I’m not sure I want Banks to swallow his tongue. I’m not sure what I want anymore.
Jake’s words have been rattling around in my head for two days:Flavor of the week. Who knows where he’s been. Use protection.
I’ve been trying to ignore them, focusing on the fact that Banks has been nothing but respectful; he has never pushed, never pressured, and never made me feel like anything other than someone worth waiting for. But the doubt is there—a tiny crack in the foundation of whatever we’re building.
My phone buzzes.
Banks:I’m here.
Three minutes early. That might be a first.
Me:Coming down.
I grab my clutch, check my reflection one more time, and head for the door.
Banks is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
He’s wearing a tuxedo—a perfectly fitted, clearly expensive one that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His hair is actually styled—pushed back from his face in a way that showcases his jaw, his cheekbones, and the intensity of his dark eyes. He’s clean-shaven, which is rare, and it makes him look younger. Softer.
No. Not softer. Nothing about Banks Callahan is soft. He looks like a weapon wrapped in expensive fabric—like danger dressed up for a party.
My brain short-circuits a little.
He turns when he hears my footsteps, and whatever I was going to say dies in my throat.
He’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him—like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Like the rest of the world has fallen away, and there’s only this: me on the stairs, him in the foyer, the space between us crackling with something I don’t have a name for.
“You clean up nice,” I manage as I descend the last few steps.
He doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes travel from my face to my dress to my heels and back again, slow and thorough, and I feel the path of his gaze like a physical touch.
“You uh…” He swallows. His voice comes out rough. “You’re beautiful, Win.”
The word sounds different when he says it. Not a throwaway compliment. Not something he says to everyone. It sounds like a confession, like something dragged out of him against his will.
“Thank you.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. “Ready?”
He offers his arm, an old-fashioned gesture that shouldn’t make my heart flutter but does.
I take it.
“See you there,” Tori says, giving me a conspiratorial wink.
The gala is being held at a historic mansion that’s been converted into an event space. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, waiters circulating with champagne and tiny appetizers that look delicious.
The whole team is here—players in tuxedos, wives and girlfriends in designer gowns, everyone looking polished and perfect. There are sponsors, press, and wealthy donors who write checks with lots of zeros.
I feel out of place immediately.
Banks must sense it because his hand finds the small of my back as we enter the ballroom. A warm, steady pressure that saysI’m here. You’re not doing this alone.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
“I’m breathing.”
“Humor me.”
I force myself to inhale and then slowly exhale.I feel my shoulders lower. “Better?”
