Page 48 of Bar Down

Chapter Eleven

Stephanie

Stephanie paced the hotel room, shoes discarded by the door, her stockinged feet silent on the carpet. Her phone sat on the nightstand, face down. She couldn't bear to look at the countdown clock again. Fifty-eight hours and dwindling, with tomorrow's flight back to New Haven eating up precious time they needed to solve this mess.

A soft knock at the door stopped her mid-stride. Her heart skipped, then raced as she checked the peephole—Marcus stood in the hallway, still in his game day suit minus the tie, his features softened in the dim corridor light.

She opened the door, stepping back to let him in. "Did anyone see you?"

"No." Marcus entered, placing his keycard on the dresser. "Most of the team's already in their rooms. Kane and Dmitri went to the hotel bar."

The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. The king-sized bed loomed in her peripheral vision, an unspoken possibility between them.

"I was thinking about the data breach," Marcus said, removing his suit jacket and draping it over the desk chair. "The pattern suggests—"

"Marcus." Stephanie interrupted softly. "Can we not talk about Reed right now?"

He paused, eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "What would you prefer?"

The question hung between them, loaded with everything they'd been circling for weeks. Stephanie stepped forward, abandoning her carefully constructed phrases. Instead, she placed her palm against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath her fingertips.

"I don't want to discuss anything," she said, holding his gaze. "I've spent my whole career finding the right words for every situation. Right now, I'm tired of words."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. His hand came up to cover hers where it rested against his chest, his palm warm and sure.

"You're sure?" he asked, voice deepening to a tone she'd never heard from him before.

In answer, Stephanie rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. Unlike their previous kisses—hurried, stolen moments of lost control—this one began soft and deliberate. An invitation rather than an explosion.

Marcus responded with equal tenderness, his hand sliding to her waist while the other cradled the back of her neck. The gentleness of his touch belied the strength she knew his body possessed, sending a shiver down her spine at the contrast.

When they parted, his eyes searched hers. "Stephanie, if this is about distraction from the situation—"

"It's not," she interrupted, then reconsidered. "Or not entirely. I've wanted this—wanted you—since before Reed made his move. Maybe even since that first press conference where you corrected my player statistics in front of the entire Boston media corps."

A smile played across his lips, transforming his usually serious features. "When you told me I needed to learn the difference between data and narrative?"

"You were insufferable," she murmured, fingers working on the buttons of his dress shirt. "Still are, sometimes."

"You called my analytics 'soulless number-crunching,'" he reminded her, his hands finding the hem of her blouse.

"They were." She helped him ease the silk over her head, suddenly conscious of her simple black bra. The cool air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature. "Until you started seeing the people behind the numbers."

His eyes darkened as they took in her newly revealed skin, a flush spreading across her chest under his gaze. When he looked at her like that—like she was something precious and desired—it stole the breath from her lungs.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, hands hovering just above her skin as if seeking permission.

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