Page 115 of Hard to Judge

Catcalls. Whistles. Hoots. Hollers. Some boos.

I don’t care about any of it. I only care about the two people whose lips are on mine. The two people who own my heart.

My phone buzzes as it has every day for the last two days. Nine a.m. sharp. A Japanese country code. Unprogrammed number. Like each day before, I don’t answer it. The robot or caller does not leave a message.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and continue down the corridor. The newspaper folded under my arm burns me the whole way.

Mio sees me coming and stands. Her tiny hands folded primly over her perfect violet suit. It sets off her long black hair pinned neatly at the base of her skull. “He has a nine o’clock meeting.”

“In there?” I point at the massive double doors.

Her perfectly bowed lips scrunch. “They’re running late. Traffic, but they should be here?—”

“I’ll leave when they arrive,” I say, pushing into the office without knocking. The man’s been in my ass and my throat. I’m not knocking. Not that I did before.

He’s pacing behind his desk. His laptop is open on it and stacks of papers strewn across the surface. Pie charts. Graphs. Spreadsheets. All forgotten.

“What’s wrong?” I close the door and stride toward him, having a feeling I know. It does nothing for the heartburn searing my inside since my first gulp of tea.

“Just a meeting.” He looks at his timepiece. “They’re due any minute.”

“You’re never nervous for meetings.” I pull the paper from under my arm and try not to wrinkle it with my grip.

“It’s a buyout.”

“You don’t do buyouts anymore.” He only stops pacing when I block his path.

“It’s a bit of a favor.” He runs a hand over his face.

The tightness of his jaw and the furrow of his brow make my insides tight. Tight and burning. Not a good combo.

“Hailey’s charity is rubbing off on you?”

“Something like that.” He sighs. “What do you have for me?”

I grab his face and kiss him, needing the contact before I blow this up in our faces. His hand goes around my throat and he pulls me closer, invading my mouth with his tongue.

We don’t kiss at work. Not when people are here, anyway. His possessive reaction and groan make my head floaty and my dick as hard as the rods running through it.

Too soon, he pulls back.

“I…” Arlo says.

At the same time, I blurt, “We…”

“Go ahead.” He rubs his thumb over my lower lip and then steps to a respectable distance.

I hate that distance, but it’s prudent. Or it would be if I hadn’t already blown the lid off this thing we have going. Whatever it is.

“We made the front page of the sports section, plus an article on page six.” I unfold the paper and show him theNew YorkTimesarticle with a picture of the three of us in a lip-lock taking up the top fold with the headline, “Rangers Win While Fans Score.” The article doesn’t name us.Yet. It’s only a matter of time. Right now, their angle is LGTBQ+ inclusion in sports. The pros and cons.

Fucking cons? My eyes would roll if this wasn’t so damn serious.

“Should have made the front page, period.” Arlo takes the paper and studies the image. The corner of his mouth tips up. “That’s fuckin’ hot.”

My jaw detaches and lands somewhere around my wingtips’ laces. “You’re not worried?”

“About what?” he says, still gawking at the pic of us kissing.

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