The man doesn't look away. Not when Crestline's PR team flips to the last slide of their presentation—a digitally-rendered sunset over an AI-generated community. Not when the hand-painted banner collapses under its own weight, draping a stuffed bison in budget-friendly protest. Not even when someone in the crowd mutters a curse about the Rockies blowing it in the sixth inning. His thundercloud eyes stay locked on me, unwavering.

Heat creeps up my neck. I consider glancing behind me, convinced that he must be staring at someone else, but then I remember. I'm in the last row.

What the hell does he want?

The next presenter's voice fades into a distant hum, like I'm underwater. Her buzzwords—sustainable design and community harmony—blur together.

He doesn't belong here either.

Not in the same way I don't belong here. There's a wild energy around him that is too untamed, too unpolished, to be confined into this auditorium. The air feels thin in my chest. Even from across the room, I can see that he's not like the other members of the audience. He's not some homegrown retiree trying to preserve his nostalgic view of Wyoming. He's not a hipster transplant looking to enjoy his chai latte with a side of social justice. And he's definitely not one of the big players on Crestline's payroll.

No. He's something else entirely.

I've been staring back, I realize. Unblinkingly. My brain, apparently, has melted into a single, pathetic neuron firing off distress signals. I wrench my gaze away, swallowing hard. I can't let some guy—hot or not—distract me. He's probably just another one of the locals, pissed off like everyone else in the room.

But that doesn't explain the pull I feel. Like there's an invisible thread tied around my sternum tethering us together. It's unnerving.

Focus, Rhea. You're here to earn your paycheck.

I fix my attention to the dim glow of my phone as I type my notes. The presenter drones on, pitching Crestline's "investment opportunities." Translation: equity schemes that would be worth a fraction of the land they're stealing.

When I dare another glance, he's moved.

My stomach twists. He's closer now, having slipped through the crowd with a predatory grace that should not belong to someone his size. He leans against the wall a few rows away, arms casually crossed. But there's nothing casual about the way he looks at me. The anger in his face is sharp, focused... almost personal.

My pulse quickens, and I bury the rising heat in my cheeks by staring at my phone. My notes are a mess, but it's not like Mr. Hughes actually cares. As long as Crestline stays out of jail and pays his exorbitant fees, the details are irrelevant.

A smattering of halfhearted claps signals the end of the presentation. The man doesn't clap. He doesn't even seem to notice. His eyes haven't moved.

I should ignore him. I should. But my thumbs itch to start taking notes on every detail. The way his shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing the golden tan of his forearms. The faint scar I can see at his left temple. The way his presence feels like something alive and humming, far bigger than it has any right to be.

Maybe I need to get laid. It's been awhile, and I'm apparently one step away from spouting sonnets for a stranger who looks like he wants to strangle me.

"Uh, Miss Dawson?"

The sound of my name jolts me. My head snaps to the front of the room where one of Crestline's suits is standing behind the podium, looking directly at me. And now every eye is on me. Fantastic.

Hughes's voice nags in my ear: smooth things over.

Right.

I clear my throat. "Yes?"

The suit smiles in that smug, practiced way. "We'd like to hear from Crestline's legal team on some of the concerns raised earlier about land ownership and environmental compliance."

What a prick. He doesn't need his legal team to answer these questions. He's just offloading the problem onto me.

I stand and brush my skirt smooth. I force a smile that I hope looks confident and not like I'm seconds away from bolting.

"Of course," I say, making my way toward the podium. My heels click across the linoleum floor. I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck. Not the corporate Ken doll, but him.

I take a steadying breath before I turn to face the audience, slipping on the mask I've perfected over years of working with volatile clients, unprofessional bosses, and messy legal disputes. This isn't the first time I've spoken to a crowd. Even though it feels like I'm standing on the rim of a cliff. Even if that man's eyes feel like a strong wind about to tip me over the edge.

Gripping the podium, I force the tension out of my shoulders. This is just another pitch. These people don't mean anything to you. They don't know anything about you. They don't care about you.

