Page 31 of Face Off
Her eyes widen, a spark of thrill mixed with caution. She takes a half-step back, but the pause is fleeting, a tease of permission. My heart hammers. One step closer, and I press just slightly, enough that our lips almost touch, a whisper of heat, a brush of skin, before she shakes her head, laughing softly but nervously. “No. Not here. Not this.”
I grin, frustrated and exhilarated, taking a half-step back. “Fine. I guess. But don’t think this is over.”
We linger in the cold for a few more moments, stolen glances, playful smirks, the almost-kiss burning between us. Finally, she pulls away, heading down the street. I watch her go, heartbeat still hammering, a mixture of thrill and frustration.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
Back inside, the pub is alive with chaos. Murphy’s telling an elaborate story about Jacko’s midnight baking experiments, Dylan is shaking his head, Mia is laughing, Jacko is just amused, and Lila is still holding court with Finn. Lecturing him about how the world operates, while Sophie and Maya watch on. It’s pure, chaotic, and family-like.
I slip back in quietly, slipping past the group. Murphy notices, grinning. “Where’d you go? Bathroom break, or following someone mysterious?”
I shrug, attempting casual. “Fresh air.”
“Uh-huh,” Murphy says knowingly. “Fresh air, right. Must be a woman again.”
I chuckle, shaking my head, careful to avoid drawing too much attention. The guys are used to my teasing banter, but Chloe? That’s a different level. She’s off-limits. Complicated. Dangerous. And yet…irresistible.
The rest of the night blurs with the team’s chatter, laughter, and the warmth of friends and family. But my mind keeps drifting back to Chloe and the brush of her hand, the almost-kiss, her laughter in the cold.
Professional mask firmly in place, but heart messy as hell underneath.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHLOE
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I lie awake staring at the ceiling, reliving the almost-kiss like it’s a movie on a loop. The way Ollie leaned in, the way his breath warmed my cheek, how close his lips were to mine, too close, not close enough. My pulse still races every time I replay it.
And the worst part? I wanted it. Not in a professional, detached “observe and record” way. Not even in the playful, bantering way we’ve slipped into since I started shadowing the team. I wanted him in a kind of loud, visceral, no-journalistic-integrity-left kind of wanting.
It’s a terrible idea. Murphy would probably write me off forever if he found out. The team would clam up, stonewall me, the article I’m supposed to be writing would go up in flames.
But when I close my eyes, I don’t see consequences. I see Ollie’s grin in the lamplight, feel the ghost of his thumb brushing my cheek. And the hollow ache of what didn’t happen.
By the time morning comes, I’ve given up on sleep and drag myself into clothes with too much caffeine in my system. I’ve got interviews to schedule, notes to type, deadlines circling me likevultures. But instead of digging into work, I find myself tapping out a message I shouldn’t send.
Me: So about last night…
I stare at the blinking cursor. Coward. I shove my phone face down and bury myself in emails.
Except two minutes later, it buzzes.
Ollie: Morning, trouble. You sleep?
My stomach flips. I should ignore him. I don’t.
Me: Barely. Some idiot nearly kissed me and left me wide awake.
There’s a pause, three little dots flashing, vanishing, flashing again.
Ollie: Nearly? Sounds like he bottled it. Must be a coward.
Me: Or he knew better.
Ollie: Or he’s giving you time to change your mind.
I chew my lip, grinning despite myself. He’s dangerous, that one. Knows exactly how to toe the line between banter and confession.
Me: Professional distance, remember?
