Page 15

Chapter Twelve

Cassie

T wo hours until showtime, and I'm barking orders like a drill sergeant on a caffeine high.

"Move that ice sculpture three inches to the left," I call out to the crew, gesturing with my clipboard. "And someone please tell me why the uplighting in section C looks like a disco threw up."

The massive Stanley Cup replica catches the light perfectly now, casting prismatic rainbows across the floor.

Around me, the venue hums with controlled chaos.

Florists arrange centerpieces, sound techs run final checks on equipment, and interns scurry around with tablets and headsets attached to their skulls like they're coordinating a goddamn space mission.

It's magnificent.

Every detail, every angle, every fucking flower petal is exactly where it should be.

And I did this. All of it.

Not Big Mike's daughter. Not some hockey princess with a trust fund and daddy's connections.

Me .

Cassie Hawthorne, Vegas event producer extraordinaire.

"This is next-level, Cass," Dana appears at my elbow, her usual composed demeanor cracked with genuine admiration. "I've been to a hundred of these events, and this..." She gestures around the transformed ballroom. "This is art."

I should feel proud. Vindicated, even.

Like I've finally proven that I'm more than my father's legacy.

Instead, my stomach churns like I've been drinking expired milk.

Because across the room, surrounded by a swarm of reporters and camera crews, stands Jackson Holt in a perfectly tailored navy suit.

His hair is styled just messy enough to look effortless, his smile bright and media-trained as he answers questions I can't hear but probably revolve around his " bright future with the Iron Ridge Icehawks . "

He looks like every puck bunnies wet dream. Polished. Professional. Ready to become the face of a franchise in a matter of hours.

He also looks fucking edible, and my traitorous body responds with a flutter of heat low in my belly that I absolutely do not have time for right now.

Focus, Cassie. He's just another player. Just another pretty face with good hands and—

His eyes find mine across the crowded room like he's got some kind of radar system specifically tuned to my frequency. Even with fifty people between us, even with reporters shoving microphones in his face, his gaze locks onto mine with a look that makes my breath catch.

The memory of those same eyes staring down at me last night, pupils blown wide with desire as he moved inside me, flashes through my mind with almost… pornographic clarity.

Fuck. Get it together, Cassie.

I duck behind the ice sculpture, pressing my back against the cool surface and cursing my entire life.

"Just, um… Checking lighting symmetry," I announce to my bewildered assistant, who definitely knows I'm hiding like a teenager avoiding her ex at prom.

My phone buzzes as Mia's face flashes on the screen. Of course she's calling now. My world is imploding, and her timing is perfect. As always.

"What do you want, Mia?" I answer abruptly, sneaking a look behind the sculpture when I hear Jackson's deep laugh from across the room.

"Please tell me you're not hiding from your accidental husband again," Mia's voice chirps through the speaker, way too cheerful for someone who should be taking this situation seriously.

"He's not my—" I start, then catch myself before I scream profanities in front of the catering staff. "Shut up, Mia."

"Oh honey," she laughs, and I can practically see her shit-eating grin through the phone. "You totally are."

"I'm working," I hiss, moving deeper behind the sculpture. "This is the biggest event of my career, and I'm not about to let some... some hockey player with abs and a superiority complex ruin it for me."

"Abs and a superiority complex?" Mia's voice goes up an octave. "That's oddly specific. Sophia's coming over. We're ready to watch your show on ESPN. Wave to us, won't you?"

"I have to go," I cut her off, because the last thing I need is the knowledge that if I fuck this up tonight, the entire country will be watching.

But before I can hang up, a familiar voice booms behind me.

"Cassie!"

I spin around to find my father approaching with that commanding presence that parts crowds like the Red Sea. Even at sixty-three, Daddy-dearest moves through the world like he owns it.

Which, let's be honest… In hockey circles like this, he pretty much does.

"Dad," I manage, shoving my phone into my blazer pocket. "Everything's on schedule. The sound check went perfectly, the—"

"Good, good." He waves off my report with the casual dismissal I've been getting my entire life. "Listen, I need you to show Jackson Holt the VIP lounge. Make sure he's comfortable tonight. Answer any questions he has about tonight's flow."

