Page 80 of Game Misconduct
“Boss lady,” he grins, bowing low in mock chivalry, “you’re too radiant to be wasted on the suits. Give a real guy a spin.”
I roll my eyes but let him tug me back out.
He keeps it clean—for Finn—but his mischief is impossible to miss.
He twirls me a little too dramatically, cracks a joke loud enough for half the room to hear, and has the donors laughing along with us by the time the music shifts.
“Behave,” I murmur under my breath.
He winks. “This is me behaving.”
When he spins me out for the last time, Logan is there to catch me.
Smooth, polished, the perfect transition. His hand at my waist is respectful, his smile practiced but not empty.
He knows exactly how to make this look effortless, like the whole thing was planned.
“Donors are eating this up,” he murmurs low, glancing toward the tables. “You’re making us look like an organization that knows how to shine.”
“That’s the point.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Not all of us need lessons.”
I don’t rise to the bait. I just hold his gaze and let the silence answer for me.
When Logan spins me out for the last time, Beau is there to catch me.
Smooth and solid, his palm steady at my waist, his movements confident without showboating.
“You’re keeping the boys on their best behavior tonight,” he says, keeping his voice low.
I smile, a quiet hum in my throat. “No easy feat let me assure you.”
I’ve danced several songs in a row with nearly all of my players.
Except the one I really want to be held by.
My body hums with the press of too many hands, too many eyes.
Griffin stands near the edge of the floor, watching with arms crossed, a faint smirk curving his mouth like he knows exactly what game is being played.
Maddox sits in shadow, tie loosened, drink in hand.
He hasn’t moved once—not to dance, not to smile, not to look anywhere but me.
His eyes brand me with every step I take, every polite laugh I give, every palm I let rest against my back.
And when I finally return to my seat, flushed and breathless, I swear I can still feel him watching.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maddox
I watchas she laughs at something Griffin says at the table, head tilted just enough to show off the line of her throat.
I clench my jaw and lift the glass of bourbon to my lips without tasting it.
Every fucking time I think I’ve gotten over it—over her—she does something else that pulls the rug out from under me.
