The Tycoon's Rival

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3

The municipal building smelled faintly of old paper and bitter coffee, its beige walls

doing nothing to dampen the buzz that filled the hearing room. The moment I stepped

through the doors, every head turned. Good.

The navy pantsuit I’d chosen wasn’t accidental. Structured shoulders, a cinched waist,

sharp lapels—it told them exactly who I was before I spoke. My stilettos clicked across the

linoleum, each step a declaration.

“Ms. Price,” murmured a city official as he handed me the microphone. “You have the

floor.”

I took it, standing tall beside the projector. My opening slides filled the screen with

sleek renderings of the Wolfe Haven development: modern towers rising against the

coastline, carefully curated green spaces, economic projections that glistened like

promises.

“Wolfe Haven,” I began, my voice steady, “is an opportunity for growth. For progress.

For revitalization.”

Polite nods, murmured agreements. I kept going, chart after chart, watching their eyes

track numbers, possibilities. And then—

A low voice cut through the air.

“Or an opportunity for erasure.”

Ethan Wolfe stepped forward, his rolled-up chambray sleeves revealing forearms

dusted with freckles and sun. In one hand, he held a stack of weathered photographs; in

the other, a folder thick with documents. His stance was casual, but his gaze? Solid iron.

“Ms. Price neglects to mention the historic designation Wolfe Haven qualifies for

under county ordinance 52-B,” Ethan said, his voice even, deliberate. “Nor does she show the impact assessment filed last year citing erosion risks to the cliffside under

construction pressure.”

I felt the heat crawl up my neck. “That study’s been contested. And that ordinance

expired under the 2019 revisions.”

Ethan’s lips quirked, that maddening half-smile that wasn’t quite kind. “Convenient

interpretation.”

The room shifted, attention snapping between us like a ping-pong match. Evelyn

Marshall, the zoning board chairwoman, tapped her gavel once. “Let’s stay professional,

folks.”

Professional. Sure.

But standing across from Ethan Wolfe, something sparked under my skin that wasn’t

entirely about zoning codes.

“Wolfe Haven’s been standing for a century,” Ethan continued, stepping closer,

holding up one of the photos—a black-and-white image of his grandparents on the porch.

“You really think another glass tower’s what this town needs?”

I met his gaze head-on. “I think what it needs is to stop living in a scrapbook.”

A few scattered gasps. A sharper flicker in Ethan’s eyes.

We sparred, volleying statutes and data back and forth, each argument laced with

something sharper than policy. When the board finally called a recess, my pulse was still

racing. Not from the win. Or the loss. But from the electricity that seemed to hum between

us every time our words collided.

I hadn’t planned to stay for the community dinner. But optics mattered. So when

Reverend Samuel Carter pressed a warm hand to my arm and said, “We’d be honored,

Ms. Price,” I’d smiled, nodded, and told Lila to cancel my evening call.

The church hall smelled of roasted chicken and buttered rolls. Long tables stretched

beneath string lights, paper name cards marking every spot.

I scanned the arrangement once.

And froze.

“Ms. Price, right here next to Mr. Wolfe,” Reverend Carter said proudly, gesturing to

two seats side by side near the center. “Thought it’d be nice. Our two key voices.”

Of course.

Ethan Wolfe was already seated, his chair tipped back slightly, sleeves rolled up again,

collar unbuttoned just enough to show the hollow at his throat. He looked annoyingly at

ease in this setting, nodding at neighbors, his laugh low and genuine as a toddler nearby

dropped a spoon.

His smile faltered slightly when he saw me approaching. “Didn’t expect you’d stay for

pie, Price.”

I slid into the folding chair beside him, smoothing the creases of my pants. “I don’t

back out of public appearances. Bad for business.”

Ethan leaned a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he reached for the

breadbasket. “Funny. You don’t strike me as the church-supper type.”

“Neither do you,” I shot back, inhaling the faint scent of cedar and salt clinging to his

skin. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoed, voice lower, gaze holding mine just a second too long.

Dinner passed in a blur of clinking plates and small-town chatter. But between every

bite, every polite smile, I felt his presence beside me like static under my skin. Every time

his sleeve grazed my arm, every time his knee bumped mine beneath the table, it lit a slow burn that no witty retort could fully extinguish.

When he passed me a pitcher of water, his fingers brushed mine—barely a touch, but

enough. I didn’t pull away.

“I’m not your enemy, Cassidy,” Ethan murmured quietly enough that only I heard.

I sipped from my glass, keeping my gaze on the flickering candle in front of us. “Then

stop standing in my way.”

He chuckled softly. “That’d be too easy.”

And somehow, the way he said it—low, warm, tinged with challenge—made something

twist beneath my ribs.

I wasn’t supposed to notice the curve of his mouth. The way his hand rested so casually

on the table, calloused and steady. I wasn’t supposed to wonder how that hand might feel

against my jaw, tilting my face toward his.

I wasn’t supposed to feel… curious.

But sitting there beside him, in a church hall filled with strangers, Ethan Wolfe didn’t

feel like a rival I wanted to crush.

He felt like a man who made me forget, for one dangerous heartbeat, why I needed to

win at all.

