Wait. No, that’s a good thing. One less distraction.

  With a now-familiar cocktail of dread and desire in my stomach, I stride over to her and park an elbow on the bar. “This is my favorite casino.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I flash her my best movie-star grin. “You’ve got three pairs. You can’t have six cards! You can’t have six cards in a five-card game.”

  She regards me inquisitively, then snaps her fingers. “Brad Pitt. Ocean’s Eleven.”

  “One of the top-five best flicks ever.”

  “And the reason this is your favorite?”

  “I’d say that’s reason enough.”

  She raises her glass. “Good reason. Good movie,” she says, then downs more of the amber liquid. She sets the glass on the bar and gives me a plastered-on smile. “How was your day?”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “We don’t need to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “The bullshit banter. The banter at all.”

  She breathes an over-the-top sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried we were bound by some rules I wasn’t aware of.”

  Another veiled, or not so veiled, reference to the rules CMA has about promotions and how they’re voted on.

  I shoot her a look, then I force myself to stare anywhere else but her carved cheekbones, her full lips, her deep brown eyes. I scan the crowd, counting gobs of men and women, men and men, women and women. They’re dressed down and dressed up to the nines. They’re drinking and laughing and chatting.

  None of them look like they want to cut each other to tatters.

  And maybe it would be better like that.

  Maybe it’s time Haven and I hashed it out.

  Ford could be onto something.

  But before I can assemble those words, Haven goes again, with a note of resignation, “Also, we don’t have to sit together while we wait for Lily. It’s not necessary. We don’t have to pretend we’re colleagues or that we like each other.” She heaves a sigh like the fight is nearly too much for her as well, then takes another swallow of her drink.

  My jaw tightens, and I’m desperate to sling a comeback at her.

  But Ford’s words echo louder.

  Talk it out.

  “Haven,” I say, sitting on the stool next to her, “what would you say to talking it out?”

  She nearly spits out her drink, coughing.

  My lips quirk up. I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not that funny.”

  “You want to talk it out? You never wanted to talk about anything.”

  “What? That’s not true.”

  She stares at me like I’m an exhibit at the zoo, a giraffe walking on two front legs. “You didn’t even try to talk to me about what happened.”

  I blink, shaking my head. “You didn’t want to talk! I called, and you said, quote, ‘You better have a damn good excuse, like you were stuck under a bus during the voting.’”

  She straightens her shoulders. “And you weren’t stuck under a bus, were you?”

  “No, but I bet you wish I had been.”

  The bartender swings by. “What can I get you?”

  A whole bottle. An entire barrel.

  “Scotch, please.” Then I turn to meet Haven’s gaze, trying to tamp down my frustration.

  “Look,” I say quietly, so we don’t make a scene. “Lots of things were a mess back then, and you know it.” I point from her to me. “We weren’t even supposed to be involved.”

  She crosses her arms. “I know that. But I wasn’t your direct report.”

  “And yet CMA still has a disclosure policy for office romances with employees, direct reports or not. And we didn’t disclose it. We were playing with fire. It was only a matter of time before someone found out we were together.”

  She lifts a well-groomed eyebrow. “Together? Were we together? Seems more like we were fucking on the road.”

  I seethe, clenching my teeth, and move closer. I get into her space, whispering hotly, “It was more than fucking.”

  She raises her defiant chin. “Was it for you?”

  “Was it for you?”

  She stares at me, a cat never taking its unwavering eye off its prey. “What do you think?”

  I think I can’t bend or yield. I can’t let on how much more it was. “You didn’t want anyone to know. You made that clear. I respected that. I didn’t tell a soul we had a . . .” I cast about for a word that won’t offend her—an affair? A tryst? A fling? “A thing.”

  Her laugh is humorless. “A thing? We were a thing?”

  I key in on what matters. “Was it more than a thing to you?”

  She parts her lips, and I swear a word starting with Y starts to form on her gorgeous lips. But she clamps them shut then reaches for her clutch, snaps it open, and grabs her lip gloss. She glides it over those lush lips then tucks it away. “It doesn’t matter what I thought it was. What matters is when my chance came up for a promotion at CMA, I didn’t get it. You didn’t vote for me. You didn’t care enough.” Her voice breaks for a fraction of a second before she collects herself.

  “That’s not true,” I say softly. I hate when women cry. I hate to see her cry. I want to make it all better, even though I’m the last one who can.

  “Then what is true, Josh? You want to talk it out? Let’s do it. Because what’s true to me is this.” She holds out her fingers, counts off on one. “Fact one: when I started at CMA three years ago, I worked with you—in your department.”

  “And you questioned everything I did,” I say as the bartender delivers my drink, and I knock back some needed fuel.

  She wastes no time firing back. “You told me to. You told me you wanted me to learn. My last agency was different. ‘Ask anything you want,’ you said.”

  “You didn’t just ask. You questioned.” I set the glass down. “You thought you knew better because you’re an athlete.”

  “You thought you were right about everything because you’re a lawyer.”

  “I know contracts!”

  “I know what it’s like to get up at four thirty every morning to train and chase a dream!”

