Chapter 5 Sloane

By Thursday afternoon, I have developed an unreasonable level of resentment toward one perfectly innocent black dress, although after changing into it, taking it off, trying something else, and putting it back on again, I am beginning to accept that the dress isn’t really the problem.

The problem is Beckett Hayes.

More specifically, the problem is knowing he’ll be at the charity event tonight and caring far more than I should about what I look like when he sees me. This is work, not a date. Tonight should be no different simply because one of the players happens to be a man I once knew, once wanted, and then spent eight years convincing myself I hated.

My phone vibrates on the bed, interrupting the argument I’m having with my reflection, and I find a message from Maya demanding photographic proof that I haven’t worn my “boring navy funeral dress.” I tell her I’m going to work, not seducing anyone, and her response arrives almost immediately.

MAYA: Those things are not mutually exclusive.

I laugh, silence my phone, and leave the apartment before I find another excuse to change.

Forty minutes later, I step into the arena’s event space and understand why Grant has spent most of the week treating Thursday night like a military operation. Heavy curtains hide the rink, low candles and tall arrangements soften the enormous room, and sponsor branding has been incorporated discreetly enough that the space feels expensive rather than commercial. For the next hour, work does exactly what I need it to do, keeping me too busy to think about Beck while I check displays, confirm auction packages, and reassure one nervous sponsor that the team captain will absolutely be available for photographs.

By six-ten, I’m standing near the entrance reviewing the final schedule with Grant when his attention shifts over my shoulder. “Hayes is early. Either something terrible has happened or you’re already having a positive influence.”

I don’t need to turn around to know Beck is approaching.

He’s wearing a black suit with an open-collared white shirt beneath it, and something about tonight is different. Maybe it’s the darker suit or the slightly less controlled hair, but for one completely unnecessary second, every useful thought leaves my head.

“Mercer,” he says when he stops beside Grant.

I tighten my fingers around my tablet. “Hayes.”

Grant looks between us with a sigh. “If you spend the entire evening saying each other’s names like you’re preparing for a duel, I’m retiring.”

Grant hands him a briefing sheet before I can answer. “Primary sponsors are highlighted, photographs start at seven, and don’t disappear before dinner. Sloane, he’s your problem until the reception starts.”

The wording is unfortunate, and Beck’s mouth immediately begins to curve.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Instead of answering, his gaze moves over me, and unlike the deliberately exaggerated inspection he gave me outside my office on Monday, this time he simply looks. The absence of teasing somehow makes me more conscious of the dress than I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror.

When his eyes return to mine, his expression has changed. “You look beautiful.”

The compliment lands with more force than it has any right to, because there is no smirk attached to it. “You have sponsors waiting.”

“That wasn’t a thank-you.”

“It was the closest you’re getting.”

His quiet laugh follows him as he heads into the room, leaving me irritated by how long the warmth of his attention remains after he’s gone.

Within twenty minutes, I discover something else inconvenient about Beck: he’s exceptionally good at this. The arrogance disappears when he speaks to donors, replaced by an easy confidence that never feels rehearsed, and he remembers names, asks thoughtful questions, and makes people laugh without appearing desperate to escape. Watching him creates another uncomfortable crack in the version I’ve carried around for eight years, because the selfish, reckless man I expected to find doesn’t seem to exist anywhere except inside my memories.

“You’re staring.”

I turn to find Carter beside me with two glasses of champagne and an expression suggesting he’s been waiting for an opportunity to cause trouble. When he offers me one, I accept it mostly because refusing would look defensive.

“I’m working.”

“Very intensely in the captain’s direction.” Carter takes a drink before nodding toward the room. “Are we still getting that drink afterward?”

My first instinct is to look for Beck, which is precisely why I force myself not to. Carter is attractive, funny, and apparently interested, while refusing him because his best friend might dislike it would give Beck an authority over my personal life that I’ve already told him he doesn’t possess.

“One drink.”

Carter raises his glass. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Only then do I look across the room.

Beck is already watching us.

He’s standing with one of the primary sponsors, but the polite smile on his face disappears when Carter leans closer to hear me over the music. His gaze moves briefly to the champagne in my hand before returning to Carter, and the unmistakable irritation in his expression sends something warm and dangerously satisfying through me.

Carter follows my attention and laughs quietly. “He’s going to murder me.”

“You are doing this on purpose.”

“Not entirely.”

Before I can ask what that means, Beck appears beside us. He doesn’t touch me, although his hand hovers near my elbow for a fraction of a second before falling back to his side.

“Mercer, Callahan needs you.”

I glance around him. “Where?”

“Other side of the room.”

Carter’s mouth twitches, and I immediately know Beck is lying.

“Did Grant actually send you?”

Beck hesitates. “Would I lie?”

“Repeatedly and with alarming confidence.”

“Fair.”

Carter laughs into his champagne, earning himself a look from Beck that would probably intimidate someone who hadn’t made irritating him a personal hobby.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Beck asks.

“Not particularly.”

“Find somewhere.”

I stare at him, unable to believe we’re doing this again. “You don’t get to dismiss people because they’re talking to me.”

His attention returns to me, and although the irritation remains, his voice softens. “I know.”

“Good. Then we’re making progress.”

For a moment, I think that will end it, but Beck glances toward Carter before looking back at me. “Knowing I don’t get a say doesn’t mean I have to enjoy watching him flirt with you.”

My heartbeat changes, and suddenly the room feels warmer despite the space between us. “Why would you care?”

Carter becomes suspiciously quiet beside me, apparently deciding that even he doesn’t want to interrupt whatever is happening.

Beck’s eyes settle on mine. “Because I don’t like him looking at you like that.”

There is nothing protective or brotherly in his expression, and the realization sends a slow shiver down my spine. Carter clears his throat and murmurs something about finding another drink before disappearing, but neither Beck nor I pays much attention.

“You said you weren’t jealous,” I remind him.

Beck holds my gaze, and for once there is no joke, deflection, or carefully constructed answer.

“I lied.”