My stomach drops to my designer heels. "Um… I'm sure Dana can handle the VIP tour. I should really stay here and—"

"Cassie." His voice carries that tone. The one that says this isn't a request. "He's the star tonight. The future of my franchise. I want him to know he's appreciated."

By me? Specifically by me? The daughter who supposedly hates everything about hockey?

Here I was thinking I was the only Hawthorne with bad judgment.

"Of course," I hear myself say, even as my brain screams in protest. "I'll take care of it."

Dad grins, all paternal pride and business satisfaction. "That's my girl."

I plaster on my best professional smile and pivot away before he can say anything else, heels moving swiftly as I head toward the VIP corridor.

The moment I turn the corner, the smile drops.

Because of course he would ask me to do this. Of all people. Like it’s not already hard enough keeping my walls up with Jackson around. Now I have to personally escort him through a space filled with dim lighting and plush furniture?

Perfect. Just perfect.

By the time I reach the lounge, I’ve talked myself into emotional lockdown.

The VIP lounge is a masterpiece of understated luxury. Soft leather seating in deep navy, ambient lighting that makes everyone look like they're starring in their own personal movie, and a view of the main stage that screams you're important enough to be here .

I designed every inch of it. The color palette, the furniture arrangement, even the fancy cocktail napkins with the embossed NHL logo perfectly angled in the corner.

But now…

Now I'm standing in it with Jackson Holt, trying to maintain professional distance while my body screams bloody murder inside my head, telling me exactly how he tastes, how he feels, how he could change my entire life forever.

I get to work, showing him around. Ignoring the way he won’t stop staring. Ignoring the fluttering butterflies in my stomach with every step we take.

"The bar is fully stocked with top-shelf everything," I recite in my most polished event-coordinator voice.

This is awkward. So fucking awkward.

"You'll have dedicated wait staff, and this seating area gives you the perfect angle for photos without—"

"Cass." Jackson's voice cuts through my practiced spiel like a hot knife. He looks over his shoulder to check we're alone. "We need to talk."

I don't look at him. Instead, I gesture toward the elevated platform near the windows and pretend I can't hear a word he says.

"The photographers will want shots of you here, with the main stage in the background. The lighting is specifically designed to—"

"Cassie. Enough. " He steps closer, and suddenly the space between us crackles with electricity. "Please. Just stop and listen for a minute. This is ridiculous."

Do not inhale. Do not turn around. Do not notice that he smells like expensive cologne and bad decisions.

"Oh, and before I forget… do you prefer the blue uplighting or the soft amber for your backdrop photo wall?" I ask brightly, like my panties aren't damp from the memory of his mouth between my thighs.

I can feel his frustration radiating off him in waves. Good. Let him be frustrated. This isn't easy for me either.

Would it be easy to just go right ahead and fall in love with him right now? Of course it would. Ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly easy.

Like falling down a flight of stairs… quick, inevitable, and bound to leave bruises in places no one else can see. I could easily let myself believe that hockey's golden boy might actually want more than just another conquest in another city.

But, for so many reasons that I've sworn by for years, I just… can't.

A reporter appears at the lounge entrance, camera crew in tow. "Mr. Holt? We're ready for that interview about your draft predictions."

Yes! Thank you, universe.

"Of course," Jackson says smoothly, his eyes briefly leaving my face to answer them. "Just give me one more minute."

I use the distraction to slip toward the hallway, finding a moment of chance to escape.

I need to get away. Far, far away before I give in.

But what I don't account for is Jackson apparently possessing ninja-level stealth skills, because he's right behind me as I round the corner.

"You can't keep avoiding me," he says.

"I'm not avoiding you," I lie, walking faster, wishing these heels weren't so damn tall. "I'm working."

"Bullshit."

I duck into what I think is an empty corridor, but Jackson's longer stride catches up easily. It's a maze behind the walls of the event room, and when we round another corner at the exact same moment, we come from opposite directions and crash directly into each other.

The impact sends me stumbling backward, straight into the open door of what appears to be a conveniently located supply closet.

Jackson's momentum carries him forward too, and suddenly we're both inside the small space, the door swinging shut behind us.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Seriously?

The closet is barely big enough for two people, lined with shelves of spare linens and cleaning supplies. It smells like… nothing. It literally smells of nothing.