Page 48 of Pucking One Night Stand
I run my thumb along the edge of the table just to keep my damn hands busy.
She’s tapping away on her keyboard now, lips pursed, eyes focused, her fingers flying like the keys insulted her family. Then, with a final click, she stops.
“Okay.” She looks up at me, her voice calm, like we haven’t just spent the last ninety minutes in a weird, tension-filled power match. “I think we’ll wrap up now and go over some more ideas same time tomorrow.”
I shift forward in the chair and brace my palms on my knees, ready to stand.
But her voice catches me, and she takes a breath, short, shaky, and not so confident. “Blake, I... I need to talk with you.”
Okay. That’s ominous.
And what the actual hell do I say next? Because apparently, my brain short-circuits and my mouth just... acts. “Well, how about you let me take you out for dinner tonight?”
She blinks.
I lean back slightly, watching her expression. “You can tell me then.”
Her mouth parts, like she’s going to come back with some razor-sharp retort, Cassy-style. But she doesn’t. She just pauses. Looks me dead in the eye, and says, “Yes...I think I will.”
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.
I tilt my head a little. “If you want, we can go in my truck. And after, I can either drop you home and you grab your car tomorrow, or I’ll bring you back here later. Your call.”
She gives a tight little nod, like she’s still processing the fact she just said yes. Then, without another word, she moves back around to her desk.
Shutting off her computer, she clicks the monitor dark, then unhooks her laptop and slides it into the case. Her bag’s already hanging on the back of her chair, and she grabs it on her way out.
I hold the door open. She flicks off the light, steps past, and there’s a brief moment when her shoulder brushes mine. Too casual to be deliberate. Not casual enough to ignore.
She locks the door, and her keycard scrapes slightly against the sensor.
The media department is mostly empty now. Half the lights are dimmed. We pass a few staff, Suzanna, still on her phone, and Tarquin muttering something about Saturday’s press coverage.
“Night, Cassy,” one of the content girls says with a grin, glancing from me back to her.
“See you in the morning,” Riley calls over her shoulder, heading toward the bathroom. There’s a look in her eyes I don’t trust, like she knows something I don’t.
Once we leave the department, we’re halfway down the corridor when—
“Blake!”
I turn.
It’s Brody. He’s not alone. My sister Mariana is walking beside him, her coat thrown over her arm, ponytail a little messy like she’s had a long day assessing someone's brain.
They catch up quickly, and Brody claps me on the shoulder so hard I swear my teeth jolt.
“Hey sis,” I nod at Mariana. “Good day?”
She exhales one word. “No.”
“Hi Brody,” Cassy says with her fake professional voice, then turns to Mariana. “Hello, Dr. Mitchell.”
Mariana smiles. “Hi, Cassy. For God's sake, call me Mariana. And love your tote bag, I might get one of those.”
“Thanks. It’s from Paris,” Cassy replies, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
We start walking down the corridor together, the four of us. Brody and I start fake-sparring like we’re warming up for a fight.
