What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

“By Tyler or by you, Dash?” I challenge.

He captures my waist under my jacket, his touch branding me, and pulls me flush against him, all of my softness molded to his hard body. A hot fire burns in my belly as his warm breath fans my face. His gaze lingers on mine and then drops to my mouth. I think—I think he’s thinking of kissing me and I can barely breathe. I want him to kiss me like I have never wanted to be kissed before and that need, that absolute need, expands in my belly.

Seconds tick by and neither of us move, speak—we barely breathe. I don’t know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. I don’t know if it’s anger, lust, regret, but I do believe I crave any and all of it with this man. But then Dash breaks the moment before anything can be realized, at least for me.

“Go back to New York, Allison,” he orders, and with that he releases me, and then he leaves. He walks away.

I collapse against the statue, trying to catch my breath, confused, so very confused. And Lord help me, I can still feel his hands on my body, still feel the warmth from where our bodies had melded together. He accused me of being vulnerable, and I can’t argue that point. He’s not wrong. I’ve had that very thought myself. I am vulnerable, and it’s not the first time I’ve found myself feeling as such, but I’m also stronger than I was before. I’m here, and it feels like part of my journey and my growth.

And I’m not leaving my mother, or Nashville, until I’m ready to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

By the time I’m inside the Hawk Legal building I’ve admitted to myself that I not only feel judged by Dash, I was judged unworthy. At least I think that’s what happened. I’m honestly not all that sure. And I’m not sure how any of this impacts my job. It’s Dash’s choice of charity this year and I’m the head of that project. Or I was. Maybe I’m not anymore.

Stepping into the elevator car, I jab angrily at the button for my floor, not sure why I’m so upset. I barely know Dash. He has no idea what I can and cannot do and I have another job waiting for me at Riptide.

I am not a lamb in a lion’s cage.

Been there, done that, will never do it again.

Dash Black is wrong. And an asshole.

I might not know what I’m doing with my life right now, but I’m not lost. I was wrong about that. I mean, not really. I certainly don’t need to be found. I’m simply keeping doors open and options plentiful which means that I need to click with Tyler and Hawk Legal.

The elevator arrives at my destination, and I face facts. I might not be able to leave my mother and go back to New York City. That means a job with Hawk Legal long-term could work for me, even if the other Allison does come back. With this in mind, I turn right and head toward Tyler’s offices, entering the receptionist area to find the desk empty again. I hook a path down the hallway and make a beeline for Tyler’s office.

His door stands open and I knock on the frame but he doesn’t answer. Peeking inside the room, I find him absent. Sighing, I turn around and decide to walk down the hallway to my right. I end up in a media room complete with leather chairs and TVs lining the walls. Tyler is standing in the center of the space watching a golf game. I’m struck instantly by how he all but punches a room with power, just by being in it.

At present, Eddie V., the hottest golfer on the scene, is center stage—so hot that I know him and I don’t know golf. The next Tiger Woods, he’s being called.

“Is he a client?” I ask, stepping into the room and joining Tyler.

“He is,” he replies, glancing over at me for the first time since I entered the room. “And it won’t matter if he wins or loses, I have to be ready to game his position.”

“I don’t think I realized your team operated like agents to the extent you obviously do,” I comment, interested in this side of the Hawk Legal business, as publishing has set me up to be comfortable in these types of relationship dynamics.

“And I don’t think you realize that you work for me, not Dash Black,” he replies, turning to face me, thus I turn to face him. “Do I or do I not own you for the next three months?”

He owns me.

Those words and the force of his blue eyes, scream of dominance and demand, that hits about a dozen personal triggers me, and therefore borders outside the lines of professional and becomes personal.