Page 49 of How to Play the Player

“I’ll be fine. If you think my heart has anything to do with it, it doesn’t,” I insist, ignoring the hollow feeling her words create. “This is simply about winning a bet, clearing my name, and finally putting the past behind me.”

“If you say so.” She stands, gathering her things. “I’ll make myself scarce, but call me after, okay? You know how I love details—professional and otherwise.”

After she leaves, I take a deep breath, pushing away memories of yesterday and steeling myself for Nathan’s arrival. The bet, the wedding, my professional reputation—those are what matter. Not the way my body still tingles from his touch or how easily, and perhaps seriously, I considered letting him take me in that garden.

Today, I’m in control, and I will win.

Fifteen minutes later, an early Nathan Knight stands at the threshold of my office door.

“Come in,” I call when he knocks, not looking up from my laptop.

Nathan steps inside, closing the door behind him. I’m focused intently on my screen, fingers flying across the keyboard, trying to finish an email before giving him my full attention.

“Almost finished with this email to the security team,” I explain, glancing up briefly. “They’ve agreed to our proposed placement of guards at the vineyard entrance.”

Nathan nods, taking the seat across from my desk. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s obvious tension in theset of his shoulders. I hate that there’s no anticipating what to expect from him—anger, coldness, or more of that dangerous heat that still simmers between us.

“Good,” he says, his voice sounding rougher than usual. “That will make my brother happy.”

“I’ve drafted the social media schedule,” I continue, all business despite the undercurrent of tension between us.

I’m doing good. I just need to keep going.

“If you could review the language for Jonathan and Kiera’s social media accounts, I’d appreciate your input.”

Nathan leans forward to take the papers I offer, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact, though minimal, distracts me for a brief moment. I can’t help the sharp intake of breath that escapes me, and I notice him stiffen in response.

“Your timeline looks comprehensive,” he says, focusing on the papers rather than meeting my eyes. “Though I’d suggest moving the LinkedIn announcement earlier in the sequence.”

I nod, making a note. “Noted. The business community should hear it from Jonathan directly before the press picks it up.”

We continue like this for nearly an hour—discussing strategies, reviewing plans, maintaining a carefully professional distance that feels stretched thin with each passing second. I’m painfully aware of him—his cologne, the way his shirt hugs every curve of hard muscle. Even at his shoulders when he leans forward. His voice drops lower when making a point he feels strongly about.

Then my laptop makes that now-familiar dying sound, the screen flickering before going dark.

“Not again,” I mutter, frustration evident as I jiggle the power cord and press the Restart button repeatedly.

“Still having issues?” Nathan asks, sounding almost relieved by the distraction.

“Sometimes I think it’s getting worse,” I admit, sighing as I set the useless machine aside. “I backed up all my files yesterday because I’m worried it’s never going to come back to life.”

“Let me take a look,” he offers, circling my desk before I can think to object.

I hesitate before nodding, standing to give him access to my chair. As he sits down, I accidentally catch a whiff of his sandalwood scent.

Shit.

“The power connection could be loose,” he observes, examining where the cord enters the laptop. His fingers work the connection, testing different angles.

Holding my breath, I lean over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, suddenly aware of how close this brings us. “Is it…fixable?”

“Maybe.” His voice sounds strained. “Try holding the cord at this angle while I restart it.”

I reach around him, my arm brushing his shoulder as I grip the power cord. The position brings my face close to his, close enough that I can see every striking, sharp angle of his handsome face. The slightest tension in his jaw as he concentrates.

“L-like this?” I ask softly.

“Yes,” he manages, hitting the Power button. A few moments of waiting later, the laptop whirs to life, screen brightening.

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