One Bossy Date: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)

The Amtrak Cascades trip to Portland takes most of the day.

Jenn snoozes as the train churns along. I’m so wired I can barely breathe and repeatedly check my phone to keep my heart from fluttering away.

But there’s nothing from Brock.

Not so much as a text by the time we’re dragging ourselves into the train station and finding a ride to go straight to the event. I’m thankful there aren’t any hitches with our credentials.

Just in the nick of time, too.

There’s barely an hour to look around before the loud, raucous crowd starts flowing into the main theater hall for the awards ceremony.

With security light, we walk through a service door near the back of the convention center, hoping it leads us to the right place.

But hope turns to doubt as I stumble through the long, dark hallway in what feels like one long repeating loop. We’re definitely behind the stage area, but where are the doors?

“What are we missing?” I mutter over my shoulder. “The rooms offstage must have an exit or two. Where’s the one for Oasis Springs?”

Frowning, Jenn spins her phone’s flashlight through the darkness. “No clue. I can barely see!”

Further down the hall, after some panicked running, we find the doors lit by a few dim emergency lights—including the one marked 44A for Oasis Springs.

I look at Jenn. “I can take it from here. You should go.”

“Jesus, Pippa. Are you sure? You don’t just want to go to the police?”

“We’re already here. Time to be brave.” I nod firmly as much to myself as her. “It’s the right thing to do for the company and those poor people. Show him he’s cornered.”

Jenn grabs my arm as I reach for the door.

“Wait! You shouldn’t go alone. What if he—”

“Jenn. We talked about this, remember? I don’t want you mixed up in it if something crazy goes down. It’s my risk. I technically don’t even work for Winthrope anymore, so Brock isn’t liable for me.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Her eyes search mine. “And just so you know, I don’t think he’d be thrilled about this plan either.”

“What Brock Winthrope thinks is none of my business,” I lie.

Jenn rolls her eyes.

“C’mon. Are we going to keep pretending he isn’t half the reason we jumped on a train to Portland? Right or wrong, he’s the whole reason you’re gearing up to storm a psycho’s room.”

I swallow thickly.

“He’s not. And I’m not ‘storming’ anything. I’m simply going to talk. Let him know I have ironclad proof, and ask him to come clean. Nicely.”

She gives me a doubtful look.

Yeah, I don’t believe it’ll be that easy either, but I have to try.

“Pippa, you don’t know what you’re going to run into behind that door. Let me come,” she whispers urgently.

“And I have to do this. I’m the only one who can act as a personal agent here without a direct connection to Winthrope.” Sighing, I gently grab her shoulder. “Lady, I love you like a sister. Get out of here and wait for me. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, call the cops. Just go.”

“I’ll wait outside, but I’m waiting here,” she says, glancing nervously. “What if you need backup?”

I smile. “If I do, what will you do? Throw an unflattering filter on him?”

“We could…hit him in the nads. These things are pointy!” she says, kicking up her heels.

Even with the tension suffocating me, I laugh.

“We did wear heels for a reason,” I say.

“Go be your badass Carmen Sandiego self. I’ll be waiting.” She stands there staring, then flings her arms around me in a hug. “Don’t be mad at me later.”

“I won’t be, Jenn. Sit tight.”

With one more fortifying breath, I turn and twist the knob.

There’s a second of relief, realizing it’s unlocked. I won’t have to knock as I push inside.

A woman in a crisp white button-down with the Oasis Springs logo on her breast whirls around and looks at me like I’m a ghost coming through the wall.

“Can I help you, ma’am? This is a private room.”

“Yes, I’m here to see Mister Finch.”

She frowns, picking up a black notebook from the table beside her. She glances down, flicking through a few pages, and then looks up at me.

“I don’t have any appointments listed for today. It’s very close to the ceremony, so I’m sure it’d be best if you reschedule.”

“He told me to come tonight,” I insist, stamping my foot impatiently. “I don’t have to tell you how he gets when he misses his appointments. You know the kind I mean.”

Yes, it’s a Hail Mary.

But if this guy is every bit the wretched creeper he seems, I’m hoping I have a shot.

The woman’s eyes narrow, then widen as the realization sinks in.

