Page 35

My muscles lock as Dalton walks around the table, closing the gap. Everything aches to lean into him, so I force my ass to park itself on the press table, arms folding to keep my hands in check. Dalton mimics my stance on the main table.

“How badly did you want to smack Trent back in the locker room?” Dalton asks with a mischievous glint, disarming me.

A hard laugh bursts out, surprising us both, the tension melting from my shoulders. “Was it that obvious?”

“You were the example of calm. It was impressive. Most of us want to punch that guy on the daily, and we don’t hide it half as well as you did. Kid needs to be knocked down a few pegs.”

“Why does the team keep him?”

“He’s someone’s cousin’s nephew or something. And the kid’s damn good on the ice.”

“And a total douche off of it,” I add, toeing the carpet. “Thanks for letting me stand up for myself back there. I needed to show them I’m not some pushover they can fuck with.”

“Don’t thank me. You had it.”

“I still get the feeling Trent’s going to be a problem.”

Dalton shifts from his table to mine. The bare skin of his arm is close enough that the radiating warmth brings an unignorable level of comfort.

“Kind of his MO. But your speech about working with you or kicking sponsorship rocks will push the guys to support you. And now that you’ve set boundaries, I can go to bat for you without looking like an over-protective dick.”

I sneak a sideways glance, melting inside as his attention falls to my lips.

“Thank you for the tip and coffee this morning,” I say, reminding myself to keep my hands and dirty roaming thoughts to myself.

“My pleasure. Kathy sends her love. Said she wouldn’t let me back in unless I brought you with me.

” Dalton’s arm brushes mine, the sensation sending an explosion of fireworks through my nerves.

The way Dalton clears his throat tells me he felt it too.

I chant— keep it professional —on repeat in my head.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I clear my throat. “Something wrong with your packet?”

“No, that’s solid. I love the sponsors you picked for me.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and flicking through the screens. “Ramona asked me to reach out to you.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Oh, my God! I silenced the woman for two hours, and she calls the team Captain?”

Dalton’s deep laugh fills the room. “No. She was asking me to reach out to my date.”

I jerk back. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah. After our photos went live, you’ve received some offers on your dress.” Dalton’s gaze sweeps over my body as if imagining me in it and all the things we did while I wore it.

“Not for sale.” The words tumble out on impulse, and I turn beet red. That melt-worthy lopsided grin pulls up the corner of Dalton’s mouth.

“I was kind of hoping you might say that. But you’re sure? Even without seeing the offers?” Dalton waggles his phone at me. “You might be surprised how badly people want a souvenir from our date.”

Putting out a palm with an eye roll, I play along. “Show me.”

Dalton plops his phone into my hand, then leans in to read the screen with me. My eyes skim the email from Ramona, looking for the numbers, and I damn near drop the thing.

“Fifteen thousand dollars!?” I shout. “Holy shit! I thought the original price tag was outrageous. Why the hell would anyone in their right mind want my dress? It’s not like I’m…

a celebrity.” I almost dropped Ellie Edward’s name as a comparison.

Designers beg her to wear their work on the red carpet.

“Have you been keeping tabs on our posts?”

I give a shake of my head, and Dalton’s flicking through apps again.

I know the post went live yesterday, but I’ve had so much work to prepare for The Vortex.

There hasn’t been time to come up for air and check social media.

Dalton pulls the phone back between us, our cheeks brushing as we look at the screen.

Just over two hundred thousand likes, and it was posted yesterday . Freaking A!

“You’re kind of famous now. They’ve coined you the Manhattan Mystery Woman.”

I pale. “Please tell me there’s no way anyone can track those photos back to me.”

Dalton’s hand comes up, hesitating for a second before tilting my chin to meet his gaze. “Hey. It’s okay, I promise. No amount of editing or contrast changes will show your face. You’re the woman no one knows and everyone wants to be.”

“And those people who signed the NDAs? If someone offers them enough cash, they’ll sell me out for sure. If I lose this job… I can’t lose this job.”

“We used fake names, and my lawyer sent out a reminder this morning that anyone who breaks the contract will be sued for seven hundred thousand dollars with potential jail time. Iron-clad. No one is going to out you.”

