Page 16 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"No."

"And Sloane. In thirty six hours, has she missed a single detail? Dropped a ball? Let anything slide?"

"Nothing. She's been flawless."

Noah turns from the window. The corner of his mouth does something that could generously be called a smile. "I run a private club where the entire operating philosophy is built on the idea that consenting adults can navigate complex personal dynamics with professionalism and maturity. You think I'm going to fire somebody over a relationship?"

My brain stalls. "I thought..."

"You thought I'd react the way a traditional employer would. And in a traditional setting, you'd be right to worry." He sits back down. "But this is Club Crimson. What I care about is the work. The work has been exceptional. Both of yours."

"The contract offer. For Sloane."

"Stands. Unchanged." Noah opens his laptop again. "What I'd suggest is that you stop standing in my office looking like a man who's about to face a firing squad and go find the woman you're clearly in love with. The closing ceremony is in four hours. You've got time."

I stare at him.

"That's not a suggestion, Morales. That's your boss giving you a direct order." He's definitely almost smiling now. "Dismissed."

My boots hit the hallway at a pace that's faster than walking. Earpiece out. Radio switched to Rivera's channel.

"Rivera, you've got the closing ceremony."

"Copy. You going somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"The parking lot, maybe? Tailgate of a supply truck?"

"Mind your own business, Rivera."

"Roger that. Go get her, Morales."

I find her at the bonfire circle. She's alone, kneeling on the ground beside the main fire pit, arranging the last of the lanterns for the closing ceremony. Her hair is down today. First time I've seen it loose, a crown of tight curls that frames her face, catches the morning light, makes her look younger and softer and absolutely devastating.

She's in the burnt honey sweater again. The one from Friday night. The one I pulled over her head in the cabin.

"Sloane."

She goes still. Doesn't stand. Doesn't turn. Her hands stop on the lantern she's adjusting, fingers tightening on the metal frame.

"I talked to Noah."

Now she turns. Eyes wide. "You what?"

"Told him everything. Friday night. My responsibility. All of it."

She's on her feet. "Dante, why would you... the contract, Noah said professionalism is the standard, if he thinks I compromised..."

"The contract stands. He doesn't care. He runs a club built on the idea that adults can figure this out, and he told me to stop standing in his office and go find you."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "He said that."

"Word for word."

She looks at me. Really looks. The same way she did in the kitchen that first night, reading me, assessing, except this time there's no professional filter. No clipboard between us. Just her face, open and scared and hopeful, morning light on her skin.

"I grew up watching my dad choose his job over every person who ever loved him." My voice comes out rough. Honest. The voice I kept locked away behind copy that and tactical radio calls. "Three marriages. Three women who packed their bags while he worked late. And I told myself I'd be different, but all I did was skip the marriages and go straight to being alone. Clean record. Empty life."