Page 6 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
I feel it before I see it. A shift in the air, a scent not quite familiar, not quite new. Sharp and warm. Dangerous in the kind of way that makes old instincts stir.
Then I see her.
Jennifer Callahan doesn’t walk in. She arrives.
A woman like that doesn’t just enter a room, she bends it. She draws attention the way fire draws cold hands, not because she tries to but because she burns.
She wears a midnight green dress that hugs her figure like it was poured onto her, velvet catching the light in every step. Her shoulders are bare, and her neck is long, elegant, proud. Hair swept up. Mouth set in a line that says she came here with a purpose and pity the man who tries to stop her.
She doesn’t notice me right away. She’s too focused. Intent on someone. Or something.
But when her gaze cuts across the room and finds mine, it’s like an impact without sound.
For a second I forget the party, forget the music, forget the board of governors leering from their marble pedestals. All I see is that look. Cool, intelligent, calculated. The kind of look you only get from someone who’s studied you before they ever walked into your orbit.
She holds it. Doesn’t flinch.
I smile. The kind of smile that says,You came looking for me. Here I am.
She doesn’t smile back.
She changes direction, angling toward the bar instead of coming straight at me. Smart. She’s drawing me in, testing the waters. Making me choose the confrontation.
I do.
My path veers. Slow, predatory. I make sure I’m close enough that she feels me before she hears me.
“Ms. Callahan,” I say smoothly, stepping beside her just as the bartender slides a glass across the counter. “Didn’t think this was your kind of crowd.”
She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even blink. Just takes the glass, sips once, then glances sideways at me without turning her body.
“Mr. Thorne,” she says, voice clipped and just warm enough to pass for cordial. “Thought you’d be taller.”
I chuckle low in my throat. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s rare to be baited so directly.
“I get that a lot. The disappointment’s usually mutual.”
She finally turns, leaning one elbow against the bar, letting the line of her spine settle into a curve that speaks of practiced elegance and unwavering confidence.
“I’d ask what brings you to a fundraiser for displaced children,” she says, tilting her glass slightly, “but I suspect the tax write-off speaks for itself.”
“And I’d ask what brings a federal prosecutor to the same party,” I counter, resting my glass untouched on the counter. “But I imagine you’re not here for the cocktail shrimp.”
“Maybe I’m just a woman who likes to dress up and sip overpriced alcohol with morally ambiguous billionaires.”
“Then you’re in the right place.”
Her eyes flick over me, not shy, not seductive. Assessing. Like she’s measuring how far she can push before I push back.
“You came alone,” she says.
“I prefer it.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“And yours?”
She takes another sip, then sets the glass down with precision.
