Page 29 of Unmanageable

“You looked beautiful back there,” he murmurs, stepping closer, ignoring my deflection entirely. “Scared, but beautiful.”

“I’m not scared of anything, O’Connell.”

“You’re scared of this,” he says, his eyes dropping to where his hand is still holding my arm, then back up to my face. “You’re scared that the minute we get in that van, you won’t be able to hide behind a desk anymore and you’ll realize how much you want me. How much you want us.”

I pull my arm back as if his touch just scorched me, the cold air hitting my skin like a slap.

“Oh, my God. Again with this bullshit?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, the irritation bubbling up quickly to mask the sudden, terrifying pounding of my heart. “Stop acting like you actually like me, Finn. Seriously, just stop it.”

“Scottie—”

“No, I mean it,” I say as I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You know the girl who makes sure you don’t spend your entire signing bonus on magic tricks and vintage arcade games. You know the woman who yells at rink managers. But you don’t know me.”

I take a half-step into his space, my heels sinking into the soft earth, but I don’t care.

“This? Whatever this weird, fixated energy is? It’s physical. It’s the tuxedo and the open bar and the fact that we’ve been sniping at each other for three years. It’s convenient off-season entertainment for you because you’re bored and your shoulder hurts. Don’t try to make it some deep, soul-searching journey just because you bought a van and have a temporary crush on your agent. If you knew me—truly knew the actual person behind the spreadsheets—you wouldn’t be saying this stuff. You wouldn’t want to. So just stop.”

Cash doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just stands there, the shoulders of his tuxedo rising and falling.

“Finished?” he asks quietly.

“I’m going to find a drink that doesn’t come with a side of your projection,” I snap, turning on my heel. “Try not to trip over your own profoundness on the way to the bar.”

“Scottie,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the crowd.

I don’t stop walking.

I can feel the heat of his gaze on my bare back, tracing the line of my spine, but I keep my head high as I stride toward the white linen tents.

I need a drink, a distraction, and at least twenty minutes where I don’t have to look at Finnian O’Connell’s eyes.

Because the problem with being a shark is that you have to keep moving to stay alive.

And right now, I feel like I’m swimming in circles.

8

Finnian O’Connell

It’s infuriating.

Because I do know her.

I know how she looks when she’s fiercely protecting the people she cares about. I know the tiny shift in her jaw when she’s holding back the truth, and I know that her sharp-tongued, untouchable agent routine is just a fortress she builds to keep the world at arm’s length.

No matter what she tells herself to feel safe, this isn’t a temporary off-season game to me. It’s real, and I’m not running from it.

I move toward her before I can think better of it, cutting through the thick crowd of wedding guests, ignoring teammates and trainers trying to corner me into conversations about the happy couple

The air in the tent is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive champagne, but my focus is singular, zeroed in on the woman standing at the mahogany bar.

When I step up beside her, she doesn’t turn her head, but her shoulders go rigid.

“Still running?” I ask, leaning against the bar.

She takes a slow sip of her drink, her gaze fixed entirely on the rows of crystal bottles lined up behind the bartender.

She doesn’t say a word. She just tightens her grip on the glass, her knuckles turning a faint shade of white.