“Oh, you’re one of those?” She sizes me up in disgust for a few more seconds before she sighs. “Fine. I’ll escort you to his private suite. He always makes time for his ladies…”

Big yikes.

My stomach flips over at the thought, but that also means I’m in. I follow her through a couple more rooms to another closed door.

She knocks on it softly.

“Yeah?” Finch calls brusquely.

“There’s a woman here to see you, Mr. Finch. Special appointment?”

I’m motionless as we wait for his reply.

“Send her in!” he yells back.

There’s just enough edge in his tone to make the hairs on my neck stand up.

“Go ahead.” She opens the door, waving a hand in front of me like she’s inviting me into a Komodo dragon pen.

I walk through with my heart pulsing in my throat.

Inside, I find Apollo Finch waiting for me.

He’s wearing a traditional tux with a half-full champagne flute in hand, lounging in an armchair with one leg tossed obscenely over the side.

Everything about this feels off.

“Miss Renee, is it? Or do you prefer ‘Sunshine?’” A too-wide grin spreads across his face like a drawn sword as he stands. “I never expected this little surprise. Finally got sick of playing house with a loser wreck and came to your senses? I can’t blame you for that. Champagne?”

He gestures toward a bottle chilling in an ice bucket just a few steps away.

I shake my head.

“Brock Winthrope isn’t a loser,” I force out.

“Oh-ho-ho.” He manages to make it three words. “Here to plead his case for mercy then? You’re more loyal than most trophy girls, I’ll give you that. Did you want the champagne, love?”

My gaze sharpens. “And I’m not his messenger. I came here myself.”

He walks over to the champagne, pouring himself another glass before he looks at me again.

“Then why the hell are you here? Make it snappy. We’re half an hour from showtime.”

“First, a whole lot of people worked their butts off getting our ratings up—and you undid that hard work. You cheated your way to the top.” I fold my arms.

He stares me down as he takes an obnoxiously slow sip of his drink.

“Sore losers will run their mouths about a lot of things they can’t prove. You’ve heard the rumors we’ve bagged first place? I wasn’t sure if I should believe them until this morning, but when your competitors obviously do, it’s true. I knew this would be our year. Thanks for confirming the good news, I guess.”

I wish to God I could claw that smirk off his face.

“Yeah, about that—isn’t it a little tragic how your stunning success came by pure luck this year? And you’d have way more to brag about if an insane kitchen disaster hadn’t knocked your biggest rival out of the running.”

His carnivorous smile disappears.

“Winnie has been circling the drain for some time. His latest big seasick disaster was just icing on the cake.” He winces like the champagne suddenly tastes like mud. “I don’t mean to insult your beau, short stack, but he hasn’t been top-shelf competition for a while. Not since—never mind.”

The way his face twists scares me. It reminds me of a wounded animal, guarded and volatile.

“I’m not so sure. Someone’s been paying an awful lot for fake reviews to drag Winthrope’s ratings down. You don’t usually do that when you’re not sweating the competition.”

His mouth twists sourly before he speaks. “Ludicrous. You’re clearly mistaken and I—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not implying it was you. I know it was,” I interject. “Oasis Springs was always second-rate. I’m not sure anything less than another powerhouse luxury brand would be that worried about bringing down Winthrope…would they?”

He drains the rest of his glass and grinds his foot on the floor like he’s stamping out a bug.

“I’m sure you’ve come to annoy me for a reason, so will you get to the damn point? I don’t have all day to cry over Winnie’s wounded pride. I have a speech to make.”

“Oysters,” I spit.

Laughing, he does a double take.

“Oysters? So we’re still stuck on Winnie’s miserable downfall? Honey doll, I don’t order oysters for another man’s kitchen. I only eat them, if you get my drift.” That sick smirk returns. “However, I’m not willing to entertain your cloak and dagger conspiracies tonight, woman. You’re too sweet to have his paranoia rubbing off.”

Oh, asshat, you have no idea.

I grin defiantly. “I’m talking about specific oysters. No conspiracies.”

“I hope so. It would hardly be appropriate for you to come barging into my room, raining on the biggest parade of my life. That’s pretty fucking bitter, even for a Winthrope groupie.” He spits their name like it tastes rotten.