Shutting my eyes, I let out a deep breath and lean into his touch. There’s the lightest brush of lips over my forehead.

“Dalton…” His name as much a plea as a warning. Yet neither of us moves. My eyes are still closed, his fingers on my chin, head tipping down to mine. We’re frozen between walking away and driving in with clashing lips and nipping teeth.

“I know we’re being professional, but if I’m being honest, I was disappointed you didn’t call last night.” Dalton admits.

“In all fairness, you didn’t call either.”

“Well, I heard you had a new high-profile client sprung on you and figured you might be up all night planning. I didn’t want to distract you.” There’s only a hint of snark.

My nose wrinkles at how accurate that assessment is. I got maybe two hours of restless sleep last night. And the little sleep I got was filled with restless dreams about our date. Dalton’s lips on mine, worshiping my body. I woke up exhausted and sexually wired.

My nose skims Dalton’s cheek when I raise my head, the touch sending shivers down my spine.

Dalton’s face turns like a magnet. His lips brush mine, and despite all the things I just mentioned, despite sitting in a public room where anyone could walk in, I want him.

My tongue darts out, tracing his lips, causing him to suck in a breath.

“Jenna.” My name is a growl. “I’m trying to support you. It’s taking every ounce of strength to keep my hands to myself. And if you do that again, I’m going to lose the last threads of self-control I have.”

“Professional,” I whisper the word against his lips, reminding myself we’re doing anything but that.

“Professional.” Dalton agrees.

I let my nose graze his once more and then push back, forcing cool air between us. The look in Dalton’s eyes cuts like a precision blade.

“It’s for the best. I’ll probably only be here for another year.” The words are just a band-aid on a series of deep wounds in need of triage.

His brow knits. “You’re leaving Momentum? I thought this was your dream job?”

“It is. I would cut off my left hand to keep working for Ramona. It’s New York that’s the problem.” My fingers find a loose strand of hair, twirling it until the sensation turns numbing.

“What’s so bad about New York?” Dalton’s hands curl over the edge of the table, his eyes tracing the movement of my fingertips.

“Nothing, except that it’s not Chicago. Where my dad is. If I do well with The Vortex, I’m hoping Ramona will let me open a branch in Chicago. So I can be closer to him.”

“Is he okay?” Dalton asks, shoulder leaning into mine.

He told me briefly about his mom’s battle with cancer over our dinner.

How he stepped in to help raise his sisters after his dad stepped out on his dying wife and four kids.

It didn’t feel right to talk about Dad’s health issues at the time, not wanting to compare the two.

Dalton’s experience with parental illness and loss gravely overshadows mine.

Not to belittle our mountain of debt, but Dad’s still alive, and I don’t have siblings to worry about.

But now, with a lingering look of rejection in his eyes, it seems cruel not to tell Dalton the truth.

I’m not saying no to him. I’m saying no to all things that might distract from supporting my dad.

“A few months into his incarceration, Dad started getting really sick. At first, they thought it was the stress of jail, but after almost dying in his bunk one night because the guards didn’t take his complaints seriously, they finally admitted him to a hospital.

The doctors diagnosed him with type one diabetes.

Aside from being on insulin for the rest of his life, it also affected Dad’s kidneys.

He’s been on and off short-term dialysis for the past few years.

When he was in prison, they footed the bill for his meds. But now…”

“Now that he’s out, he can’t get insurance, and the costs are all falling on you.” Dalton rakes a hand through his hair. “We went through that with Mom. Insurance companies don’t like to cover sick people.

“Bingo. It’s even worse when they have a criminal record.”

Dalton’s eyes jump between mine, and I can almost hear the question rattling in his head.

Why didn’t you tell me? But he doesn’t need to ask.

It’s the same reason he said so little about his mom’s death, and why I didn’t press.

We’re too young to be burdened with these things.

Most people our age don’t understand, so we just don’t talk about it.

“If I move back to Chicago, I can take him to more appointments, make sure he’s monitoring his levels and taking his insulin properly. Plus, I can save some money on rent. Help pay down his debt a little faster.”