  I take a deep breath. Must zoom in on the end game. Peace, or something like it. “Fine, so we didn’t always see eye to eye.”

  “Always? More like never.”

  “Always, never . . .” I try to sound light.

  She counts on the second finger. “Fact two: After two years of working together, we were staying late one night at the office. You came into my office and argued about a deal. You were so fucking hot when you were mad, and I couldn’t resist, so I told you how sexy you looked, and you pounced.”

  “We pounced,” I correct her, my body heating up as I recall that night. “It was a mutual pouncing.”

  “Fine,” she says. She knows what went down that night. I went down on her. She went down on me. And then we fucked it out, bent over the oak desk. “And we pounced a lot.”

  “For two weeks,” I add, my voice a little rough, my mind electric with memories. “And you wanted to keep it quiet.”

  She holds her hands out wide. “Of course I did. Because of fact three: I’m a woman in a male-dominated field. People would say I was sleeping with you to get a promotion.”

  I shoot her a sharp stare. “Were you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t sleep my way to the top. Not of anything. Not of medal stands, not of sponsorships, and not of jobs. I used my body for winning competitions, not men. You know what that means?”

  “What does that mean?”

  My skin sizzles. Her lips are inches away from my mouth as she says, “It means I slept with you for one reason only.”

  Just the mere mention of sleeping together lights me up. This woman . . . it’s like she’s pouring gasoline on the ground beneath me. One strike and I’ll be a raging fire.

  “What’s the reason?” I rasp, hard as a rock, hot as hell.

  She parts her lips in a gorgeous O, one that rattles loose every damn memory of the way she comes—beautifully, epically.

  “I wanted to,” she answers defiantly.

  Three words, and they’re perfectly seductive, thoroughly enticing.

  “I wanted to over and over and over,” she adds, and I might as well wave a white flag because she’s won this round. All she’s doing now is throwing more kindling on the fire of me, and I’m burning every-fucking-where.

  “So did I,” I say, my voice nothing but smoke.

  “And let’s get to fact four: when I was due for a promotion, you recused yourself from voting on me.”

  I heave a sigh as she hits me where it hurts. “Haven. I had to.”

  “Why? Why did you take yourself out of the running? You left me with Dick Blaine, who voted to promote someone less experienced, a mid-level agent. And what’s Tom done?”

  “Little,” I admit. Tom Forrester is fine, but that’s all I can say about the guy who stole Haven’s promotion, thanks to Dick.

  And, well, thanks to me.

  “Dick is a guy most suited to his name,” she says.

  I speak from the heart. “I didn’t know he was going to fill in for me on the promotion vote.” It’s only first-time promotions that require a vote at CMA, and I expected it to go well for her. Then our . . . thing wouldn’t be an issue again. “I had no idea.”

  “Why did you recuse yourself, then? What did you tell Dom?”

  I draw a deep breath.

  Because.

  I’d gone into his office and told Dom I couldn’t vote on her in good conscience. I didn’t tell him I slept with her, but I told him I was falling for her, and that I needed to step back from the vote. I couldn’t risk everything I’d built at CMA over ten years. I couldn’t risk taking care of my sisters, looking out for my parents, helping my mom and dad pay off their mortgage and buying a home at last in Florida. I couldn’t burn it all down for a woman, for anyone. If it got out later that we’d been involved at the time, it would look like favoritism. Worse than favoritism. So I did what I thought was right.

  “I told him I couldn’t be impartial about you,” I spit out. That’s not a lie, but I hold back the fact that I’d admitted my feelings about her. If she’d had any for me, we wouldn’t have ended the way we did. She’d have taken my calls. She’d have listened to me.

  Instead, she flipped us all the bird and strutted the fuck out of my life. No way am I telling her now that we were more than a fling, that it was more than fucking.

  I gesture to her, all professional and badass. “And look at you now. You started your own agency. You’re doing great. You were always best when everything fell on your shoulders.”

  “Are you saying I’m not a team player?”

  I go for diplomacy with a side of honesty. “Well, your sport was individual—not team—snowboarding.”

  She lets out a tiny laugh. “True.”

  “Look,” I say, trying to soften my voice. “I called you after. Several times. You wouldn’t take my calls.”

  “I was hurt. You hurt me. Forget the business part of it. What about the personal part? Don’t you get it?”

  “I hurt you? Because I excused myself from voting on your promotion?”

  “Yes.” She looks away, swallows. Her voice goes unusually small. “But mostly because you didn’t respond to my emails.”

  I jerk my head to her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  I tuck a finger under her chin and raise her face. “What are you talking about?” I ask again.

  She heaves a sigh that’s full of all the hurt in the city. “I emailed you. It’s that thing people do to get in touch with other people. You’ve heard of it?”

  I let go of her chin. “I didn’t get your emails,” I say. I wish I had. At least, I think I would have wanted them.

  “I didn’t send them to your work email.”

  “Where did you send them?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Your personal email.”

  Oh crap. Oh hell. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I grab my phone and search for her name. I find it in . . . spam.

  She’s right.

  There are three emails from her a few days after she quit.

  They are short, but clear.

  * * *

  Can we talk?

  * * *

  Call me!