“Your mistake. You told your assistant to send me in.”

“I was certainly mistaken thinking you had a better brain behind that pretty face,” he bites off, stepping forward. “What the hell does he want? If this is Winnie giving me some stupid conscience check, he has no right. After what he did, he fucking owes me.”

“What he did?” I echo weakly, backing up a pace. I can’t let him corner me.

“My award—Winthrope stole it. Winnie and his overblown shoe-in-ass of a grandfather,” Finch flares, gliding toward me with his fists clenched. For a second, I’m afraid he’ll snap the champagne flute still in his hand. “They cost me everything, you know. The stress, the planning, the letdown. Her, walking out on me, after I treated her like gold—”

I’m almost flat against the wall, barely breathing when he stops.

He seems to snap back into himself, pulling back and straightening his cuff.

“And now you’re here. Harassing me with these outrageous claims about some damnable oysters.” He snorts loudly, tossing his head. “I’ll tell you what, missy, you can take it up with my legal team. I don’t have time for this horseshit.”

No.

But apparently he has time to erupt over a grudge that I’m sure wasn’t caused by Brock and his grandfather. I wonder if Jenn’s ‘psycho’ remark was dangerously accurate.

Because he’s looking at me like he wants to hack me up.

“Well? Are you finished?” he demands, turning up his nose.

“Not quite.” I find my nerve and step toward him. “You infiltrated the catering company. You sent that poor, inexperienced kid on a wild goose chase to make sure he wasted time tracking down that stupid cheese. You made sure everything would show up spoiled and get smuggled into the kitchen.”

“Bah!” Finch swipes a hand through the air. “Your boyfriend needs to hire a better caterer—and a real PI next time. Because I know you have zero proof.”

“They were your people,” I fling back. “And FYI, he’s not my boyfriend—”

Finch blinks. “Then why are you here wasting breath?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do, and I know that wasn’t Brock’s people making mistakes. The chef from that catering company has worked almost exclusively with Oasis Springs for the past four years, and when he talked to the health inspector, he conveniently left out the driver’s account. Nobody mentioned sending the kid to three other stores and telling him to leave the oysters in a hot van. He never mentioned the kid showing him the melted ice—which your people made sure melted quickly.”

His jaw clenches.

“What do you know? You’re just some junior copywriter who slept her way up the promotion ladder. No one is going to believe you. I can see you’re upset, and believe it or not, I won’t take much joy in launching a libel case. So pick yourself up by that pretty skirt and move on if Brock Winthrope is done using you. The door is that way.” He stabs a thumb over his shoulder.

Oh, God.

I should knee him in the balls for the crap he’s talking, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.

I just smile.

“I’ll save your lawyers the trouble. I brought receipts, Mr. Finch. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to come see you without them?”

He glares at me, his gaunt face reddening.

“Your theory is preposterous and outlandish. I’d love to see what kind of ‘proof’ you think you have. You can’t prove something that never happened!”

“I was afraid you’d say that—”

“What are you doing?” he snaps.

“You didn’t let me finish. I was afraid you’d say that, so when I found out the truth about the oysters and why they caused the food poisoning, I kept digging. I found another shell company that paid ten influencers for trips to Winthrope properties. All ten left bad reviews. I tracked those influencers down. They all had a guilty conscious, so they agreed to back me up—”

“That’s it? Pathetic. Visiting a property and bombarding it with bad reviews on Google and Yelp is no crime.”

“No, but I filled them in on all the coincidences with the food poisoning incident. They were shocked at how far you’re willing to go to sink the competition. Some people actually die from food poisoning. So, they were all willing to admit they were paid to leave negative reviews on record. As any of your lawyers will tell you, that establishes a pattern of deliberate sabotage.”

His face glows redder. He throws his arms in the air wildly as he approaches, pushing me against the wall.

Oh, no.

So much for not getting cornered.

“Finch—”

“Enough! Get the hell out of here.” He’s only inches from my face now, enough to feel the disgusting spittle flying off his lips. “Get out before I drag you out mys—”

Knock-knock!

Saved by the door. I hope.

“What?” he screams, looking over his shoulder.

