Page 42 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“I hate places like this.”

I nod in agreement with Marshall.

The space is opulent, draped in luxury that feels a world away. Golds and dark woods reflect the soft lighting while a jazz quartet thread notes of sophistication through the air. Marshall’s ears are more than likely close to bleeding.

“We need to work the room,” I claim evenly. “Networking, remember?”

“I do enough of that on my own time,” he argues.

I open my mouth to tell him we can cut out in an hour when he heads for the bar.

“I’m going to go grab a drink.”

Poor guy.

I watch him disappear amongst the crowd of women whose gazes follow him with hunger and planning. One of them, if not several, will try to get him home tonight.

I’d put money on it.

“You’ve got me fucked up if you didn’t think I was going to hunt you down, Snowflake. Especially when you haven’t heard my piece yet.”

My heart lurches into my throat as the familiar voice licks up my spine. And then, he’s right there.

Right in front of me.

The room tilts a little as he moves towards me, that disarming smile in place, but his eyes hold mine with an intensity that burns through the surprise.

My breath catches, and I'm vividly aware of everything—his scent, those beautiful green eyes underneath a black cap to hide his identity.

He shouldn’t be here.

And he shouldn’t know where I am, either.

However, I bet you a hundred bucks that he got those details from someone on his team, and they’re giving him the information he needs to get to me.

“What in the world are you doing here?” I grind out, but my voice holds no actual irritation. I’m shell-shocked that he’s within my space and here at this stupid party. “You’re not supposed—”

"I went for a long shot," he replies placidly. “I needed to see you."

No.

I glance around, aware of the potential spectacle, the curious eyes on us at any moment, and the implications it might cause if someone notices him. “You have to go.”

“You have to hear my side.”

“Dude, read the room.” I send a glare his way, hoping he’ll catch my meaning. I’m not playing around anymore. All it will take is one picture of us together, and we’re toast. “I’m not doing this now, Wells. Get out.”

“Rory, please,” he mutters. “It’s not what it looked like. I can—”

“Oh my God, this isn’t the time,” I practically whine as anxiety creeps up my throat. “My boss is going to be here any minute.”

And then I’m going to have to explain…you.

I don't think that Marshall is a hockey fan, but I still don’t want to discuss Wells.

“Is that the guy who had his arm wrapped around you?”

His question pulls me back to the present, to the weight of the choices I've made since he last held me in a way I couldn't help but lean into.

---