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“Anytime,” I reply, unable to suppress the smirk creeping across my lips.
The adrenaline from punching Jacob still thrums through my veins, making me feel invincible.
But as I slide my arm away from around her shoulders, a cold emptiness seeps in where her warmth used to be.
“Tyler,” she murmurs, using my real name, a rare intimacy between us.
Her eyes, a mix of gratitude and something deeper lock onto mine, and for a moment, the noisy café fades into oblivion.
I arch a brow at her. “How do you know my name?”
She licks her lips and snickers, “I might have snuck into Damon’s office and pulled out the file he has on you.”
Any normal man would be pissed at her for doing something like that, but her determination only drives me wild. “I guess you know all of my deep, dark secrets then, huh?”
Zoe chuckles, “A few, but not all of them.”
My fingers twitch, wanting to pull her close again, but I force myself to stay cool.
She smiles then, a real smile that reaches her eyes and lights up her face.
It makes the whole mess worth it.
CHAPTER SIX
Zoe
I sit at my computer, fingers flying over the keys as I finalize some work.
My bedroom in the modular home is cozy and rustic, like a little farmhouse oasis in the middle of the desert.
Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and the walls are adorned with vintage signs and old farm tools I picked up from antique shops.
A soft, plaid blanket is draped over the back of my chair, and the scent of lavender from the diffuser on my nightstand fills the air.
The cursor blinks at me, waiting for my next command.
I sit down at my computer, the farmhouse warmth of my room contrasting sharply with the cool glow of the screen.
My fingers dance over the keyboard, navigating through folders and files until I find our latest shoot.
Mandy and I had outdone ourselves this time—a sultry blend of soft light and shadows that highlight every curve and angle in the most flattering way.
I pull up the editing software and get to work, carefully cutting and splicing footage until it’s perfect.
No stray tattoos, no identifiable marks.
I’ve always been meticulous about this.
Tattoos are too permanent, too traceable.
I don’t want anything that could connect me to the content we produce.
The cursor blinks, waiting for my next command. I compress the file, watching as the progress bar slowly fills.
My heart beats faster—part excitement, part anxiety.
This is the moment where all the hard work pays off.