“Mr. Finch, I’m so sorry to bother you, but you’re expected on stage in twenty minutes for the award.”

“Fine.” He sucks in a breath and blows it out. “How much to end this stupidity and never lay my eyes on you again?”

“…what stupidity?” The question comes out before I realize what he’s talking about.

His eyes narrow.

“Don’t play dumb with me, bitch. You will not like the consequences.”

“You’re trying to bribe me? Even after I told you I have evidence?”

He rolls his eyes. “Blackmail typically is how this business works. Don’t tell me you’re here for moralizing? All beauty and no brains, I see.”

Heat rushes through my veins. “You’re so arrogant.”

“And you need to name your price and shut the fuck up. Before I make you.”

I gasp.

“You—you’ll never shut me up. A hundred trillion dollars wouldn’t make a difference. Everyone is going to know. You made people violently sick. There’s one old lady who’s still in ICU. You could have killed someone. Do you understand that? You could have murdered someone you’ve never even met over a fucking trophy.”

He closes the gap between us, invading my space, this menacing shadow of a man who looks too much like an evil scarecrow.

“Whatever proof you think you have, it’s not enough. I promise,” he whispers darkly.

“We’ll see. But that’s why I’ve been recording this little visit,” I say quietly.

He leers down, his lips peeled back. His hand flicks down his side, pushing into his pocket, where there’s the tiniest glint of metal.

A gun? A knife? What’s he—

My heart leaps up my throat and beats so loudly I’m not sure if I can even scream.

Jenn was right.

I’ve got to get out of here.

“Miss Shit-shine, I’m a gentleman at heart so I’m giving you one last chance to hand over your phone and delete everything. Understand, I’m trying to offer you an easy way out. You need to take it. You won’t like the hard way. Final warning,” he growls.

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

“What?” he screams.

“Fifteen minutes! They’re expecting you backstage, sir,” a timid voice says behind the door.

The door. I need to get out of here.

I slip around him and start moving toward it, but he’s faster.

There’s just a dark blur of long legs and militant strides before Apollo Finch blocks off the only way out.

He grabs at my phone first.

I push forward, twisting my body wildly, trying to keep it out of his reach, but his arms are so long.

He grabs my wrist with a muffled snarl, throwing me against the wall. And everything starts spinning as his hand rises above his head, as his eyes flash pure rage, as he prepares to strike and—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The whole room vibrates with the sound of something pounding on the door.

He stops, his fist still up, ready to crash down on my face.

“…you’re wanted out there. You should go,” I venture, trying to buy precious time and wrestle my arm free, but his grip is a vise. The movement just twists my arm further. “That hurts! Please, let go.”

Great. Now I’m pleading with a total maniac.

And I’m about to try screaming again when there’s a deafening noise like a gunshot.

Bam!

That’s no knock.

More like someone trying to kick down the door.

Finch throws his body weight into my back and grips my arm harder, this mannequin of pure rage, too focused to even turn toward the ruckus behind me.

Then the door blows off its hinges.

“Sir! Sir, wait! You guys can’t go back there,” the woman from earlier screams. “Oh my God!”

Everything goes deathly still for a moment.

“She said you’re hurting her, you piss-poor excuse for a man.”

I look up and almost pass out cold.

Brock stands in the doorway with another dark figure behind him, his lip curled, his body bowed with pure vibrating rage. His eyes are fixed on Finch like a hunting hawk.

He’s only there for a second before he strikes.

Apollo Finch never even has a chance to look up.

Not before Brock’s bulk plows into him, throwing his weight off me, freeing my arm with a sudden pulling whoosh that echoes through me.

Holy hell.

For a second, I’m spinning, losing my balance before my shoulder bangs against the wall.

There’s another thud! on the floor.

Finch goes down, hitting the ground so hard I wince. Before he can even start struggling, there’s a groaning sound, like he’s being choked.

I look down to see the madman’s throat clenched in Brock’s hand.

“I-I c-c-can’t breathe,” Finch stammers.

“Then quit moving, dumbass.” Brock turns, raising his fist.

“Brock, don’t.” I run up behind him and throw my good hand on his back.

“Let me see your arm first. His razor-sharp blue eyes flash.

