Page 37 of How to Play the Player

Kami follows my gaze to where Quinn now stands, laughing at something Kiera has said. “Right. And I’m secretly the Queen of England.”

“Why don’t you go annoy your fiancé?” I nod toward Ian, who’s mixing drinks at the other end of the bar.

“We’ve been over this. I’m multitasking.” She grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “So how’s the bet going? Still determined to prove you can resist the only woman who’s ever tied you in knots?”

I nearly choke on my beer. “How the hell do you know about that?”

“Jake tells Mia everything, and well…women talk.” She shrugs, unapologetic. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t gone beyond our little circle. Yet.”

Great. Just what I need—a bigger audience for this mess.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Just a professional disagreement that got…escalated.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kami’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “So that’s why you haven’t taken your eyes off her since she walked in. Very professional. Great strategy you got here.”

Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, the opening notes of a slow song fill the room. I recognize it immediately—one of those ballads that was everywhere last summer, the kind that seems specifically engineered to get couples on the dance floor.

Jonathan leads Kiera to the center of the room, his hand resting protectively over her slightly rounded belly as they begin to sway to the music. Others join them—Jake and Mia, Ian pulling a laughing Kami away from me and toward the makeshift dance floor.

Which leaves Quinn standing alone at the edge of the crowd, Lyla nowhere to be seen. I watch her as she looks to the couples with an expression I can’t quite decipher from this distance.

I’m suddenly compelled to move toward her—some reckless impulse I should absolutely ignore. Setting my beer bottle down at the bar, I let my feet carry me forward anyway, weaving through clusters of guests until I’m standing beside her. Her signature scent wraps around me—that distinctive blend of lilies with vanilla undertones that I’d recognize anywhere.

“Would you like to dance?” What the fuck am I doing? I have no idea. Yet for some reason, I don’t give a shit.

Quinn seems just as surprised as I feel, her eyes wide with shock. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she says, though she continues to stare at the dancing couples with what I deduce to be longing.

“You’re right, it probably wouldn’t be,” I agree, holding out my hand anyway. “But it would look strange if we avoided each other all night when we’re supposed to be working together professionally.”

She weighs my reasoning, clearly suspicious of my motives. “One dance,” she finally concedes, placing her hand in mine. “For appearances’ sake.”

The moment our palms connect, electricity shoots through my veins, a jolt so visceral it nearly stops my breath. Her skin is soft, warm—achingly familiar against mine. I guide her to the edge of the dance floor, intending to maintain a respectable distance, but a need deep within my chest has other ideas. My hand settles at her waist, fingers splaying slightly against the silky fabric of her dress, feeling the heat of her beneath.

“You look beautiful,” I say, the words escaping before I can censor them. Her scent surrounds me to where it’s almost intoxicating. My memory spirals back to all the nights we shared with her hair spread across my bed.

“Thank you.” Her response is cautious, but I don’t miss how her pupils dilate slightly, betraying her own reaction. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Silence falls between us again. But we move together with the practiced ease that comes from having memorized each other’s bodies; muscle memory seems to guide our steps in perfect synchronization. Each turn brings her incrementally closer. The space between us shrinks with each beat of the music. I feel goose bumps rise along my skin.

“How’s your laptop?” I find myself asking, remembering how it had died during yesterday’s meeting and feeling a need to fill the silence.

She hesitates. “Still temperamental. Why?”

“Just making conversation.” I shrug, maintaining the careful rhythm of our dance. “You mentioned it’s been acting strange for a while.”

“It has.” Something in her expression shifts. “I’m surprised you care about my technology troubles.”

“Consider it professional courtesy,” I counter smoothly. “Nothing more.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, searching my face. “Right. Because everything between us is strictly professional now.”

The challenge in her tone—so familiar, so Quinn—ignites something dangerous in me. I should back off, take back control. But all I can think about is getting her near me for more than just a dance. More than maybe a kiss.

I pull her impossibly closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, fingers splaying possessively against her spine. Her breasts press against my chest. The heat of her body against mine is intoxicating, more potent than any strong liquor. Her lips so close to mine. “Is that what you want? To be strictly professional?”

Her breath catches, the soft sound sending a pulse of desire straight through me. I can feel her heart racing, matching the thunderous beat of my own.

“What I want,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “is to do my job without complications.”

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