Page 24 of Sealing the Deal

“I was until you came along,” I lie. I jab confidently at the button to lower the TV. Except instead, I find my seat moving, in a slow, backward transition that doesn’t stop no matter how many times I jab the button again.

By the time I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, a deep rumble of laughter is filling the cabin, and a moment later, Grayson leans over my chair, a hand on either armrest, and hits the correct button. Instantly, the screen disappears and the chair starts to move back to its upright position.

Only, Grayson doesn’t step away. He looks down at the armrest, and I follow his gaze to where the cuff of his sweater is snagged on something, holding him there as the chair begins to rise. Suddenly the space between us is shrinking when it shouldn’t be. My senses fill with the heat of his body and the scent of his aftershave. I was expecting him to smell expensive, like greed, but his scent is old-fashioned—warm and a little dark—like cedar and hints of tobacco and aged bourbon.

We stare at each other in growing horror.

“Can you—” I start as the chair continues its slow ascent.

He huffs. “Trying to.”

Only then does he free the caught fabric and straighten, stepping back fast and almost tripping as he sits back in his own chair. Another few seconds like that and I think my lips would’ve brushed the line of his jaw. I shut that thought down quickly and pick up my coffee, hiding my flaming cheeks.

TEN

GRAYSON

The Buffalo Warbears stadium is a roaring, snow-dusted beast that feels alive, loud, and like it’s shaking the skybox to its bolts. The windows tremble under the roar of seventy thousand fans; snowflakes swirl in the floodlights like celebration confetti. Below us, cheerleaders in the Warbears orange and black colors take to the frosty-green field.

It feels alive in a way far removed from the structured order of architectural designs and spreadsheets so long the numbers swim before my eyes. And yet, it isn’t the atmosphere I’m drawn to. It’s the structure of the stadium itself. It isn’t just big, it’s beautifully engineered. Terraced layers of seating, strong lines, a huge oval dome of innovation.

“What are you staring at?” Flic asks, as she moves to stand beside me. I don’t miss the suspicion in her voice.

I nod toward one of the main support trusses. “See those big arches? They basically hold everything up without making the place feel heavy. Kind of like the stadium’s skeleton. And the way they’re shaped bounces the noise back down onto the field instead of letting it escape. It’s a smart design. It’s eye-catching, but functional.”

Flic stares at the arches I’m pointing to and, for a heartbeat, she almost looks impressed. I think of the moment on the jet when my sweater caught on the chair and I couldn’t move away. When I was close enough to register details I had no business noticing—the warmth of her body, the faint sweetness and spice of her perfume. It hadn’t felt like the chair was holding me, but the piercing blue of her eyes, locked on mine as she’d moved closer. I made an ass of myself a second later, untangling the fabric and falling back into my seat. We spent the rest of the flight in an awkward, carefully maintained quiet.

“Just make sure when the game starts, that’s where your attention is.” She jabs a thumb toward the field.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I reply, almost believing it.

The teams take to the field; the crowd roars its welcome, sounding like a tidal wave against the glass. It thrums through my chest. A reminder that I’m out of my depth. No project plan. No spreadsheet. No footing. Like the night behind the bar, it’s not a sensation I’m used to. Flic was right on the jet. I do like to control things. I’ve built my entire life around it. But standing here—surrounded by noise and chaos and the weight of how much this team means to so many people—control feels very far away.

Flic’s attention snags on movement behind us. A group of people spill into the suite, and suddenly she’s beaming in a way I’ve never seen from her before. I watch her laugh as she hugs the women who enter, her entire posture softening. Then, reluctantly, she pulls away and guides them toward me.

“Grayson, I’d like you to meet Mama Sullivan.”

I turn to greet a petite woman with a gray bob and an expression that suggests she might hug me or throw me through the skybox window. Hard to say which.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand.

Mama’s handshake is firm, her smile polite but guarded. I don’t blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust an Ashborne either.

She studies me with assessing eyes, Flic scowling protectively beside her. The combination has me wanting to confess the full reason behind my purchase of the Stormhawks, not just my desire to find meaning in something I own. And the promise I made Donny. All the plans I have. Everything. But the words stick. Because maybe a part of me thinks I’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have to defend myself. And another part knows they wouldn’t believe me anyway.

Before I can finish wrestling with my own damn conscience, the two women with Mama step forward.

“And this is Harper, Jake’s wife.” Flic gestures to the petite woman I saw with Jake that first night at the bar. She fixes me with a glare that almost rivals Flic’s. “She’s a journalist with Sports Magazine.” Flic’s tone is casual, but the look she shoots me is not. She’s warning me to watch my mouth.

I give Harper a respectful nod and then flash a grateful smile to Flic.

“And I’m Serena,” says the blonde beside her, offering her hand and a dazzling smile. “Chase’s, uh… girlfriend. God, that’s weird to say.”

The group laughs, and Harper nudges Serena gently.

“Oh, right,” Serena blurts out, cheeks flushing. “Flic, Chase and I—we’re only telling family right now, and I would’ve said something the other day, but it didn’t feel like the right time—but I wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”

Flic’s face splits into an enormous grin as she pulls Serena into another hug that Harper joins in with.