I slowly drop my good arm in front of his face.

“The other one,” he demands.

It’s red and swollen, but I show him.

“That’s what I thought.” He nods at me. “Why shouldn’t I slaughter him?”

“We’ll call the police, Brock. I have proof! Proof that he’s responsible for the ruined oysters, the poisoning, everything. And that he hurt me… So don’t hit him. You don’t need more trouble.” I’m pleading now, pulling lightly on his shoulder.

His grip on Finch’s neck only tightens and he bares his teeth, snarling through them, “If her arm is broken, I’m taking both of yours off.”

I gasp as he pulls Finch up into a chokehold and pins him against the wall.

He isn’t listening to reason—is he?

While I’m trying to decide, Finch’s dangling hand sweeps low, toward his pocket and the same blunt metal object I caught a glimpse of earlier.

“Brock! He’s got a—” I yell out a warning, only to be cut off by the dark, bulky figure leaping in front of me.

“Nyet,” a rough voice calls loudly, swinging a gun against Finch’s head. “One move, I pull the trigger. Hand it over.”

Fyodor?

The driver reaches into Finch’s pocket and yanks out a silver handgun. Once he’s clear, Brock lifts Finch up and slams him against the wall again with a bone-rattling impact.

The wretched man deflates like a balloon, fear glinting in his eyes for the first time, his face turning more purple by the second. He claws at Brock’s hand, now fully locked around his throat.

“You heard the man,” Brock rasps. “One wrong move and we do this the easy way, without any cops or lawyers. We’ve got a solid case for self-defense.”

He eases his hand off Finch’s throat, just enough for him to take a few gasping breaths and say, “Y-you f-fuck! What…what the h-hell do you want?”

“Brock,” I whisper over his shoulder.

But he ignores me and shifts his body weight, dragging Finch out the door and into the hall with Fyodor close behind them.

Jenn turns pale the second she sees us coming. She’s standing in the hall with a couple Oasis Springs staffers who stare back with glassy disbelief. One starts reaching for his phone.

“No calls,” Fyodor says sharply, grabbing the man’s hand and pushing it back against his side. “That goes for everyone. Understood?”

The staffers share a startled look and nod uncertainly.

Who can blame them?

Holy hell, I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. I also don’t understand where this is going as I trail after them, still rubbing my arm.

“Pippa, are you okay?” Jenn reaches for my arm at the last second.

“Yeah, I…it’s a long story.”

And I don’t have time to tell her when I’m chasing Brock. She scurries along, her breath rattling behind me.

God, I hope Brock doesn’t lose it.

I have no clue what he’s doing until we walk through another door and stop behind a massive curtain. We must be right behind the stage in the main room.

“You’ve got two options,” Brock whispers, jerking Finch around like a ragdoll. “Option A, ten minutes in a back alley with me. No weapons. You won’t walk away with a single bone intact. Option B, you get on stage right now and you deliver a very goddamned different speech than the one you had planned.”

“Are you mad?” Finch snarls hoarsely, still struggling to wrestle himself free.

“You’re about to find out. Choose wisely.” Brock just holds him up, this tall, lanky thing struggling like a puppet whose feet can’t quite reach the ground.

Jenn and I are right beside them now, hanging back a few steps, utterly breathless as we watch them struggle.

Fyodor stands behind Finch like a bulldog, his gun back in its holder behind his jacket, seemingly waiting for the slightest reason to raise hell.

Eventually, the fight goes out of Finch. Brock sets him down again, still keeping one arm locked around his.

“Well?” Brock clips. “Say it!”

“I’ll… I’ll give the damn speech, Winthrope.” Finch rubs his throat.

Brock gives a satisfied nod and stomps over to the curtain, tearing it aside.

Blinding yellow light shines in my eyes.

A collective gasp fills the huge room.

I scurry back with Jenn, and we flatten ourselves against what was backstage a minute ago, but now hangs open for everyone to see.

With Finch still prisoner, Brock frog-marches him to the podium in the center, where a baffled older man in a tux steps aside.

“Change of plans, everyone,” Brock growls into the mic. “Mr. Finch couldn’t wait another five minutes to speak to you. Anything you’d like to say?”

