Page 85 of Game Misconduct
“Yeah. She can. Don’t forget it.”
And then he walks off, back toward her table, sliding into the seat beside her like he’s always belonged there.
I’m still watching when she turns her head just enough to glance my way.
It’s brief.
Barely a second.
But it hits like a punch to the chest.
Because that look—sharp and soft and knowing—that’s not the kind of look you give to someone who means nothing.
That’s the kind you give to someone you don’t want to mean everything.
Fuck the drink — I need air.
I head outside, drink in hand, and shit, I wish I smoked. It sounds like the kind of thing that would help right now.
Instead, I pace the sidewalk beside the front entrance like acaged panther. Gala attendees linger at the valet stand, their laughter looser now—glazed from champagne and ego.
I catch a flash of that green that’s burned into my brain.
Sloane.
She stands near the front entrance, Griffin a step behind her, murmuring something too low for me to hear. She smiles—small, polite—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
The valet pulls her car up.
She thanks him with a nod, slipping into the back seat like she’s done it a thousand times.
Like she didn’t just light my whole fucking night on fire with a look.
Griffin doesn’t get in. He stays behind, phone in hand, giving her space.
Good.
I stay half in shadow, jaw locked, watching her car ease down the drive and disappear into the dark.
I could’ve said something. Could’ve walked her out. Could’ve offered to take her home.
But I didn’t.
Because she’s my boss.
Because she’s too young.
Because the line between us is already frayed to hell, and if I cross it now, I won’t stop.
My grip tightens around the empty glass in my hand.
She doesn’t need a man like me.
Doesn’t need the baggage or the bruises I carry.
But Christ…
I want her anyway.
