Page 35 of Never Dance with the Devils

“Greg, let’s throw the contract up on the screen,” I say, taking my place at the head of the table.

With a few clicks, Greg’s done so and we turn our attention to page one of the potential relationship between Blue Lake Assets and Jessup Enterprises.

Two tedious hours later,we’re finally wrapping up our line-by-line dissection of the deal. While I’d hoped Jessup would’ve blindly signed the contract we sent over, especially because it favors Blue Lake, I’ll concede that a few of his—and Brent’s—changes are valid. And well-played. Not that I let them all slide. I fought several other ridiculous things they wanted, thankfully not having to threaten the deal entirely, but instead able to negotiate other considerations to maintain the ones most important to Blue Lake.

“We’ll get on those and send the updated contract ASAP,” Greg says, looking at me for approval, which I give with a slight nod.

“Good. I want this thing in the books,” David declares, sounding like we’re the ones delaying his timeline and not the other way around.

He stands, holding his hand out. I take it with a bit more respect this time—not because he’s earned it, but because I do appreciate the business acumen it took to grow his company into the golden egg it currently is. Brent, however? I take his handshake offer begrudgingly, making sure to grip his entire hand firmly.

“Looking forward to working together,” he says, his smile back in place as though our earlier issue never happened.

The words are right, the tone correct, and his expression is a study in deference, but, well-versed in double-speak and façades after a lifetime at my mother’s knee with the catty women of the society pages, I don’t believe a bit of it. “I’m sure.”

As Brent walks out the conference room door, David turns back. “Don’t be too hard on him, Kayla. I know he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I’m sure you could smooth those out.” He winks like we’re conspiring together to make over his wayward son, then walks out like we’re on the same page though I said nothing.

Alone—other than Greg—I laugh lightly. Brent Jessup, rough around the edges? The idea is ridiculous.

“David mentioned he was bringing his lawyer. I had no idea he meant his son,” Greg comments, sounding incredulous about the whole thing. Or maybe apologetic.

I wave it off as I turn to him, focusing on the highest priority—the deal—once again. “It’s fine. Look into the clause change David wants about the future potentials. It sounded like he might have something on the horizon, or be hoping for something, and I don’t want any surprises on the back end of this. Have Angeline put you on my schedule when you’ve got it sorted.”

“On it,” he says. “Also, I’ll look into Brent and see where he sits on the chess board.”

This is why Greg is one of my most trusted advisors. Brent’s appearance, while annoying, could also potentially be concerning, and I don’t like unknown variables in my deals. I want to be the one who knows everypossible angle so I can account for them ahead of time and make my planned moves accordingly.

“Thank you.”

Driving home late after work,I should be mentally going over files for tomorrow, listening to a podcast, or even half-distracted by the traffic barely moving around me. But I’m not doing any of those things.

I’m simply staring out the window and thinking of them. Riggs and Maddox. It’s like they’ve taken over my mind, filling it with thoughts that have nothing to do with my usual business-focused meditations.

I want to tell them about Brent Jessup’s shit-talking and laugh as they offer to have a ‘little chat’ with him. I want to sit in the hot tub with them, flirtily playing footsie while the bubbles wash the day away, and then eat dinner curled up on their big couch, cozy in a big sandwich of muscles. I want to hear what they did today and clap when Riggs tells me how much he lifted and tease Maddox when he says he could go heavier. And yes, I want to have sex until we’re all spent and then fall asleep with our legs entwined and each man cupping one of my breasts.

Even with all that running through my mind, I’m still surprised when I put the car in park and see, not my condo’s parking garage, but their house. I drove all the way here on auto-pilot, my body doing what my brain told it to do without my making a conscious decision on the matter.

But didn’t I?

I smile a secret smile, knowing that deep down, thisis what I planned all along when I left work today. I want this, need this.

Getting out of the car, I straighten my back and stare at the front door for a moment, noting the glow of an interior light through the frosted glass. Coming here without invitation is a big step, not only for me but for them. It’s an admission that there’s more to this than sex. They’ve already said they want as much, but I haven’t admitted that, not even to myself, really.

But Riggs and Maddox represent something to me on a subconscious level, an escape from everything I’m supposed to do… as a woman and as a Harrington. They’re another night spent on my own selfish needs, letting them worship and please me, a play at a future that’s doomed before it begins but still feels sopossiblewhen I’m in their arms.

The steps toward the door are heavy with intention. I’m walking away from rules and expectations as much as I’m walking toward something. But I’m strong and certain as I lift my hand, my finger poised over the doorbell.

Wait. What if they’re not even here? They have lives, routines of their own, and schedules I don’t know.

But then I see a shadow moving inside and instantly recognize Riggs’s hulking figure. He’s here. They’re here.

And this time, I came for them.

RIGGS

“Did that asshole order dinner without me?” I mutter to myself. It seems like it considering the doorbell’s ringing and we’re sure as fuck not expecting anyone.

But when I swing the door open, it’s not dinner. Well, not the DoorDash sort, anyway, but it’s definitely something I’m wanting to eat tonight.