Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
He’s trouble in sweats.
In a tux, the man is lethal.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out tighter than intended, irritation covering something far more dangerous.
He doesn’t bother to sit up. Just stretches those impossibly long legs until the space shrinks.
“Going to the gala,” he says easily. “Same as you. I figured we could slash our carbon footprint and do Mother Earth a solid by riding together.”
I arch a brow. “Since when do you care about the environment?”
“Shows how little you know.” His tone turns teasing. “I donate three percent of my untaxed earnings to a foundation that cleans up the Great Lakes.”
That earns a blink. “Really?”
“Yup. I’d like my kids to inherit clean air and fresh water one day.”
Against my better judgment, the corner of my mouth lifts as I slide onto the seat, careful to keep my distance. “Good to know you’re more than a pretty face.”
“Baby, we both know that’s the least of what I have to offer.”
His gaze drags over me. Heat blooms across my skin where it lingers, like he’s touching me without ever laying a hand on my body.
“You look gorgeous.” His eyes dip to my mouth. “Good enough to eat.”
I shift, silently cursing the rush of awareness curling through me. No other man has ever undone me like this, and the look in his eyes says he knows it.
His thigh brushes mine, and a spark shoots straight through the thin fabric of my dress.
When he leans closer, I press a hand to his chest, feeling the steady rise beneath my palm. “Don’t you dare. You’ll ruin my makeup.”
His expression makes it clear he couldn’t care less about lipstick or anything but testing my restraint. Still, he eases back, arms spread wide.
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I can’t stop thinking about the other night.”
My head whips toward him. “We’re not going to discuss that now.”
“So later, then?”
“Probably not.”
“How come? Wasn’t it good? Especially when I—”
“Oliver.” My tone slices clean through his comments. “One more word, and I’ll wring your neck.”
His laugh is low as amusement vibrates through the narrow space. “If I have my way, you’ll be using those same hands to hold on tight later.”
A frustrated sigh slips out as I tip my head back against the seat. “Sometimes I really hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He smirks. “And you definitely didn’t hate me when you were screaming my name.”
Before I can reply, the car slows to a stop along the curb. The instant the door opens, noise erupts around me. There are camera flashes and shouting as a swarm of reporters close in on us.
“Oliver! Oliver! Over here!”
“Big O, are you dating the Railers’ PR manager?”
“Oliver, are you confirming a relationship?”
The glare blinds me as voices blend into one deafening rush. Oliver’s arm slips around my waist, carefully steering me through the crowd.
“Smile.” His lips brush against my ear. The warmth of his breath across my skin sends a tremor through me.
I force a smile that feels brittle.
This is exactly how careers implode. One headline, one photo, and I’m the story instead of the one controlling it.
The throng erupts again when a stretch limo pulls up. Zane and Gigi step into the spotlight, flashbulbs detonating like fireworks.
“Looks like the circus has officially arrived,” Oliver mutters.
Good.
Let Zane enjoy it. He’s always been a whore for attention.
As soon as we step off the red carpet, I slip from Oliver’s hold, needing to put distance between us.
Control the narrative; don’t let it control you.
Inside the hotel, the noise fades to a dull roar, but the jittery rush inside me refuses to calm. The night has barely begun, and already, it feels like irreparable damage has been done.
10
Oliver
Backstage is a goddamn zoo.
There are too many tuxes.
And way too many egos jockeying for position.
The room reeks of starch, sweat, and cologne. It’s thick enough to choke on. Handlers flit around like frantic babysitters, straightening ties, checking cuff links, whispering last-minute orders about posture and fake smiles. Bright stage lights bleed through the curtain, turning the space into a sweltering cage.
The sound system vibrates, the crowd’s laughter filtering through the seams. Every cheer scrapes across my already tightly stretched nerves. Out there, they applaud for the version of us they see on the jumbotron.
I’ve never felt more like a show pony.
I’d rather be anywhere else than standing here like a slab of meat with a price tag, waiting for someone to point and clap and toss money at me. The whole setup—the preening, the crowd’s reaction, the auctioneering—grinds at something in me that’s not built for performance.
I do it because I have to.
Because it matters.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I should be focused on the cause.
On the kids.
Instead, I’m counting down the seconds until I can get the hell out of here.
With Rina.