“I love deep conversations—like ‘if you were a potato, how would you choose to be cooked, and why are you single?’”
“I am not high maintenance. I know because I had to explain it slowly to my ex-boyfriend.”
I pass tables seven, eight, nine… and my feet slow as I realize Ivy is seated at the only two-top in the room.
Two chairs. Two name cards.
Cole Hartwell.
Ivy Ellison.
Right.Because we’re the ones running this show, not the ones here to mingle.
I clear my throat, aiming for casual, as I approach my seat. “You know, Stopwatch, if you wanted me all to yourself, you could’ve just said so.”
She doesn’t glance up, her fingers hammering away on her tablet. “I wanted to sit alone, but unlucky me. The seating chart didn’t have room for both you and your oversized ego.”
Alrighty, so she’s doing the whole “pretend it never happened” thing.Fine by me. I’ll play along.
I yank out my chair, plop my ass down, and slap myself with some cold, hard facts.
Fact one: Ivy Ellison is my colleague.
Fact two: We’re competing for the same promotion, and there is no room for rivals.
Fact three: That elevator incident? Pure adrenaline. A one-time bad judgment call that we’re both erasing from memory.
Fact four: Her mouth is officially a “Restricted Zone.”
Done. Decided. The rules are clear—no lingering thoughts, no unnecessary words beyond professional small talk, and let that kiss die a quiet, painless death.
I’ve shut down bigger problems than this: pissed-off clients, livestream meltdowns, and a rogue foam cannon.
A lunch with Ivy?Cake.
She slaps her tablet down on the table and whirls toward me. “The heat’s going to fry the equipment on the beach, and the last thing we need is the stream cutting out.”
I grin, leaning closer. “Don’t worry. I always run hot.”
“Good for you. The cameras don’t. Stick to the topic.”
I hold up my backpack. “Already got it covered. Ice gel packs in here.”
Ivy raises an eyebrow. “So we’re relying on you to find them in that black hole you call a bag? Fantastic.”
She reaches for her water, her fingers wrapping around the glass as my eyes (fucking traitors)follow the straw. She brings it to her lips.
Christ.
That delicious, velvet-soft mouth—shaped into a perfect ‘O’—clamps down.
And sucks.
My cock enjoys every second. The placement. The suction. The slow swallow.
REMEMBER FACT FOUR, I scream internally. RESTRICTED ZONE. HIGH VOLTAGE FENCE. DO NOT—
He’s not listening. He remembers those lips. I grip the edge of the table and pretend to focus, nodding along while Ivy rambles about logistics, volunteer rotations, and something about sticking to the shoreline.