And I hated that realization almost as much as I wanted to taste it.

The night stretched around us, a thousand conversations swirling, none of them

louder than the unspoken one simmering between me and Ethan Wolfe.

And as I watched him lean back, arms crossed loosely, his eyes gleaming under the

string lights—

I knew this fight wasn’t just about Wolfe Haven anymore.

It was about him.

And about whatever fire had just been lit between us.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cornbread passed down the table, steaming and golden, its scent mingling with

the slow warmth of roasted chicken and buttered greens. I reached for a slice, fingers

brushing the edge of the plate just as Ethan Wolfe’s hand landed beside mine.

“Careful, Price,” Ethan said, his voice low and edged with that maddening half-smile.

“Wouldn’t want you stealing from the locals.”

I looked up at him, deliberately slow, arching one brow. “Please. If I wanted to steal,

Wolfe, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

A few chuckles rippled from the nearby seats. The woman across from us, some

councilmember’s wife, leaned in as if watching a live theater act. Ethan’s grin deepened,

lazy and amused, and I hated the way it warmed something under my skin.

“Ah,” Ethan mused, accepting a plate of collard greens from Reverend Carter, “there

it is. The corporate pirate in heels.”

“Pirate?” I cut into my chicken, savoring the precision of the knife sliding through.

“That’s a bit outdated, don’t you think?” I tilted my head, letting the silk of my blouse

catch the flickering candlelight. “Besides, pirates take what doesn’t belong to them. Wolfe

Haven? Already mine.”

That earned a louder laugh from the farmer seated two chairs down. Ethan shook his

head, rolling up his sleeves another notch as he reached for the pitcher of tea.

“Funny how you talk ownership like it’s a deed stamped with your name,” Ethan said,

pouring a glass and sliding it—unexpectedly gentle—toward me. “But this place? It’s more

than signatures and contracts. You’ll figure that out eventually.”

I caught the glass before it slid too far, my fingers curling over the cool rim. “And here

I thought you weren’t the sentimental type.”

“I’m not.” Ethan’s gaze held mine across the table, steady and quiet. “But I am the type

who doesn’t hand over something just because it’s inconvenient to fight for it.”

The air between us shifted, taut but charged, like the split second before a storm

breaks. I let the silence stretch, tapping my nail once against the glass. “Sounds

exhausting,” I murmured. “That hero complex of yours.”

Ethan’s laugh was low, rough around the edges. “Only when I have to deal with

corporate pirates.”

I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. It wasn’t the polite,

camera-ready curve I wore in boardrooms. This one felt sharper, unwilling. “Keep calling

me that, Wolfe. Might start thinking you like saying my name.”

Ethan leaned an inch closer, enough for his scent to thread between the candle’s

smoke—cedar, salt, something faintly metallic like the tools he must’ve used earlier that

day. “Maybe I do.”

The words brushed softer than his usual bite, and somehow that softness hit harder.

I looked down at the glass, annoyed at the sudden flutter low in my stomach, more

annoyed at the way his presence seemed to fill every spare inch of space around me. My

gaze flicked, catching the faint smear of dried paint near his wrist, the pale scar running

across his knuckle, the calloused texture of his palm as he lifted his glass to drink.

Why did those small things stick? Why did I want to trace them with my fingertips,

understand the story behind each one?

I pulled my attention back to the table, spearing a roasted carrot with unnecessary

force. “You know, Wolfe,” I said lightly, “this whole small-town charm thing? Doesn’t

really work on me.”

Ethan’s smile widened, slow and infuriatingly knowing. “Didn’t think it would. But you stayed.”

“I stayed for the optics.”

“Sure,” he said, tone amused but laced with something deeper. “Whatever helps you

sleep tonight.”

The dessert plates arrived—pecan pie, sticky and sweet—and the conversation shifted

around us to next month’s harvest festival. Reverend Carter explained how last year’s

event ended in chaos when a rogue goat escaped the petting zoo, causing a stampede

through the farmer’s market.

“I swear,” Ethan said, deadpan, “that goat had a personal vendetta. Took out Mrs.

Hamilton’s entire jam stand.”

I laughed—really laughed—before I could catch myself, the sound bubbling

unexpected and warm from my throat. Ethan’s grin softened, that sharp edge rounding

out as he watched me.

“You’re not so scary when you’re laughing,” he said quietly, voice pitched for me alone.

I shook my head, exhaling the last of the laughter. “Careful, Wolfe. You’ll ruin my

reputation.”

He leaned closer, his forearm brushing mine along the table’s edge, his voice a whisper

against the hum of the room. “You keep showing up here, Cassidy Price, people might

start thinking you care.”

My pulse skipped. A flicker of heat curled low, winding through the steady thrum of

irritation, curiosity, and something… warmer.

“I’m here,” I murmured, tilting my head just enough to meet his gaze fully, “for the

zoning approval.”

Ethan’s eyes held mine, unwavering, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. “Sure, Price.

Keep telling yourself that.”

The warmth between us simmered in the space that followed, not quite spoken, not

quite hidden. Around us, the table filled with stories and laughter, but between Ethan Wolfe and me, it was something quieter.