Page 73 of Make the Play

Agenda:Public reception + next media steps

I slide into my chair and pull up the campaign metrics from last night’s post. My fingers move automatically, but my brain’s stuck on a loop of mouths colliding, teeth grazing, and fingers flexing.

Which is dumb, because that’s what the cameras needed. Heat and chemistry and plausibility. Check.

I take a deep breath, glance at the clock, and head down to the conference room.

Rachel’s already there, scrolling through engagement stats on her tablet. “Zoe, you’re a magician.”

“Please. I’m a crisis manager who likes lipstick. Let’s not oversell it.”

She snorts. “Well, whatever you are, the numbers love you. Followers up, sentiment positive. EvenPuck Weeklyis on board—and they once ran a story about Chase being secretly married to a pop star in Croatia.”

I’m about to make a snide remark when the door swings open.

Chase appears in a black tee and gray fucking joggers. Slightly damp hair indicating he just came from the gym, and that infuriating expression that makes my lungs forget how air works.

He doesn’t even look at me as he slides into the neighboring chair and places a to-go cup on the table in front of me. My eyebrows crease together as I scan the cup and realize it’s from my favorite spot again.

But unlike last time, he doesn’t make it a show—just casually nudges it closer. My traitor stomach flips because this is the second time he’s done it. The first time, I thought it was a joke. Part of the act. A one-off to get under my skin.

This time there’s no smirk. No showmanship, nobaby. Just him, knowing and remembering. I hate that my fingers wrap around the warm cardboard without hesitation.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I don’t look at him. Don’t comment on the damp curl of hair at his temple or the way his knee knocks mine under the table and stays there, swallowing the space between our limbs. Idefinitelydon’t react to the fact that he still smells faintly like citrus and clean sweat, almost as though he worked out then didn’t quite finish cooling off.

Across from us, John clears his throat, eyes already twinkling. “Well, I think we can all agree that last night was… effective.”

Rachel smiles and nods beside me. “Engagement numbers are through the roof. Press sentiment flipped overnight, and fans love the pairing.”

John huffs a laugh. “Let’s hope you two can keep this charade going until the end of the campaign window.”

“Don’t worry,” I say smoothly. “We can fake just about anything.”

Chase, who has been sitting there not saying a word, finally bristles next to me.

“And here I was thinking we were naturals,” he says, turning to me. “I mean, come on. That kiss was some award-winning shit.”

“Please,” I shoot back. “I was carrying the entire scene.”

He scoffs. “You were mauling me.”

“You weremoaning.”

“Allegedly.” He grins at that, but it’s different from his usual easy ones. A little too sharp, a little too forced.

I hate that I know him well enough to notice, hate that I can feel the shift even when he’s smiling. This banter between us feels practiced and performed, and I realize we’re both pretending to be fine when we’re not.

So, I push.

“You’re just lucky I didn’t slip you tongue,” I say lightly, flexing out my fingers to study my nails. Hot pink French tips, today. “Would’ve knocked the smug right off your face.”

Chase’s eyes flick to mine, grin stretching dangerously wider. “Oh, sweetheart. If you’d slipped me tongue, I would’ve come up for a nightcap.”

I arch a brow, cool as ice. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a threat or a promise.”

“Both.”

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