Page 37 of Game Misconduct
The press conference ends in a blur of flashes and questions I don’t bother remembering. My jaw aches from clenching, my palms damp inside the cuffs of my suit.
I shove back from the table, cutting through the bodies, and slip down a side corridor just to breathe.
Thank fuck it’s empty out here.
Pacing back and forth in the hallway, I blow out a series of short breaths to battle back the anxiety nipping at my throat.
A couple moments later, my heartbeat returns to normal, andI let the stoic mask slide back into place just before opening the door…
And slamming straight into Sloane.
A muffled “oof” comes from her, and my hands shoot out to grip her elbows to keep her upright.
But touching her is a bad, bad idea.
She’s cool steel. Untouchable with her crisp lines, sharp heels, and not a hair out of place.
She looks like the lights don’t touch her,—like she eats fire for breakfast and calls it protein.
I’m all sweat-slick under my jacket, heat crawling down my spine.
And I feel about a million years old standing next to her.
“Watch where you’re going, Sloane.”
My tone is sharp, even condescending, but I can’t let her see any of my cracks.
Her eyes narrow when they meet mine, and she pulls out of my grasp.
“Me? You opened the door like you were trying to pull it off the hinges.”
She smooths down her blazer and lifts her chin, somehow staring down at me even though I’ve got several inches on her.
And that little defiant move makes me want to shove her against the wall and kiss that red war paint off her full lips.
“You enjoy pulling my strings up there?” The words scrape low, half snarl, half something else.
Her eyes flash, quick as a whip. “Someone has to keep you from strangling yourself with them.”
I step closer, not even meaning to, until the space between us is measured in heartbeats.
The faint edge of her perfume threads the air, and it’s like it was custom made for her. Clean, sharp, and nothing soft about it.
My chest tightens against the heat rolling off her, the way she stands her ground instead of backing down.
“You think you’ve got me leashed?” I murmur. “Careful, old dogs like me bite.”
Her chin tips up, mouth curving in a blade of a smile. “Good thing I don’t scare easy.”
The air snaps, charged enough to burn. My pulse drums in my ears, her gaze locked on mine like neither of us is willing to give the first inch.
Footsteps echo down the hall, and the spell fractures.
With one last look, she turns on her heels and walks away, each step deliberate, leaving me strung tight.
Her heels fade, but the scent of her lingers, sharp as ozone after a storm.
My hands flex at my sides, restless, like I need something to hold onto.
