I forget everything—PR disasters, Riley waiting at home, the danger of being seen. None of it matters. This is the only real thing in the room. In the world.
She tastes like defiance. Like everything I shouldn't want. But do.
Her body arches into mine, her free hand sliding up to my jaw, then into my hair. I deepen the kiss, backing her against the railing, trapping her between cold metal and my body. A small sound escapes her throat, and it nearly undoes me.
We break apart, gasping for air—and then there's a flash. Bright, unmistakable.
A figure darts away from the balcony entrance.
"Shit—someone saw," Avery whispers, eyes wide.
I react on instinct, pulling her further along the balcony,into the shadows where the decorative lighting doesn't reach. We press against the wall, hidden from view.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. So does mine. I can still taste her on my lips.
"That shouldn't have happened," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.
"Then why did it?" I counter, still too close, still wanting her.
She straightens, smooths her dress. I watch her armor slide back into place—the professional mask, the composed journalist. It's impressive and frustrating all at once.
"It's fine. Don't worry." Her voice is steady now. "I won't print it."
"And whoever took that photo?"
"Probably not me they're interested in." She adjusts her hair. "You're the story, Carter. Not the reporter who interviewed you."
I try to believe her. Want to believe her. But trust doesn't come easily in my world.
"This was a mistake," she says, more to herself than to me.
"Didn't feel like one."
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, the mask slips. I see want there. Confusion. Maybe even fear. Then it's gone.
"Goodnight, Carter." She steps around me, heading for the door.
"Avery." Her name feels different on my tongue now.
She pauses but doesn't turn. "What?"
I should say something smooth. Something that would make her stay. But all I can think is how quickly she put her walls back up, and how badly I want to tear them down again.
"Nothing. Forget it."
She walks off without another glance.
I give her a five-minute head start before returning to the gala. The party is in full swing, the room hot with bodies andlaughter. I scan the crowd, finding her easily—she's across the room, deep in conversation with an older woman I recognize as Ann Thompson, editor-in-chief at Sports Weekly.
Thompson is gesturing animatedly. Avery's face is professionally neutral, but I catch the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers tighten around her glass.
Hawk materializes at my side, beer in hand. "You disappeared."
"Needed some air."
"Sure you did." He follows my gaze. "Careful with that one, man. She's not like your usual distractions."
"I know."