Finch hangs his head as much as he can in Brock’s grip, a sickly sweat gleaming on his brow.

Brock clears his throat roughly and looks over the crowd.

“I’m sure you recognize me, everyone. Brock Winthrope, but this time I’m not up here as a winner. I’m simply introducing this year’s guest of honor. Give it up for Apollo Finch.”

There’s some awkward clapping and a lot of tense murmurs flying back and forth, at least a hundred people wondering what the heck is going on.

“Would you like to say a few words, Finch?” Brock asks into the microphone.

“No,” Finch whispers.

“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Finch. I’m sure you have important things to tell the people. Confessions that get right to the beating black heart of this industry,” Brock says, his eyes shimmering like blue knives in the blaring lights.

There’s a long pause before Finch dejectedly lowers his mouth to the mic and clears his throat.

“Oasis Springs was very competitive this year. Along the way, I’m afraid we did some things that were less than civil, or fair—”

“Or legal,” Brock adds.

“Or legal,” Finch echoes, tossing his head back with his nose pointed at the ceiling like a defiant child.

“Louder, damn you. I’m not sure the microphone caught that last part,” Brock says.

Finch sighs loudly. The microphone definitely catches that.

“Or legal!” he screams. The words boom through the speakers, bouncing through the awestruck room.

Then everything falls dead silent.

“Tell them. Tell them what you did,” Brock growls.

“I…I rigged it,” Finch snarls through clenched teeth. “I showered Winthrope resorts with bad reviews. I swapped out the oysters in Seattle. I…I made over a hundred people sick so I could win.”

A few breathless gasps roll through the crowd before that crushing silence returns.

I rock back in disbelief.

Brock may have just done the impossible.

Apollo Finch is one arrogant, ruthless grade A asshole, and I never imagined he’d publicly confess to anything.

But as Finch looks back at him, Brock releases him with a shove, throwing him aside.

“Get off the stage.”

I watch Finch walk to the side, where Fyo intercepts him, grabbing his arm.

“We’ll wait together, Mr. Finch,” I hear the Russian say.

“What? But I gave him what he wanted! You can’t detain me.”

“I can’t, but the police will be here in minutes. And you just confessed to a crime.”

I’m expecting a struggle, but no.

A defeated Finch shoves his face in his hands and groans, then lets Fyo lead him away.

Beyond the stage, the murmurs are rising, frantic questions flying back and forth.

I swallow hard.

Brock taps the microphone until he has the crowd’s attention. “Now that the cheat is gone, I have something else I need to say.” He pauses.

Wait, what’s he doing now? Damage control?

“There’s an ugly side to this industry, and you’ve just seen the worst of it. I think we all know that. We all get caught up in the same rat race, and it makes us unspeakable jackasses, but that’s not the ugliness I want to focus on.”

I inhale sharply, holding it in.

Brock, no!

I know you’re still in shock. It’s been a weird day for everyone, but this is so not the place to vent.

“Brock,” I whisper, knowing he can’t hear me back here.

I just wish he’d let go, sit down, and breathe.

Before he says anything he’ll regret.

“I’m not immune,” he continues. “The same ugly side of this industry—the same perfectionism, the same ruthless competition, the same worries over reputation—that made Apollo Finch do what he did consumed me for a while. It chewed me to pieces.

“I forgot the hospitable in hospitality. I neglected the art of service. Worst of all, I lost the magic of travel—the joy of new experiences and the connections from sharing them with someone else—and the price was my own heart.” He breathes in before he looks over his shoulder at me and then turns back to the mic. “Until it happened. An angel came down and gave me a sorely needed kick in the ass.”

My heart stalls.

He turns to me again, but he’s still half facing the audience.

Is he really talking about me? Here? In public?

My heart restarts with a flutter.

His piercing blue eyes meet mine with an urgency like they’ll never let go.

“This isn’t about me, or that damn award, folks. This is about Miss Piper Renee. You’re beautiful and brilliant. You always find the silver lining. You’re the most caring woman I know, and the most talented strategist who’s ever worked for me. And when I thought someone might hurt you to get even with me, I lashed out. I lost my head. The thought of seeing you hurt—” He shakes his head. “Piper, I couldn’t. I can’t. I love you too much, and I’d rather make sure you know it than stand here collecting a thousand of these dumb awards.”

