Page 13 of Off Script

But sure. Small talk.

He was halfway through a conversation with the head of production design when it happened—a shift in the air. A prickle of awareness at the back of his neck that made him turn before he knew why.

There he was, Jacob Wolfe. All six-foot-five of masculine severity in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. No tie. Black shirt unbuttoned just enough to be indecent. His hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. There wasn’t a wrinkle on him, like he was carved, not born. His eyes were already scanning the room like it had personally offended him.

Liam’s stomach did a traitorous thing and he immediately hated himself for it. He tried to refocus on the conversation, nodding at the right moments. Something about color palettes, maybe—but none of it stuck. Jacob hadn’t even looked at him yet, and already Liam’s brain had reduced itself to static. Eventually, he gave up on the charade. “I’m just going to—grab a drink,” he said, flashing a too-bright smile and zero chill.

Jacob was standing near a side table, sipping something dark. Alone, of course. His posture was too stiff to be relaxed, but too composed to be awkward. Liam approached casually, well, casually for someone currently spiraling.

“Look who decided to socialize,” he said lightly, snagging a drink from a passing tray.

Jacob’s cool gaze slid to him. “They said attendance was expected.”

“And you always follow the rules?”

“No. But I don’t skip work.”

Liam raised a brow. “This counts as work?”

Jacob shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”

Liam studied him openly—the hard line of his jaw, the dark stubble, and the slight crease between his brows. He didn’t look angry, he looked uncomfortable, disarmed, almost.

“You really hate this,” Liam said, his voice softer now.

Jacob’s mouth twitched. “You don’t?”

“No. I like people.”

“Why?”

The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t sarcastic or mocking, just curious. “Why not?” Liam countered.

“People are exhausting,” Jacob said flatly. “They want too much. Say one thing, mean another. Most of them don’t want you. They want what they can take from you.”

“That’s…” Liam hesitated. “Depressing.”

“It’s honest.”

Liam tilted his head, watching him closely. “Is that why you’re always at the edge of the room? Standing like you’re calculating the fastest way out?”

Jacob took a sip of his drink. “You noticed.”

“I notice a lot of things.”

Jacob looked at him then—really looked. “What do you see?”

Liam’s throat went dry. He could’ve said the obvious things: that Jacob was intense and brooding, that he walked like he was built for war and spoke like every word cost him something, that he kissed like it was going to ruin them both. Instead—

“I think you’re restless.”

Silence stretched taut between them until Jacob looked away, gaze fixed somewhere over the glittering city. “You talk too much,” he murmured.

“I do,” Liam admitted. “Always have. My mom used to call me a hummingbird on espresso when I was young.”

A low huff. Not quite a laugh, but closer than anything Liam had heard from him yet.

“Was that a smile?”