I’m in. I’m so fucking in, you have no idea.
If there is one person in this world who can get under my skin, twist me up, and light my entire nervous system on fire with nothing but a smirk…
It’s Jaxon Kane.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
Of course he hacked the security cameras. Of course he’s watching me like some smug, overbearing bat perched in a billion-dollar cave.
This is exactly what he would do.
Still—knowing I’m under surveillance from every angle?
It does something to me.
I sit a little straighter.
Take smaller, more graceful bites.
I laugh a little too loudly at something Brad says—something he probably found on Reddit six months ago—but he beams like he’s charming the hell out of me.
I hope Jaxon hates it.
The appetizers come and go, replaced by salads. Brad tells me about his firm’s expansion plans and his daily meditation practice. He’s not a bad guy. But he’s not what I’m looking for, either.
Too polished. Too performative.
And I can’t shake the feeling that if I peeled off his designer button-down, I’d find a motivational quote tattooed across his ribcage in cursive.
I’m halfway through my salad when a woman in an all-black uniform approaches our table.
“Miss Hayes?”
I glance up. “Yes?”
“There’s… a phone call for you.”
She’s holding a cordless phone. Like we’re in a hotel lobby in 1998.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I take the receiver slowly, bring it to my ear. “Hello?”
I don’t even get the word fully out.
“Cricket.”
Jaxon’s voice is low and firm, and it slides across my skin like warm silk dipped in warning.
He’s pissed.
I’m thrilled.
“Turn your phone back on.”
“Mr. Kane,” I reply with matching venom. “Kindly get bent.”
“Cassidy, I’m not kidding.”