Whoa.

My ears are ringing.

Did he really just say—

My heart takes over, overriding my other senses.

I blink back tears as I totter toward him on legs half turned to jelly.

He isn’t even talking to the crowd anymore, who have halfway burst into their own startled conversations.

“Piper, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go even for one day.” He reaches out and captures my hand.

All the butterflies in the universe swarm my belly, tickling me until I’m wearing the biggest smile of my life.

“Sunshine, if you’ll have me, that’s a mistake I’ll never make twice,” he rumbles. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to find a way to apologize—to tell you the truth—and I won’t let you go again. I love Winthrope and this business, but not with my all. Not when my whole heart belongs to you. Piper, I fucking love you completely and I always will.”

Shredded.

A tear runs down my face. Since I can’t speak, I just fall forward, and he catches me.

His arms close around me.

I would hug him too—hold him forever—but I can’t. I’m floating away.

Especially when his lips close over mine.

The audience breaks into applause.

This kiss tastes better than the hundred desperate fever dream kisses I’ve had since the day I walked out of his house.

And he only ends it to lead me off the stage and into the hallway behind us, where he pushes me against the wall.

“Let me see your arm,” he orders, breathing so raggedly.

I shudder as I hold it up.

It’s sweet that he cares, but this banged-up arm is the last thing on my mind.

His lips left me totally spellbound.

“Swollen. Bruised,” he murmurs, gently squeezing down the length of it. “I’m glad you’re okay, but fuck. I never should’ve let this happen.”

“I’m not okay, Brock,” I whisper. “I’m pretty sure I’ll die if you don’t kiss me again.”

My eyes haven’t left his lips this whole time.

His lips twist into a smile as he leans in closer.

“Goddamn, I love you.” His lips brush mine, barely holding back just to say, “I love you so much, Sunshine. Never leave me again. I’ll do my best not to be a jackass. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I manage, my heart pounding.

This cozy warmth floods me, tingling from my fingers to my toes.

His arms wrap around my waist and he moves in.

His tongue flicks against my lips, claiming and so, so hot.

I open my mouth, savoring the way he caresses me with every movement.

This kiss feels like coming home.

And he kisses me until I can’t think.

When he pulls away, leaving us both breathless, he tucks my head against his chest, stroking my hair.

“I’m sorry as hell I have to ask, but I need to know. What did you want?” he asks.

“Come again?”

“Your note. You said I never gave you the one thing you wanted. Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

Butterflies go bursting out of me again.

This man.

This wonderful, strong, adorably clueless lunk of a man.

“You really don’t know? Brock, you just gave it to me. And it wasn’t a penguin, as cool as that was,” I giggle, breathing him in.

“I did?” His brows knit together.

“Yes! Just now.”

“But I didn’t give you anything. Just made a big speech.”

I’m laughing again as I kiss him and say, “That speech was everything. I loved it and I love you, Brock.”

He’s about to move in for another kiss, but Jenn comes flying toward us.

“Sorry, guys! But they just arrested Finch and it took me a few minutes to rip myself away from the craziness.” Her eyes flick to me and then Brock. “Um, are you two okay?”

“Never better,” I say sincerely. My eyes never leave Brock’s.

“Sooo, not to interrupt the big victory party but…shouldn’t we reassure everyone in Seattle? I know that’s kinda Keenan’s job, but…”

He nods slowly.

“Good call, Miss Landers. You’ll have a ride home with us this evening on my jet.”

“Oh, good.” She looks at me again. “Will I see you at work Monday, Pippa?”

“No,” Brock answers. “We’ll both be taking a few days off. Sweetheart, do you still work for me?”

I stare at him slowly, biting back a smile. “I guess that’s up to you.”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. It was always your choice. If you’re back, though, you’re not starting work until next week.”

I giggle, leaning into him. “Because—”

“Yeah. You’ll be busy as hell.” His mouth takes mine again and leaves me dizzy.

I barely hear Jenn call back a weak, “Behave, you crazies!”

When I look up again, she’s gone, and so is the entire rest of the world.