"Good evening," I start, my voice steady despite the knot in my throat. "I'm Rhea Dawson, one of the paralegals from Hutchinson and Hughes, the firm representing Crestline. Over the past three years, we've worked to ensure this development complies with all state and local regulations regarding new construction near state-protected land."

There's a murmur, the ripple of skepticism that I expected. I'm just another mouthpiece. I understand their anger, their frustration. But my job isn't to share their outrage. It's to make this all happen as quietly and uneventfully as possible.

I continue, keeping my voice even and my tone calm, "This includes verifying proper notification to current landowners and mediating disputes when necessary. If any of you have concerns about how this process affects you directly, our firm has made contact information available, and we're open to facilitating individual consultations."

Legal jargon. Dry. Emotionless. Effective at boring angry crowds into tedium.

"Regarding environmental compliance," I continue, "Crestline has hired independent consultants to conduct impact studies. These have been reviewed by both our firm and the state's environmental agency to ensure no violations of protected wildlife statutes or clean water regulations."

A gruff voice cuts across the room. "And who's checking your consultants? Crestline picked them, didn't they? What's stopping them from fudging the reports?"

Probably nothing. But I keep my expression neutral.

"Great question. All findings are submitted to the state's environmental agency for independent review. If you're concerned about bias, I encourage you to follow up with the agency directly. These layers of oversight exist to maintain accountability."

The grizzled man doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press further. The room grows quieter, the questions grow fewer. I take another breath, ready to excuse myself and end this nightmare.

Before I can, he moves. Somehow I'd lost track of him, but like a moth to a flame, I'm now tied to his every flicker. He straightens and uncrosses his arms, standing to his full height. My throat tightens when I realize he's raising his hand.

Shit.

"Miss Dawson," his voice cuts through the room, deep and rough, like a landslide changing the face of the mountain. He doesn't wait for my permission to continue. "You've spoken a lot about compliance and oversight, but what about accountability? What happens when all these 'layers' fail? Because we've all seen this play out before: the construction, the new roads, the influx of happy tourists to the downtown Crestline wants to build... it comes at the cost of the land. Who will be accountable for the inevitable destruction this type of project creates?"

I freeze. Every word I planned to say evaporates like mist. His tone isn't angry, but it carries a weight, a quiet condemnation that strikes harder than any shouted accusation. And worse. He's right.

"That's not really the purview of the legal team," I answer cautiously, trying to keep my voice even. "Our role is to ensure that Crestline operates within the framework of the law. If there are failures, they'd have to be addressed through the proper legal channels."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I get the strangest urge to run. Then his lip curls slightly. "Do you think the law always does what it should?"

The room holds its breath. The tension I thought I'd eased into boredom returns, heavier this time. All eyes are on me.

I can feel the blush—half angry, half embarrassed—creeping up my neck. I embrace the anger, letting it ground me. "The law isn't perfect," I admit, keeping my tone light. I force myself to smile. I hope it reads as charming and not brittle. "But this isn't a law school seminar, and we're not here to debate systematic reform. What I can assure you is that Crestline will be adhering to the regulations as they stand."

His lips press into a thin, hard line. I can't tell if he's satisfied with the answer, or just deciding if I'm worth tearing apart. Either way, he doesn't say anything else, and the charged atmosphere ebbs to something slightly less suffocating.

I wait for more questions to follow, but none come. Crestline's PR team takes the podium again, blithely thanking me and moving on to their closing remarks.

Instead of returning to my seat, I make a beeline for the exit.

Adrenaline is humming through my veins. My skin feels too hot, too tight. It's not like this was my first hostile room. Hell, it isn't even my worst one. I hate that I'm so rattled. There's something about this man that has my nerves lit up like live wires.

The cool night air hits like a slap to the face. I take a deep breath, trying to unwind the threads of anxiety from around my heart. It doesn't work. I still feel pinned by those gray eyes. The bastard. I fish my keys out of my bag as I march through the lot.

