Page 31 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

TWENTY

HARPER

JAKE: What’s your dress like?

HARPER: It’s red.

JAKE: Send me a photo.

HARPER: Nope.

JAKE: Want to know what I’m wearing right now?

HARPER: No!

Notes for feature: Jake Sullivan can switch from serious to playful to sweeping you off your feet all within the same minute. Considering his abilities on the football field, it’s no surprise he’s just as astute at reading people and situations away from it.

The twenty-sixth floor of the Arquette Media building is a huge open space with floor-to-ceiling windows providing a panoramic view of the glittering Denver skyline at night.

Circular tables draped in white linen fill the room, each set with gleaming china and cut-glass stemware.

There’s a stage to one side decked with a glittering Christmas tree and a band playing instrumental Christmas classics.

In the center of the room is a large dance floor made of glossy parquet. Waiters in crisp white shirts glide between tables with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. An ice sculpture of the sweeping “A” of the Arquette Media logo sits on the bar, slowly melting under the heat of the lights.

Everywhere I look, Denver’s elite business owners, VIPs, and journalists mingle in tuxedos and ball gowns.

Even with my hair blow-dried until shining and swept to one side, an hour spent on makeup, and a floor-length red silk dress that I know I look good in, I feel out of place.

These are the movers and shakers of the media world, the titans Mia’s family is part of.

I cringe inwardly at what they must be thinking when they look at me.

George Cassidy’s daughter trying to follow in his footsteps but fired from her internship at Insight .

Nerves twist in my stomach. I don’t belong among these people, and after what happened in New York, I never will. But Dad wants me here for appearances and so I’ll drink the champagne, eat the food, and clap in all the right places, while spending the evening avoiding Scott.

Except when I make my way to the table and find my place name, there are only two other names I recognize.

Dad’s. And Scott’s. Of course my ex is seated next to me.

A memory crashes into my thoughts from the last time we saw each other, standing on the street in downtown New York.

Me with a cardboard box of my belongings in my hands, fighting back tears. Scott with a smug grin on his face.

I heard what happened , he said, throwing a hand up to hail a cab.

There are winners in this world and there are losers, Harper.

Not everyone has what it takes to be a winner.

He disappeared into a cab without a backward glance, leaving me to catch the subway back to the apartment I could no longer afford.

A waiter clinks a fork against a glass, announcing dinner is ready to be served, and there’s a shuffling of bodies as people drift to their seats.

I swallow down the memory and take my seat, avoiding eye contact with Scott as he takes the chair next to mine.

The overwhelming scent of his cologne hits my senses, causing another barrage of memories I don’t want.

I guess I only have myself to blame for the fact we’re at the same table.

I never told Dad what an asshole Scott is.

By the time I realized, Dad was already helping Scott get his first job.

Anything I said would’ve seemed petty. So I’ve kept quiet all these years and let Dad think Scott and I are still friends.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Scott straighten his place setting.

There’s no denying he’s good-looking. Short brown hair and an attractive face, but after spending nearly four weeks with Jake’s hulking frame, Scott looks weak and pathetic in comparison.

He’s also a chauvinistic prick who thinks the world and everything in it belongs to him, including me.

I angle my body to the left and talk to a war reporter in her fifties. She introduces herself as Lori and tells me she worked with Dad over fifteen years ago. The stories she shares of their time together sound more like an Indiana Jones movie than anything my dad would do.

“Your dad,” Lori replies, shooting him a wistful look that makes me wonder if they were ever more than just colleagues. “He never shut up about you. He even showed me these cute stories you wrote about a horse named Whisper.”

I laugh, surprised at the memories the name unleashes.

I remember the stories I wrote as a kid about a naughty mare called Whisper, who kept running away to find her dad, having adventures along the way.

I’d write them while Dad was away, leaving them on his desk for when he returned.

He never told me he’d read them, let alone took them with him.

“I’d forgotten about those stories,” I admit, following her gaze.

Dad is in full swing, lecturing his half of the table on the future of the political landscape.

It’s his favorite topic and a lecture I’ve heard many times.

His silver hair is as scruffy as ever and his tux looks like he wore it for a week-long stakeout in a car before coming here tonight. Knowing Dad, he probably did.

By the time the main courses have been cleared and a chocolate mousse is placed in front of me, I’ve almost forgotten Scott is beside me. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for him.

“Hello, Harper,” he purrs in my ear when Lori is pulled into a conversation with her husband. Scott places a possessive hand on my upper arm that immediately gives me the creeps. “You look stunning as always.”

“Hi, Scott,” I say, shifting away from his touch. I hate everything about this guy, but the last thing I’m going to do is make a scene during Dad’s big night.

He doesn’t catch the hint and invades my space again. “I hear you’re working at Sports Magazine now.”

“Yep.”

“I imagine that’s a good fit for you. More on your level than Insight .”

I’m about to tell him to shove his “good fit” up his ass when there’s movement across the room and Mia’s mom, Gloria, takes the stage in a beautiful emerald-green sequined dress. She sees me at my table and smiles, mouthing an “are you ok?” my way.

I nod and something in that brief moment of care makes me pull my shoulders back.

I might have failed at my dreams of being a journalist in New York, be sleeping on my best friend’s couch, and be way out of my depth with a gorgeous football player I never know from one minute to the next if I want to yell at or kiss, but I’m still ten times the human Scott is.

It’s at that moment Scott’s hand moves to the back of my chair, his fingers brushing my bare skin.

