Page 5 of Wild Card
When he’s quiet, I catch myself studying his hands — steady, confident, always in motion. When he talks, I find myself listening harder than I mean to, caught up in the way his voice wraps around the details.
I shouldn’t notice any of this. But I do. And when our fingers brush over the same paper, I feel it like static — sharp, quick, and gone too fast. We both freeze for a second. His eyes lift to mine, and suddenly the air between us feels smaller. Denser.
“Sorry,” I say, too quickly, pulling my hand back.
“No need to be,” he murmurs.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. If the thief used the Citadel tunnels, they would’ve had to bypass at least three motion sensors. We both know that’s not easy.”
He nods slowly. “So whoever did it knows the systems inside and out. Could be a former employee. Could be someone on the inside right now.”
“Or,” I say, crossing my arms, “someone who thinks they’re smarter than everyone else.”
He looks up, that grin tugging at his mouth again. “You talking about me or the thief?”
“Both,” I shoot back.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “You really can’t help it, can you?”
“What?”
“Pushing me,” he says. “Every time I think you might be warming up to me, you hit me with another jab.”
I bite back a smile. “You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe.” He looks down at the maps again, then adds quietly, “But maybe not.”
The clock on the wall ticks. The air feels warmer somehow.
I take a slow breath, trying to steady myself. This is business. Professional. Just two rival security directors chasing a lead. That’s it. The more I tell myself this, the less temptation there will be… at least in theory.
Presley leans over the table, reviewing a map again, and I’m still arguing about one of his theories. “That doesn’t make sense,” I tell him, circling a point with my pen. “If they came through the service corridor, the cameras in the freight elevator would’ve picked them up.”
“They didn’t,” he says, looking up at me. “You saw the footage yourself.”
“Yes, but?—”
He moves closer, eyes locked on mine. “Then how do you explain it?”
I hate that I don’t have an answer. I hate that his confidence rattles me more than I’d ever admit. The silence stretches between us, heavy, charged, and when he steps just a little closer, I forget what I was going to say.
There’s that look again—the one that drives me crazy. Amusement mixed with curiosity, as if he’s trying to figure me out.
And before I can even think to stop it, he kisses me.
It’s quick. A heartbeat. A spark that shouldn’t have happened.
I pull back immediately, breath catching. “Presley?—”
He looks startled too, eyes wide, like he didn’t plan it any more than I did.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. I can still feel the warmth of it, and I hate that part of me wants it back.
I take a step back, crossing my arms tightly. “That was unprofessional.”
He nods, quiet. “Yeah. It was.”
I expect him to smirk or make some smart remark, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me—really looks at me—and there’s something raw in his expression.