I'm not sticking around to find out what his deal is. I'm driving back to Jackson, and I am signing myself off this disaster of project first thing Monday morning. Hughes can bluster all he wants; he'll get over it. The threat of having to do his own discovery might even be enough to grant me a clean exit back to Morningstar. Because there is no way that I'm—

"Miss Dawson!"

I don't stop. That calm, low voice sends gooseflesh across my skin, but I am a lone woman in a dirt parking lot with only car keys as a makeshift weapon. I am not about to stop and play nice.

"Miss Dawson," he calls again, jogging behind me. The crunch of gravel grows closer, but he stops short, just outside my personal space. "Do you make a habit of running off before the real discussion begins?"

Before I can throw myself into my car and peel onto the highway, I spin to face him. His presence is more unsettling up close. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and those piercing eyes that seem to burn right through me, even in the poor light. He's taller than I realized, towering enough to make me feel small despite the heels pushing me above six feet.

"I don't owe you a discussion," I say. I meant to keep my tone even, but the words come out as more of a snarl than an unaffected response.

His lip twitched into the barest hint of a smile. It's not quite a smile, and it doesn't put me at ease. He seems to notice the keys tightly clenched in my fist and takes a step back. "No, you don't. But you walked out of there looking like you have something to prove. So, prove it."

My mouth opens, then shuts. "I don't know who you think you are, but you're out of line. You asked a question, and I answered it."

He doesn't waver, and that only fuels my irritation.

"You didn't answer it," he counters. His voice is annoyingly calm. "You sidestepped it. What happens when the law isn't enough, Miss Dawson? What happens when people like you protect corporations like Crestline and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces?"

I hope he doesn't notice the flush in my face. "If you have a problem with Crestline, take it up with their executives. I'm not their moral compass, and I'm not the one making the decisions. I'm a paralegal."

He takes a step forward, and I retreat until my back bumps against the car door. His proximity is suffocating, his presence overwhelming.

"No," he says softly. There's a pause where he inhales. I can almost feel his breath on my cheek. A wave of tingly gooseflesh erupts down my spine. "You're more than that. And I think you're too smart not to know it."

The air between us feels charged, taut. That tug of thread between my ribs tightens, arcing with a current I can't ignore. He's so close. I swear he's going to kiss me. For a second, I think I want him to.

But something inside me fractures just as his eyes soften, as his hand reaches for my face.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," I bite out. My voice is sharp with fury.

For a moment, he just looks at me, those storm-gray eyes searching for something. He clearly doesn't find it, because he steps back and gives me room to breathe again. He holds his hands up in mock-surrender.

"You're right," he says quietly.

Without another word, he turns and walks away. I'm left standing there, shaken and furious and somehow... hollow.

I wrench the car door open and slam it behind me. My hands feel clammy as I grip the wheel. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Who does that?

Who the fuck does that?!

I don't look pack as I pull onto the road. The cold night air whips through the open windows, sharp against my skin, but it doesn't calm me. My heart refuses to settle. Not from fear, but from frustration. At him, at Crestline, at myself.

You're more than that.

I press harder on the gas, letting the speedometer creep higher, daring it to outrun the echo of his words. Fuck. I want to outrun my own thoughts. But they cling, sticky and unwelcome, burrowing into that part of me I could have sworn I'd buried years ago.

I was never supposed to be here.

Not at that podium. Not working for some soulless Big Law firm.

I rebuilt my life on careful decisions, calculated sacrifices. Every step forward was deliberate, every piece of myself that I lost was an acceptable cost. I finally have security. I finally have control. But now? I can't stop hearing his voice.

I grip the wheel tighter as I leave the dark road behind, Jackson's lights glowing on the horizon. I've worked too hard to let this unravel me. I'll tell Hughes on Monday: either he pulls me off Crestline, or I'm gone. He can bluster all he wants. I know what I'm worth.

But still, his words linger. You're more than that.

They follow me home.

I'm not more or less than anything. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, exactly what I need to be.

But why does that feel so wrong?