your father knew that. He treated them like family—not assets to be liquidated.”

She straightened her shoulders and he swore he could see the moment the steel slid into her spine. She wasn’t posturing anymore. She meant every word.

“If my father were still in charge, you wouldn’t be in this position,” he said quietly.

Miranda tilted her head, and her voice dropped, soft as silk but carrying undeniable weight. “Do you really believe that?”

Something flickered in his chest—an old hurt, perhaps.

Guilt. Regret. But he buried it fast, burying it beneath years of polished control.

“That’s irrelevant. He’s not here. You are.

And what we’re standing in is a mess.” His voice hardened.

“The moment you accepted money from the league, you accepted the conditions. Now it’s time to pay up—in more ways than one. ”

She exhaled, long and low, her shoulders deflating slightly as reality set in.

She leaned forward, bracing an elbow on her knee, fingers loosely curled.

The motion pulled the neckline of her blouse slightly forward, and for one second, Lucas’s gaze caught on the soft skin at the base of her throat—then flicked away.

Dangerous.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I agree. So what do we do now?”

He didn’t answer right away. He studied her instead, letting the silence stretch. Letting the moment settle in.

There was something undeniably intimate about the way they were seated—close but not touching, equals divided by a desk, heat pooling beneath the surface of every word. His voice lowered, deliberate.

“We figure that out,” he said slowly. “Together. But first—you need to decide whose side you’re on.”

Her breath hitched just slightly, her lips parting like she might argue—but no words came. Not yet.

Not until she made a choice.

And for once, Lucas Wainright hoped she picked the fire over the fear.