Page 46 of Dirty As Puck
I should stay detached. I should take notes, ask pointed questions about the event, about the team, about the charity itself. But instead, I find myself measuring every interaction, every laugh, every brush of hair behind an ear, mentally tallying how much of him they can have without my interference. The brown-eyed monster I try so hard to suppress for weeks flares violently, leaving me uncomfortably aware of the heat coiling inside my chest.
Kai turns slightly, and I see the subtle flex of his arm as one particularly stunning redhead monopolizes his attention all forherself. Her hand lingers on his bicep for much longer than necessary. She keeps her lips close to his ears, whispering and laughing as she does. It pisses me off that he lets her, not with disinterest, but with that effortless control of the charming presence he always has. My stomach clenches. That could be me. It should be me, but I have no grounds to demand his presence tonight.
I force my gaze back to the notebook I haven’t touched in minutes, scribbling nonsense to mask the fact I am barely listening to the other players being interviewed nearby. My fingers trace invisible patterns on the page as my eyes keep darting back to him, watching the easy sway of his movements, the way he laughs politely at jokes, the way other women lean just a little too close.
“Ms. Winters,” a photographer’s assistant mutters, startling me. “Ready for some shots of the team?”
I nod, plastering on a professional smile, the kind I use to fool fellow reporters and teammates alike. But inside, I’m boiling. Jealousy and desire collide, threatening to erase every ounce of objectivity and logic I have left in me for tonight.
I can see him now, turning slightly towards me again, catching my gaze. That same smirk, half-mocking and half-challenging, as if he knows exactly what is running through my head. I hate him for it, and yet, I hate him even more for how much it makes me ache and crave for him. I remind myself over and over that this is his world––the gala room, the attention, and the power he wields so effortlessly, and I am just trying to navigate it without losing my mind.
The night presses on, with drinks flowing, and soft music threading through conversations, and I realize that I am no longer just observing him. I am internalizing everything. Thetouches, the laughter, and the way his eyes softens slightly when he glances at me, acknowledging me in that unique, maddening way.
My professional instincts and personal turmoil collide, leaving me jittery, flushed, and painfully aware that the jealousy I feel is only part of the dangerous attraction that has been building between us from the very first glance.
By the time I end the interviews and moved to the edge of the bar, I can’t look away. Kai Morrison, surrounded by admirers, by women who have no idea what kind of man he truly was, dominates every corner of my attention. My pen and notebook feel useless in my hands. The story I am here to tell suddenly seem secondary to the storm raging inside me. And deep down, I know that storm isn’t going anywhere tonight.
I take a deep breath and weave my way through the crowd, notebook in hand, pretending my pen and paper are my shield. There he is again in my line of sight, Kai Morrison, effortlessly charming as always, and that redhead laughing too loudly at something he’s saying, her hand brushing his arm like she owns a piece of him. My chest tightens, heat pooling low in my stomach, and I force my expression into professional neutrality.
“Excuse me,” I say smoothly, sliding between them. “I need a few quotes for the article if you have a moment.”
Kai’s eyes flick up, catching mine instantly. That smirk of his, the one that could disarm anyone, sharpens with amusement. “Ah, Ms. Winters,” he drawls, his gaze sweeping me from head to toe before settling on my face. “Problem?”
I clench my jaw subtly, willing the irritation and possessiveness out of my tone. “Just doing my job,” I say, my voice clipped, though I can’t hide the underlying edge. My fingers tightenaround the notebook. Every instinct screams that this isn’t about getting quotes. It’s about staking my claim, making it clear without saying it outright that he isn’t free game for anyone tonight.
The redhead’s laugh falters slightly as she notices the tension crackling around us. I keep my posture straight, but inside I am a raging storm––jealous, aroused, frustrated. I’m not supposed to feel territorial over a man that I’m still pretending to keep at arm’s length but seeing him with her or any other woman tonight makes something coil tight and dangerous in my chest.
Kai leans back slightly, his smirk widening. “Territorial much?” he teases, the amusement in his voice piercing like a knife. “Or is that just your professional veil?”
I force a tight-lipped smile, pretending his teasing doesn’t sting. “Professional,” I reply smoothly. But my gaze doesn’t waver, and I let just enough heat slip through my expression to make him pause, to remind him I’m not oblivious to the effect he has on me or how I feel about him and how far I’d let myself go tonight.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tug-of-war, and glances toward the redhead. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You might be showing more investment than you intend to.”
I ignore the deliberate teasing and focus on my mission, which has nothing to do with covering the event, and everything to do with asserting the claim I’m not supposed to admit I even want.
“Now, if you could just answer a few questions…” I gesture at the notebook, voice calm, professional. But the unspoken message radiates, that this is my space, my right to approach you, and I’m not stepping back.
Kai’s smirk softens into something more deliberate, knowing and almost approving. I can see it in the way his eyes linger, thesubtle nod that acknowledges my assertion. It drives me mad, the way he seems to see everything. My pretense, my jealousy, my desire, and still chooses to play along.
I take a final mental note of the redhead stepping aside, distracted by some other guest, and turn my attention fully to Kai, hiding the rapid thrum of my pulse. The professional mask is intact, but underneath, I know the truth. I am far more invested in him than I’d ever intended. Far more tangled, far more vulnerable. And there is no undoing it tonight, or perhaps ever.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says with a glint in his eyes and something in his tone.
“Wh––” I begin and cut myself off.Where the hell is he going?
I watch as he walks away.
16
I leave Rochelle Winters standing there dumfounded, and I can’t help but feel a pang of satisfaction. God, she looks infuriatingly good tonight, red dress tailored just right, her hair up in a neat ponytail, pen and notepad in hand, trying and failing spectacularly to look like she’s immune to me. But I know better.
What she just did was claiming territory, and I’m curious about how far she’ll push. I steal a glance at her and can see it in her jaw, the quick tightening of her grip on the pen, the subtle flare of her nostrils. She’s jealous, and I know it. And damn if it doesn’t make a part of me gleam with pride. I have her right where I want her. Aching.
I glide over to the bar, casually nodding to the socialites and puck bunnies circling around me like metal to magnet. They’re dressed to kill, heels clicking, champagne in hand, all vying for my attention. And I let them have it, just enough of it. A handbrushes my arm, a teasing laugh in response to something one of them says, a polite compliment, and a wink I don’t really mean. I can see Rochelle’s gaze tracking every move I make. Her eyes narrow with each deliberate gesture.
“Really, Morrison?” the redhead circles back around. “That reporter wants her claws in you. What did you do wrong this time?”
I smile, light and charming, letting my hand linger where it doesn’t need to, leaning just close enough to make Rochelle’s muscles twitch with irritation across the room. The thrill is immediate, intoxicating. I catch her glance, that sharp flicker of possessiveness she tries so hard to hide, and I let it draw me in. It’s a game now. Her professional facade crumbles with every touch, every laugh, every casual brush of my fingers along an arm or back. She hates that it gets under her skin. And I love it.
