Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
A few people chuckle.
Everyone seems to love this idea—of course they do.
It’s a fabulous idea! It’s buzzy, it’s controversial. It will get press leading up to the event, during the event, and after.
It’s brilliant.
The perfect fundraiser.
I’d love it, too, if I wasn’t secretly dating one of their most eligible bachelors.
Technically, if Whitney loves it, Aaron could be on that list.
Technically, I would have no claim to say a word about it.
And technically, I would have to sit in the crowd with a professional smile while women bid on spending an evening with the same man who had his mouth between my thighs twelve hours ago…
Annaleise claps her hands once. “Oh my God, people would lose their minds.”
“Yes, but we’d need player buy-in,” someone from marketing points out. “Not everyone would go for it.”
My pulse hammers with newfound hope.
There is no way Aaron would rubber stamp this for himself; I would bet money on it.
Whitney folds her arms. “It would generate serious revenue.”
Translation: a shit ton of money.
“It would also generate serious gossip,” legal counters.
“Gossip is free marketing,” marketing chirps back.
I keep my face neutral. Calm. Mildly intrigued, like the rest of them.
Inside, I am spiraling.
Because what happens when some tech billionaire heiress, with an ungodly monthly allowance, decides she wants Aaron Bishop at her side for three evenings in a row?
What happens if she wins?
Because those women are out there.
Those women exist.
And those women—
“Excellent, I love this. Let’s explore it. I want numbers, risk assessment. Player interest.” She rattles off deliverables while her assistant starts typing at lightning speed, legal already nodding like they’re mentally drafting the waiver. “People will be begging for a ticket to this event—it’s going to be irresistible.”
Irresistible.
That’s the problem.
Aaron is already irresistible.
In nine months, during the fundraiser, the guys will be part of the auction to raise money for charity.
Whitney blows through her agenda, assigning committees and deadlines, hitting several more bullet points before ending the meeting.
In slow motion, I gather my notebook.
Glance down at a blank sheet of paper.
I make it back to my desk on autopilot, offering tight smiles to co-workers who are still buzzing about “the player idea.” My inbox is already piling up. Subject lines marked URGENT. Follow-ups. Calendar invites.
The normal stuff…
I’ve been seated maybe three minutes—barely long enough to wake my computer and scroll through social media—when a shadow falls across my cubicle wall.
I look up.
Declan.
He’s leaning against the partition, one shoulder propped on the door, arms folded. This isn’t a casual visit…
“Hey,” he says.
My spine straightens, and I turn toward him in my swivel chair. “Hey.”
He rubs the back of his neck, gaze flicking briefly down the hallway like he’s making sure no one’s hovering. “You busy?”
“Yes,” I say, but a smile tugs at my mouth.
My brother eyes my computer. “Okay. Fair enough.”
There’s an awkward hesitation that follows.
“I, uh, wanted to see if you were hungry for lunch? We can do the cafeteria—nothing fancy.” He shifts his weight. “I feel kind of bad about the other morning.”
Kind of bad?
Ha.
Typical.
Then again, it’s kind of normal for me to judge his verbiage, as his sister. I’ve been doing it since we were kids.
I let him squirm.
Close my laptop and remove my wallet from a drawer. “But ‘kind of bad’ feels like the soft launch to an apology.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Fine. I was out of line.”
Ahh, progress.
I stand, smoothing down the front of my blouse, grabbing my phone and badge. “Okay. I can eat.”
His shoulders visibly relax. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We fall into step, walking side-by-side to the stairwell. Declan takes the stairs two at a time, waiting for me at the top of each landing.
“What a gentleman,” I tell him sarcastically, nudging him aside so he has to follow me into the lunchroom. Ice Wolves staff sit at tables, some of them alone, others in small groups.
A manager or two.
No players.
No top executives.
I grab a tray, load it with soup, a dinner roll, and salad, and walk toward the far end of the room where we’ll have the most amount of privacy for whatever it is Declan wants to say.
He mirrors me—protein-heavy plate, extra fork like he’s about to duel someone with it.
We sit.
There’s a beat of silence while we both unwrap napkins and fiddle with our trays.
Declan exhales first.
“Look,” he starts, eyes on his plate instead of me. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
I wait.
“My tone was out of line.”
Duh.
“I appreciate that,” I say carefully, choosing my words. “But you weren’t out of line—you seemed angry.”
He shrugs. “None of this is about you.”
“You keep saying that.” Yet here we are.
“Because it’s true.” His spoon scrapes against his soup bowl. “I care about you.”
There it is: same line, different phrasing.
“I know you do,” I say evenly, breaking off a chunk of my roll and buttering it to keep my hands from ringing his neck.