Page 50 of Off-Limits as Puck

Instead, I squeeze his hand once and let go.

“Our time’s up,” I say softly.

He looks at the clock, then back at me. “We have ten more minutes.”

“I know. But I think... I think we said what needed saying today.”

He stands slowly, like movement hurts. At the door, he pauses.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without turning, “you’re the realest thing in my life. Even when you’re running. Even when you’re with him. Even when you’re trying so hard to be perfect that you forget to breathe.”

“Reed—”

“See you at the gala, Doc.”

He leaves, and I sit in my empty office, hand still warm from his touch. We crossed a line today. Not the physical boundary we’ve been dancing around, but something deeper. We saw each other—really saw each other—beyond the want and the wounds.

It changes everything.

It changes nothing.

I pick up my phone, see a text from Jake about the gala. I should be excited. Should want the safe choice, the easy path, the man who doesn’t make me question everything I’ve built.

Instead, I stare at my hand, at the fingers that held Reed’s for exactly thirty-seven seconds.

Thirty-seven seconds of honesty that felt more real than two years of careful control.

My father would call it weakness.

I’m starting to think it might be strength.

21

Tuxedos are just expensive straitjackets, and I’m about to choke on this bow tie when she walks in and stops my heart.

The Outlaws annual charity gala is everything I hate—forced smiles, small talk with donors, and pretending we’re civilized when we’re paid to hit people for a living. I’m nursing whiskey at the bar, counting minutes until I can escape, when the room shifts.

Chelsea.

She’s wearing midnight blue that pools at her feet and leaves her entire back exposed, held up by what must be physics and prayer. Her hair’s swept up, showing the neck I’ve kissed, the shoulders I’ve gripped. Diamond earrings catch the light when she turns, scanning the room, and then our eyes meet.

Time doesn’t stop. That’s movie bullshit. But it definitely stutters, skips like a scratched record, while my brain processes that Dr. Chelsea Clark—who wears blazers like armor andschedules her life in fifteen-minute increments—can look like this.

“Close your mouth,” Weston mutters beside me. “You’re drooling.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

He’s right. I’m staring like she’s the Stanley Cup and I’m a rookie seeing it for the first time. Can’t help it. Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she shows me a new side. Vegas Chelsea. Dr. Clark. And now this—elegant and untouchable and absolutely devastating.

Jake appears at her elbow with champagne, his hand finding the small of her exposed back with easy familiarity. Something violent rises in my chest, but I swallow it with whiskey. He’s wearing a basic black tux, looking like every other guy here. Safe. Appropriate. Everything I’m not.

“You good?” Weston asks.

“Peachy.”

“You know torture’s optional, right? You could just—”

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