I round on him, twisting quickly and getting in his face.

I don’t break the polite smile as I drop my voice and whisper, “Scott, keep your fucking hands to yourself. If you touch me again, I’m going to break your fingers. ”

He pulls back, mouth gaping, but I don’t miss the darkness flashing in his eyes as Gloria begins her introduction to the evening’s event.

“We’re here, of course, to recognize the lifetime achievement in journalism of George Cassidy.

As a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, George needs no introductions, but he’s most certainly earned one.

So I’d like to welcome his friend and self-confessed protégé, Scott Harrington, to present the award. ”

Scott stands, stepping around the table and shaking Dad’s hand before taking to the stage. I focus on the wine in my glass and tune out Scott’s speech. The last thing I need is to be reminded of how my ex-boyfriend owes his career to my dad.

A slow-burn anger simmers in my body as the room erupts in applause and my father makes his way to the stage, hugging Scott and taking the golden award in the shape of a quill.

“I’ll keep this short,” Dad says in the hard voice I remember from my childhood and teens. My anger softens. My dad has always had a commanding presence, and despite our awkward relationship, he’s still my dad. I’m proud of him.

“I’ve spent my life reporting the news, not being part of it.

But I’m honored to accept this lifetime achievement award tonight.

When I started at the Denver Chronicle over forty years ago, journalism was a very different beast. We pounded the streets, chased leads and hoped we had enough to fill the next day’s paper.

Now news breaks online in an instant. Our biggest challenge in journalism has become to cut through the bullshit and the fake news to report the truth. It’s a job I’m not done with yet.”

He raises the award, his gaze traveling across the sea of faces until he finds mine. He gives a single nod before leaving the stage. Is that it? One terse nod to the daughter who always came second to his career? I almost laugh at myself. Was I really expecting anything more?

Dad steps down from the stage and I stand. Our hug is brief and awkward. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, smiling through the hollowness threatening to suck me away. I wish—like I always do in these moments—that my mom was here.

“I’m flying out again next week. Lunch tomorrow before I go?” he asks and I wonder if he even realizes next week is Christmas.

“Sounds good.” I smile, already preparing myself for the apologetic message on my phone when I wake up tomorrow, telling me about an urgent story he needs to cover and canceling our lunch.

“I’ll see if Scott can join us, too,” he adds.

I feel myself wanting to nod, to say something bland and accepting like I always do, but the memory of Scott’s fingers stroking my back is far too fresh for playing nice.

“Let’s make it just us. You might think the sun shines out of his ass, but Scott’s a total asshole who deserves to rot in hell.

” I spin away, keeping my head high as I walk to the restrooms without waiting to see the look of surprise and probably disappointment on Dad’s face.

My heart hammers in my chest. I don’t know if I feel mortified or gleeful.

Either way, I can’t believe I just said that.

I’m leaning against the wall in the corner with a glass of wine, hiding from Scott and a room full of people wanting to tell me how talented my dad is, when my gaze snags on a familiar figure moving toward me. Tall, broad, and smoking-hot in a way that makes my stomach flutter. It can’t be…

I didn’t think Jake could look hotter than he did in his low-slung basketball shorts in the gloom of the kitchen at the ranch on that first weekend together.

Or coming off the field in his jersey and pads, muscular and unstoppable.

But Jake in a tuxedo is utterly swoon-worthy.

Our eyes lock. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m weak at the knees for this man.

I don’t bother to fight the grin spreading across my face.

“You’re here,” I say as he reaches my side, speaking up to be heard as the band starts again, this time with a singer and a lively beat.

“And you’re breathtaking,” he replies, lips brushing my cheek and causing a flash of heat to burn in my core.

“Seriously, you’re here? Why? How? This is a private event. You can’t just walk in from the street,” I say, stumbling over my words as he pulls back.

Jake takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, replacing my near-empty wine glass. “The how is easy. I’m Jake Sullivan. That’s an automatic ticket to any event in Denver.” He winks.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Why are you here?”

He smiles. “Cassidy, I’m a tight end. My job isn’t just catching passes—it’s blocking, protecting my teammates, making sure they’re covered when they need it. Trust me, I know when someone needs a wingman.”

“I’m fine.” I laugh.

He narrows his eyes a fraction.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I correct. “Thank you.”

He slips an arm around me and turns us so we’re facing the room. The heat of his body, his fingers on my skin—it’s electric. “Where is he, then?”

“Who?” I ask.

“The ex your dad chose over you.”

“Oh.” I nod to the table near the stage where Scott is holding court with a group of men and women, acting like the up-and-coming editor he is. “Brown hair. Smug smile.”

I know there’s more I should tell Jake about Scott, but now isn’t the time.

“OK, then.” He nods, and there’s an intensity to his gaze that makes my stomach drop.

“OK, what?” I ask, nerves fluttering—but in a good way.

“Well, for starters, it’s a crime for anyone to wear this dress and look this gorgeous and hide in the corner.” He moves me to arm’s length, turning me slowly around and flashing an appreciative smile. “So drink up. We’re dancing.”

I laugh and let Jake pull me to the dance floor.

It feels like every pair of eyes in the room is on us, including Scott’s.

But Jake’s confidence must be rubbing off on me, because with him by my side, I don’t care what the people in this room think of me.

All I care about is the heat of Jake’s touch on my bare skin and that simmering tension between us. I know it isn’t hate now. It’s desire.