Page 7 of Wild Card
I smile, my fingers tracing patterns on his stomach. "We should do it again sometime."
He looks at me like a kid who just got a toy from Santa. “Not right now.” I clarify.
He laughs. What have I just done?
CHAPTER
THREE
PRESLEY
I’m standingin the lobby of the Citadel, holding two cups of coffee. I take the elevator up to the security floor, breathing in the scent of her espresso bar blend—some fancy roast with a name I had to say twice at the café downstairs. The girl behind the counter smirked when I ordered it.
“Hot date?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I said.
Truth? I have no idea how this is going to go.
Last night was… intense. A spark. A surprise. The best fucking surprise, but now I don’t know what to say. I’m walking in with coffee like some peace offering in a paper cup.
I find her already glued to the monitors, her posture straight, her focus razor-sharp. She doesn’t see me at first. I clear my throat gently and hold out the cup. “Morning.”
She turns, startled—and just for a second, her expression softens. “You know my order?”
“Hazelnut oat milk latte, half sweet, extra shot.” I shrug. “Even smug bastards can have good memories.”
She takes it slowly, eyeing me like I might’ve poisoned it. “Thanks,” she mutters, then adds, “But don’t think this makes up for anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She takes a sip, and I swear I catch the smallest sigh of satisfaction. It’s like watching ice melt.
“About last night…” I start, leaning against the desk beside her. “I meant what I said. It was amazing.”
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps sipping her coffee, eyes on the screen. “It was a mistake.”
“But anamazingmistake,” I add, nudging her shoulder with mine. “If we’re scoring things accurately.”
She finally turns, eyes cool but not unkind. “Presley, come on. It happened. It’s over. We were tired. The adrenaline was high. It was just… something we had to get out of our system.”
I nod, trying to play it off like that doesn’t sting just a little. “Right. One-time thing. I hear you.”
“Good.”
“But,” I say, watching her closely, “you and I both know that if something needs to begotten outof our systems, it probably means it’s stillinthere to begin with.”
Her jaw tenses. For a moment, it looks like she might argue—but she just exhales and turns back to the monitor.
I let the silence settle between us, not pushing. Just being there. Letting the scent of coffee and the glow of security footage fill the space.
Truth is, I didn’t bring her that drink to score points. I brought it because I wanted a reason to see her relax. To see her look at me like I wasn’t just some smug rival from across the Strip. Even if she won’t admit it—there’s something here.
“There,” I say, pointing to the grainy footage on the center monitor. “Pause. Zoom in.”
Aria’s already ahead of me, fingers flying across the keyboard. The image tightens—security cam footage from the Citadel’s private elevator bay, timestamped two nights ago.
And there she is.
