Chapter 1 {Chelsea}
There he was.
Kyle freaking Dawson.
Standing by the espresso machine like he owned the place, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flashing that smug, panty-melting smile at the intern like he wasn’t the most arrogant ass I’d ever met.
“Of course,” I muttered under my breath, tightening my grip on my coffee cup. “Of course he works here.”
I’d dreamed of this job — landing a senior copywriter role at Ashford & Lane was a career win. The kind you pop champagne for and post obnoxious LinkedIn updates about. Not once did I imagine I’d be sharing air with him.
“Kyle and Chelsea. Reunited. This is going to be fun,” said Anna, my new art director, nudging me with her elbow as we walked past him toward our corner of the open-plan office.
“Fun,” I echoed, dryly. “That’s one word for it.”
We hadn’t seen each other since college, but Kyle and I had history. The competitive, petty, hate-you-with-every-fiber-of-my-being kind. High school debate rivals turned scholarship competitors turned… nothing. We’d gone our separate ways. Or so I thought.
Now he was here, looking disgustingly good in charcoal slacks and a black button-up, smirking at me like I was still the girl who’d beat him out for valedictorian and rubbed it in with glitter confetti and a mic drop.
“I see the overachiever’s still dressing like she has something to prove,” he said, eyes flicking over my outfit — a structured red blazer, matching heels, and probably too much confidence for 9 a.m.
“Better than dressing like I just rolled out of someone’s bed,” I shot back without missing a beat.
His smile only widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
God, he was insufferable.
Worse, he was hot. Tall, with broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline, and that damn five o’clock shadow that made me want to slap him and then maybe straddle him. If I were drunk. Or blind. Or recently lobotomized.
“Let’s keep it professional,” I said, brushing past him with a flick of my hair.
He leaned in close, voice low and smug. “You sure you remember how?”
My heart skipped. My jaw clenched. And I walked away before I said something that would get me fired.
---
By noon, I was already regretting life.
Kyle was on my team. My team. For the firm’s biggest campaign of the quarter — a luxury travel brand launching a seductive, all-senses experience. Which meant brainstorming sessions, late nights, and sharing creative briefs with the one man who could make me both homicidal and horny in the same breath.
He sauntered into the conference room late, dropped into the seat beside me, and sprawled like it was his God-given right to take up that much space.
“Miss me?” he asked under his breath.
“Like a rash,” I said sweetly.
We sat across from Anna and our strategist, Mia, who was outlining the target demographics while I took notes — pointedly ignoring the heat of Kyle’s thigh brushing mine. He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
I could feel him watching me.
The glint in his eye when he smirked. The barely-there flick of his fingers over my knee when he reached for his pen. The way his voice dipped lower when he pitched tagline ideas.
If this was a game, he was playing to win. But he didn’t know — I played dirtier.
By the time the meeting ended, the tension between us was thick enough to cut with a letter opener. And as I stood to leave, he said, just loud enough for me to hear:
“You still bite when you’re mad, Chelsea?”
I turned. Met his eyes. Smiled.
“Only if I’m bored. Or bored with someone.”
He laughed, low and rough and infuriatingly sexy.
And I walked away again — this time wondering if I’d just made a mistake.
Because if we kept playing like this, someone was going to get burned.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure it would be him.
