Page 51 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Drop it.”

He shrugs, wandering off to schmooze donors while I order another drink and definitely don’t track Chelsea’s movement through the room. She works the crowd like a pro—charming board members, laughing at their shit jokes, being the perfect coach’s daughter.

But I see the tells. The way she shifts weight off her right foot (new shoes, probably hurting). How she touches her earring when someone asks a too-personal question. The slight tension in her shoulders when Jake’s hand drifts lower than professional.

An hour passes. I do my duty—photos with sick kids, signatures for auction items, painful conversations about my “rehabilitation” and “growth.” The whole time, I’m hyperaware of where she is, like she’s magnetic north and I’m a broken compass spinning toward disaster.

The band starts playing. Couples drift to the dance floor, and I watch Jake lead Chelsea out, his hand possessive on her waist.

They look good together. Appropriate. Like a catalog page for “Young Professional Couple.” He holds her at the proper distance, leads with competent boredom, probably already thinking about his morning workout.

I turn back to the bar, signaling for another drink. This is good. This is what she needs. Someone who won’t destroy her career, won’t make her choose between desire and duty, won’t—

“Dance with me.”

Patricia Holbrook stands beside me, elegant in silver, with eyes that miss nothing.

“I don’t dance,” I lie.

“You do tonight. It’s good PR.” She sets down her champagne. “Besides, I need to talk to you about something.”

I let her lead me to the floor because refusing the GM would be career suicide. She’s a good dancer, confident in the way of women who’ve navigated boys’ clubs their whole lives.

“You’ve been different lately,” she says as we move. “Calmer. More focused. Even mentoring rookies.”

“Just trying to be better.”

“Hmm.” She spins under my arm with surprising grace. “Dr. Clark’s impact, perhaps?”

Every muscle in my body tenses. “What?”

“Relax. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” Her voice drops.“But I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize when therapy is working. Whatever’s happening in those sessions, keep it up. The team needs you stable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now stop staring at her like a lovesick puppy and ask her to dance.”

“I don’t—”

“The song’s ending. Jake’s getting drinks. You have approximately three minutes before he returns.” She steps back as the music fades. “Use them wisely.”

She melts back into the crowd, leaving me standing there like an idiot. Across the floor, Chelsea stands alone, adjusting her earring in that nervous tell. The band starts something slower, sweeter.

Fuck it.

I cross the floor before I can think better of it. She sees me coming, eyes widening slightly, but doesn’t retreat.

“No,” she says when I stop in front of her.

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You were going to ask me to dance. The answer’s no.”

“Actually, I was going to compliment your dress. But now that you mention it...” I extend my hand. “One dance. For charity.”

“Reed—”

“People are watching. Refusing would be rude. Unprofessional, even.”

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