Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
Hello, so... this one has a lot of spice. Sorry not sorry for the long chapter!
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🎶 But I just can't wait for love to destroy us 💔✨
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James and I were so wrapped up in each other on Valentine's Day that dinner became an afterthought. Instead, James thought it would be more "creative" to use melted chocolate as an excuse to drive me absolutely insane, his tongue tracing every inch of my body until I was nothing but a trembling mess.
It's probably why he insisted on this makeup dinner a week later. A high-end apology wrapped in opulence.
The restaurant is nothing short of exquisite. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of Seattle's sparkling skyline, the soft glow of candlelight bouncing off the sleek table settings. A single crimson rose sits elegantly in the center of our table, and the gentle melody of a piano hums in the background.
I take a sip of white wine, lifting my gaze to meet his across the polished surface. He's giving me that look again—the one that makes my heart race. The flickering candles catch in his blue eyes, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the slight curve of his lips. Dressed to perfection in a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt with just enough buttons undone to hint at the tattoos beneath, he exudes effortless magnetism. And as much as I want to climb over and close the distance between us, I remind myself we're in a restaurant filled with people—not that such a detail would stop him.
I chose a champagne-gold silk gown tonight, elegant yet dangerously tempting, with its thigh-high slit and low back. My hair is styled in loose waves pinned up, complemented by simple gold jewelry. James's focus hasn't wavered from me since we sat down.
His stare lingers on my neckline, and heat rises to my cheeks. Taking a slow sip of his wine, he fixes me with a predatory look—a hunger that has nothing to do with the menu.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I might not want to wait for dessert," I tease, setting my glass down and raising a brow.
His lips curve into a wicked smirk, his tone a low purr. "That's fine. I'm already looking at my dessert."
