Page 17 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

T he athletic center is quiet on Sunday afternoons. Empty halls. Low lights. The perfect place to get some work done without running into anyone.

Madison’s spending the day with Jaxon, and I needed somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t my apartment. Somewhere I wouldn’t get distracted by things that needed cleaning or organizing or re-folding.

Carter texts that he’s parked out front, and I let him in through the back door.

“You always this sneaky?” he asks, flashing a grin as he steps inside.

I roll my eyes. “I prefer strategic.”

He’s wearing joggers and a backwards hat, and unfortunately for my concentration, a plain white tee that hugs his chest just enough to be annoying.

We take over the media room—dim lights, huge screen, plush chairs. I spread my laptop, notes, and storyboard across the table like a battleground.

He sinks into a chair next to me. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”

I slide a protein bar across the table. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

We get to work. For the first hour, it’s all about my project. He walks me through some ideas for short-form content. I take notes, adjust camera angles in my head, and storyboard transitions while he critiques his own highlight reel.

It’s…normal. Almost professional. Until I lean over to adjust the brightness on my laptop, and my shoulder brushes his arm.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

He doesn’t move. “No complaints here.”

I give him a look, trying not to smile. “Focus, Hayes.”

“I am focused,” he says, voice lower now. “Just not on the footage.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“I should probably have you sign a release form,” I say, aiming for deflection.

He leans in, close enough that I feel his breath near my cheek. “If I say yes, do I get to request you conduct the interview shirtless?”

My mouth opens. Closes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, smug. “You invited me here.”

“To work.”

“Mm-hmm.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then I reach for my pen, but his hand gets there first. Fingers brush.

Pause.

My stomach flips. His eyes drop to my lips and stay there.

“Lyla,” he says, my name rough around the edges.

I know I should pull back. I should remind him this is about his brand. His image. My future.

Instead, I whisper, “Yeah?”

He doesn’t ask this time. Just closes the space between us and kisses me.

And I let him.

It starts slow, careful. But then his hand slides to the back of my neck, and I shift closer without thinking. His tongue teases mine, deepening the kiss, and a soft sound escapes me before I can catch it.

He pulls me into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of fighting it for the last three months. My fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging at the hem. He groans softly, and I feel him harden beneath me.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters against my throat.

I bite back a smile. “You started it.”

His hands skim under my sweatshirt, warm and steady. Not rushing. Just…exploring.

We’re losing focus. Rapidly.

And I don’t want to stop.

But I have to.

I pull back, breathless. “We can’t do this here.”

His hand stays at my waist. “Why not?”

“Because,” I say, heart hammering, running my nose up his throat, brushing my lips over his again. “Because this is the athletic center. Because we’ll get caught. Because this is a bad idea.”

He lifts a brow. “You said that last time.”

“And I was right.”

He watches me for a beat. Then, voice low, “So what’s your plan, then?”

I don’t have one.

So, I say the only thing I can, “We finish the project.”

He exhales a laugh. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

But the way he’s looking at me says he knows exactly how this ends.

And the worst part?

I think I do too.

We try to focus again. Try being the key word.

I sit cross-legged on the floor now, laptop balanced on my knees, with Carter lounging back in the armchair behind me as we go through potential reels and overlay edits.

At some point, he shifts, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Jaxon says he’s taking Madison to his parents’ for dinner,” he says, looking up at me. “Won’t be back until late.”

My stomach flips.

“Oh,” I say, pretending like that doesn’t mean anything.

Carter stretches and stands, offering me a hand. “Come on. Let’s take this back to your place. Better Wi-Fi.”

I raise a brow. “You just want snacks again.”

He grins. “And maybe a couch that doesn’t smell like gym socks.”

I roll my eyes, but I take his hand anyway.

Because we both know this isn’t just about finishing the project anymore.

And neither of us is pretending otherwise.

Carter pulls in behind me. I step out of my car and barely get halfway to the door before he jogs up behind me.

“Wait,” he says, and I turn just as he grabs the doorframe behind me, boxing me in with that stupid grin that does dangerous things to my resolve.

Before I can ask what he’s doing, his mouth is on mine.

He kisses me like he’s been holding back for hours—which he has—and I melt into him with a needy sound I don’t mean to make.

My back hits the front door, his hands on my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight.

He breaks away just enough to whisper against my lips, “Been wanting to do that since the first kiss.”

I reach back and fumble with the doorknob, trying to find the keyhole, but my brain is foggy.

Carter laughs, low and rough. “Need help, Princess?”

I glare up at him. “If you’d stop distracting me?—”

He leans in, lips brushing mine again. “Not a chance.”

I finally get the door unlocked, and we walk inside. Carter almost trips over the rug right by the door.

“Shit.” He laughs, and it sends a wave of heat straight to my core.

His eyes lock onto mine again after he shuts the door, and everything seems to fade on the edges.

This is really happening. Taking my face in his hands, he kisses me again.

It’s slower this time—less urgency, more meaning—but it doesn’t stay that way. His hands slide down to my hips, then lower, gripping tight as he backs me toward the couch.

Each step feels heavier. Hotter. His mouth devours mine, tongue tangling, breath turning ragged.

I fall onto the cushions with a soft gasp as he follows, hands bracing on either side of my head.

My fingers curl into his shirt, tugging it up. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside, his chest flushed and hard, rising with uneven breaths.

God, he’s beautiful. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gravelly.

I nod. “Yeah.”

His hand trails under my sweatshirt again, but this time it’s firmer, possessive. I arch up into him, gasping when his lips move down to my throat.

Every nerve sparks.

Every thought disappears.

And when his hand grazes under my bra, fingers spreading along my ribs, I moan and pull him down again.

It’s happening. And neither of us wants to stop.