Page 36 of How to Play the Player
Before I can respond, the office door opens as Jonathan returns.
“Sorry about that,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Kiera sends her regards, Quinn.”
And just like that, the moment—whatever it was—has left the building. That professional mask of his slowly makes its appearance again as I thank Jonathan and confirm our next meeting.
Leaving Jonathan’s office, I look back at Nathan. We’re supposed to win against each other. For very high stakes. But what is this energy between us? I don’t recognize it. It’s not our usual antagonism, nor is it attraction. Rather, it’s some combination of both—perhaps a toxic blend. I don’t trust it. And I’m probably being smart by not trusting it. Regardless, I need to keep myself in control.
This job is too important for me to lose to Nathan before I’ve even had a chance to fight. I can’t jeopardize my career just because of some complicated feelings for a man who still, and perhaps always will, think the absolute worst of me.
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday, 8 p.m
The Brick
Nathan
There are three consistent things at the Brick: whiskey, comfort food, and the subtle hint of polished wood. The Brick has been a constant in the city’s nightlife. For tonight, Jonathan had reserved the back section for our “small get-together”—which, by Knight standards, means thirty of our closest friends and business associates.
The celebration is already in full swing. Just minutes ago, Jonathan and Kiera had made their big announcement—“It's a boy!”—to thunderous applause and congratulations. The mood is electric, everyone riding high on the news the Knight family will soon have a new member. The thought of becoming an uncle feels surreal.
I scan the crowd, nodding at familiar faces as I make my way toward the bar. Jake and Mia are already here, cuddled ata booth by the window, deep in conversation. Their happiness is palpable even from across the room—all soft touches and shared laughter. A twinge of something I refuse to call envy pinches at my chest before I push it down.
“The usual?” Ian calls from behind the bar when he spots me.
“Make it a double,” I reply, unbuttoning my suit jacket.
I’d spent the day fielding calls from investors while simultaneously replaying yesterday’s meeting with Quinn in my mind. The way she’d handled that social media troll had been nothing short of brilliant—quick thinking that had impressed even Jonathan. And that reluctant appreciation had only heightened my awareness of her, making it harder to maintain the professional detachment I need to win our bet.
Ian sets my drink on the bar with practiced precision. “You look like today ran you over.”
“You could say that.” I take a generous sip, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. “Looks like a good turnout.”
“Your brother knows how to throw a party.” Ian glances over my shoulder, his expression shifting subtly. “Incoming.”
I don’t need to turn around to know who he means. The energy in the room changes—a subtle shift in the atmosphere that I’ve grown painfully attuned to over the past week. My body reacts before my brain catches up, every nerve ending suddenly, traitorously alert. My dick stands painfully at full attention, and I have yet to set my eyes on her.
Quinn.
She moves through the crowd with practiced ease, Lyla at her side. The dark green dress my ex is wearing is simultaneously modest and devastating—a T-shirt neckline balanced by a hemline that showcases her legs, legs I remember wrapped around my waist in darker hours. Her bright hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. And her lips are painted a soft pink that draws my gaze despite my best intentions.
For a heartbeat, I allow myself to simply look—to acknowledge the undeniable pull she still exerts, like gravity’s persistent tug. Then I remind myself of the stakes and school my features into casual indifference, though I don’t know how much longer I can use this expression to fool her into thinking I don’t give a shit.
“Number two?” Ian asks, nodding to my now-empty glass.
“Not yet,” I decline, deciding not to get completely trashed. At least not until later. The night is still young. “I’ll switch to a light beer.”
“You got it, man.” Ian is quick to hand me a bottle as I continue to look in Quinn’s direction.
She eventually sees me at the bar. I shift my posture, straightening my shoulders. She wears a professional armor as obvious as a large piece of jewelry. It’s subtle until you notice it.
She says something to Lyla before turning to Jonathan and Kiera, deliberately avoiding me.
Smart move. The less we interact, the easier it’ll be for both of us. But could this bet already getting to her as much as it is to me?
“You’re staring.” Kami’s voice interrupts my thoughts as she slides onto the barstool beside me. “And not very subtly.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflect, taking a swig of my beer.
