Page 60 of Double Standards
I turn to Ryder, who’s furiously tapping at his phone. “Any news on when your old man’s stepping down?”
He pockets the phone and shoves a hand through his hair. “He keeps changing the benchmark,” he mutters.
“What is it this time?” I ask with a sigh.
He hesitates, casting a side-eye at Hunter—who’s now watching him like a hawk. Hunter knows something.
“Ryder?” I press, sharper this time.
He steps forward, palms flat on the desk, eyes locked on mine. There’s something unspoken behind them. A silent plea. I nod once—message received.
“We’ll talk later,” I say, and he steps back without another word.
“We done here?” Trigger asks, already half-rising. I get it. He doesn’t do well sitting still, and he’s got that itch to keep moving.
“One last thing,” I add, pulling them back in. “Cassie warned me there might be an article coming out. Cooper’s behind it. She says it could ruin her, and from what I know, he’s got a personal vendetta against me.”
Trigger cracks his knuckles like he’s ready to hunt Cooper down right now. Hunter’s wide-eyed, alert. Max doesn’t say a word, but the color in his face shifts—he’s taking it personally too. They all nod without hesitation.
Good. I can’t risk the Five for one woman—but I also won’t let her get torn apart.
“What do you need from us?” Ryder asks, his voice steady, eager to help when he’s not leashed by his father’s games.
“Just a message. A soft one. Enough to spook him.” I flash a grin. “He’ll get the point.”
Ryder squints. “You sure that’s all it’ll take? He’s going after you in print. Guy must have a death wish.”
“He’s testing the waters,” I reply, rubbing my face, already exhausted by the circus. “Didn’t expect Cassie to tell me. But she did. That says enough.”
Ryder nods, accepting the task. I turn to Max, who slides an envelope across the table. He doesn’t say anything, but the tight set of his jaw tells me I was right about what’s inside.
I smirk and pick up the envelope, leaving it unopened for now. Whatever’s in it just gave me leverage. All that’s left is deciding how to use it.
An hour later, everyone’s clearing out. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork and a headache fighting for dominance. I don’t make it far into either—my thoughts keep circling back to Cassie and that red dress.
The way it clung to her, the way she looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to run or lean in closer. Like she didn’t know if she was about to drown or be saved. Hell, maybe both. I should be focused on logistics, deals, the fallout from Cooper’s little vendetta. Instead, I’m picturing her laugh echoing through this house like it belonged here. Like she belonged here.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake her off, but she’s everywhere. In the scent still lingering in the sheets, in the lipstick stain on the coffee mug she didn’t take with her, in the heat that hasn’t quite left my skin. I’m used to distractions, but not like this. Not the kind that leaves me feeling like I missed something important the second she walked out that door.
The worst part? I let her go. I let her think she was just passing through.
And now I can’t stop wondering if she will.
Chapter Twenty-One
The snow comes down hard as I trudge my way to Lexie’s apartment, heels wobbling with every step and bare legs screaming at me for wearing this damn dress. It’s freezing, and I look like the aftermath of a walk of shame—though technically, nothing happened. Not that anyone will believe that.
I’ve always trusted the weather like it’s a forecast for my life—moody, dramatic, and a little dangerous. It’s almost fitting seeing as there was no weather warning last night.
Lexie spots me from the kitchen as I push through the door, her grin wide and knowing. She leans over the counter like she’s been waiting to ambush me. Two mugs of coffee sit in front of her, steam curling up like a welcome-home banner.
“Hey, dirty stop-out,” she teases, raising one brow.
I zero in on the coffee like a heat-seeking missile, arms outstretched, eyes locked. “One of those better be for me,” I gasp, voice shaking as my teeth practically chatter out a Morse code forsuffering.
Lexie offers me a mug—then yanks it back before I can grab it. “Gossip first.”
I groan and slump onto the stool at the counter, trying not todie from cold or caffeine deprivation. “We made out. We talked. We fell asleep. That’s it. Now give me the damn coffee.”