  * * *

  Whatever.

  * * *

  I laugh at the last one. “Very you.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “Why didn’t you text?”

  She stares at me like I’m as stupid as a slug. “You had a company phone. You were a company man.”

  I set a hand on her shoulder, stripping the frustration from my voice, because I get it. I understand why she was upset. “Listen, I did what made sense at the time. I didn’t think voting on your promotion was the right thing to do. I couldn’t be impartial. I just couldn’t. I wanted you too much.”

  There. That’s all I can give away.

  Her lips twitch. “Too much?”

  “Yes. Every time I saw you. I wanted you constantly. So I stepped back. I had no idea the wreckage it would cause, and I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” She takes a breath, perhaps letting go of her anger. Maybe some of it?

  I let go of whatever I’m carrying with me too.

  “And now here we are.” Her tone is an olive branch.

  I seize it. “Do you want to move on?”

  She laughs lightly. “To agree to be less vitriolic? Probably a good idea. My coach always said to be zen.”

  My smile spreads of its own accord. “You were the zen-est on the mountain.”

  “You remember me on the slopes?”

  I tap my temple. “Of course I do. Photographic, baby. Photographic. I watched all your runs in the Olympics. And in the nationals and the world competitions too. You were unflappable, powerful, a vision of winter beauty and speed.”

  Her smile is uncontainable. It’s too broad, too big, too real. Seeing it, knowing I caused it, makes my heart do a little jump.

  “Look,” she says, her tone soft and friendly enough. “We can try to get along, to not hate each other, especially in public. You win big points for the ‘winter beauty and speed’ compliment.”

  “Like a snow leopard.” I shake my head, correcting myself. “A snow queen.”

  She waves a hand. “Stop. You’ll make me blush.”

  “So, do we agree to not be enemies?” I ask, wanting to seal our temporary deal.

  “I agree.”

  “One thing though. The client poaching? It has to stop.”

  “I don’t poach. I win fair and square.”

  “You took clients when you left,” I point out.

  She lifts an imaginary violin and plays it. “Oh, so sorry. Excusez moi for taking my top talent with me.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. I suppose she wins this battle. “To moving on.”

  She offers a hand to shake. “We will endeavor not to be dicks.”

  “Dicks? Who’s trying not to be dicks?”

  The sweet feminine voice belongs to Lily, the blonde sports reporter. She’s right behind us, and I turn to meet her.

  She waves a hand in front of her face. “I won’t be a dick either, I promise. Except I was a big dick for being late, and I’m so sorry.” Lily seems more flustered than usual, and she’s talking more openly than a buttoned-up reporter usually does. Plus, she’s got some sort of pink-and-white shopping bag, a fancy thing that looks like it’s from a lingerie shop. “I’m just happy you’re still here.”

  “Of course. It was only five minutes, so don’t think twice about it. We were early, so we enjoyed a drink and some good conversation. Right, Josh?” Haven meets my gaze. Her goodwill feels genuine. Legitimate. Maybe we have turned the corner.

  I raise my glass. “A great conversation. Incredibly revealing.”

  “Revealing,” Lily says, a little giggly. “Actually, can you excuse me for just one second? I need to freshen up. Traffic was crazy on the way over. So crazy. So very crazy.” She spins around and heads for the restroom, stuffing the bag from the shop inside a big purse.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Haven chuckles. “That she’s laying the groundwork for later tonight?”

  “Pun definitely intended.”

  Haven leans closer, affecting a male reporter’s no-nonsense on-air tone. “And today, folks, we’re here to let you know that Lily Whiting is late because she just enjoyed a little shopping before banging. How about that, Susan?” She pitches up to the female anchor’s voice. “Well, Bob, I say good for her. Now, for the news.”

  I laugh. It feels good, this truce. This segue into a peace accord with someone I’m going to keep running into, like it or not.

  I raise my glass, and we toast.

  As I knock back some scotch, I spot the prize I’ve been ordered to catch, moving across the casino floor like a fish in the ocean. I’ve cast a rod. Now I need to tug on it, but I can’t let on, or Haven will pounce like the big cat she is.

  The woman hates lies, though, with a passion. I pick the most harmless one. “I need to put in a call to the boss. Be right back.”

  “Say hi to Dom for me,” she says with a wink.

  “Yeah, I’ll send your love.”

  As I leave the bar, I sigh in relief that we’re not lacing every word with acid anymore. That we’re at least a little lighthearted now about what went down.

  I only have a few minutes, though, so I zoom in on my goal. In a heartbeat, I’m at the nearby craps table, where I find Jackson’s best friend and roommate. I sneak a glance at Haven. She’s on her phone. Whew.

  “Lucas Weylan?” He’s a floppy-haired blond dude with gleaming white teeth. He looks like a California surfer, but he’s actually an artist from Vermont and grew up next door to Jackson.

  “That’s me. Who wants to know?”

  I extend a hand. “Josh Summers. CMA. How the hell are you? How’s the cartooning business going?”

  Lucas flinches, cocks his head, then asks, “How’d you know I’m a cartoonist?”

  “A good agent knows what makes both an athlete—and his best friend—tick.”