Page 74 of Make the Play

I fucking dare you, Walton.

The pulse in my neck jumps. This banter—it’s muscle memory. And thank God, because my actual brain has gone blank at the way his gaze drags across my face for just a second too long.

“I still can’t believe we pulled that off last night,” I say, steering the conversation back to casual. “Total improv.”

His jaw twitches, so quick I almost miss it.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Best performance of your life.”

I shake my head, biting back a smile. “I wasn’t the one who did the little neck thing.”

“Oh, youlikedthe neck thing, huh?”

John coughs pointedly, but I catch the smirk he’s trying to hide. The other two junior reps he brought with him look mildly scandalized.

Chase stretches in his seat as if he’s bored, arms folded behind his head, gaze still locked on me. “So, what’s next, a pillow fight for Instagram?”

“I’ll bring the feathers if you bring the fake abs,” I murmur.

My eyes are drawn to where he slowly rubs his palms down his torso. “You think these are fake, baby?”

No, because I’ve dragged my tongue down them.

“I’ve seen Photoshop, Walton.”

He genuinely chuckles this time,finally, and I feel the relief deep in my bones. He’s fine. We’re fine.

Rachel steers the conversation back to the task at hand. “Is there anything else you have questions about, any messages or fan commentary you’ve been tagged in that would help with the campaign?”

“Nah, nothing to report,” says Chase and nods to me. “You, Zo?”

I momentarily consider mentioning the weird-ass comments and DM I received this morning, but as a one-off, I decide tolet it slide. If it becomes a thing, I’ll mention it. But for now, it seems like more work for the sake of nothing.

“Nope, nothing.”

John nods and steers the conversation back to upcoming events and media obligations. We both nod along, offer input, say all the right things.

Under the table, Chase’s knee still rests against mine.

And he hasn’t moved it once.

***

My day at work turns into a long one. After the follow-up meeting with Chase and the Storm’s front office, I get pulled into several other meetings for a variety of clients, feeling guilty that their accounts have slipped down my list of priorities due to playing fake tonsil hockey with Chase Walton.

So by the time I decide to call it a night around eight thirty, everyone’s left the office. My skin feels tight and hot from the tension of the day, so I decide to walk home. Maybe the fresh air will settle the static under my skin.

I make my way down the elevator, my heels clicking on the tiles as I head out through the foyer. It’s too quiet when I step outside. Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful or still. The kind that presses in, thick and hollow.

I hesitate for half a second on the sidewalk, fingers tightening around the strap of my purse as I consider ordering an Uber. But the air is cool and dry, the moon low and blurred behind city haze. My heels sound loudly against the pavement as I start walking, too noisy in the hush of the street, and I feel the unease of the their sound alerting the world to my exact location.

But I need the air tonight. A few blocks to clear my head, to walk off the way Chase’s voice still echoes in my chest. I thoughta little movement might help. Thought I’d stop spiraling if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

I check my phone. No texts, no new DMs. The screen glows like a taunt in my hand before I shut it off again.

There’s no one behind me, but I check anyway and spot a man across the street. Hoodie up. Hands in his pockets. Not looking at me. Not doing anything wrong. But still…

I keep walking. One block. Then another. The city isn’t asleep, not entirely—there’s the distant buzz of traffic, the soft hum of a neon sign blinking in a restaurant window. But there’s no one else on this stretch of sidewalk, and my footsteps feel like percussion against the silence.

---