His Dangerous Love On Ice

Chapter Three: Olive's POV

Chapter 3 - OLIVE's POV

When I said I had a plan, I was lying.

I was standing in a luxury hotel lobby in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair in a messy bun, with zero strategy beyond don't have a breakdown in public.

Three days since that office meltdown. Three days of packing the revenge outfits Brenda had thrown in my suitcase that I'd probably never wear.

And one text from Cole I'd deleted without reading.

The flight had been six hours of Mom chattering about Hunter and Grayson on business calls and me pretending to sleep.

Now we were here. Chicago.

And holy s**t, this hotel.

Marble floors stretched forever under chandeliers that looked like they cost more than my car. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. And everywhere, people.

Beautiful people in expensive clothes. Cameras flashing. Reporters shouting.

Hockey players.

I could tell by the way they moved. That casual confidence, like they owned every room they walked into.

"What do you think, Olive?" Mom was vibrating with excitement.

"Mom, I'm here for Hunter. That's it."

"Diane, let her breathe." Grayson squeezed my shoulder. "Let's check in."

I followed them toward reception, head down.

But when I looked up, my parents had vanished.

"Are you kidding me?"

They'd done this before. Mom got distracted and wandered off, leaving me alone.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling for her contact.

"Oh thank god, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Two hands grabbed my arm.

I yelped as someone pulled me away from reception.

"Wait—I think you have the wrong—"

"No time! The team's waiting and we're fifteen minutes behind." The woman dragging me was mid-forties, sharp-eyed, moving fast. "Why were you standing there? Come on—"

"Seriously, there's been a mistake—"

She swiped a keycard and shoved me inside before I could protest.

I stumbled into the room and froze.

This wasn't a hotel room. This was a photo shoot.

Lighting rigs everywhere. A backdrop that looked magazine-quality.

What the hell?

"I know this is overwhelming," the woman said. "But this opportunity is huge. Your connection really pulled strings."

"My connection?"

She smiled. "Your brother. Hunter Sinclair? He worked hard to make this happen."

My brain short-circuited. "Hunter did what?"

"You're leading the ad shoot today. Mr. Mercer specifically requested someone young, fresh perspective, and when Hunter mentioned you—"

"Wait, Mr. Mercer? As in—"

A door opened on the far side of the room.

Every thought in my head evaporated.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Shirtless.

My eyes went straight to his chest and I forgot how to breathe. Eight perfect ridges of muscle, tanned skin that looked golden under the lights, a body that looked like it had been carved by someone who understood exactly what women wanted.

This wasn't real.

My gaze traveled up and my stomach dropped.

Sharp jawline. Dark hair, messy like he'd just run his hands through it.

And his eyes.

Blue. Piercing. Cold.

Locked directly on mine.

Zane Mercer.

Standing there in low-slung black pants that hung off his hips in a way that should be illegal, shirtless, looking like he'd walked straight out of that magazine except a thousand times better because he was real and right there.

Heat flooded my body so fast it made my head spin. My thighs clenched involuntarily and I felt myself getting wet just from looking at him.

"Mr. Mercer, I'm so sorry for the delay." The woman stepped forward. "This is Olive Monroe, the creative director we discussed."

"It's no issue, Sheila." His voice was deep. Smooth. It went straight through me. "I'm ready whenever she is."

His eyes never left mine and I watched his gaze drag down my body slowly, deliberately, like he was undressing me with just a look.

My n*****s hardened under my hoodie and I prayed he couldn't tell.

"Wonderful! Miss Monroe, you can take it from here."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Zane's lips curved just slightly, like he knew exactly what he was doing standing there half-naked making me forget how to form words.

"You can leave, Sheila," he said. "I only need to be alone with my creative director."

Sheila shot me a look before slipping out.

The lock clicked.

Just us.

Silence stretched and he didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there with his arms crossed, waiting, and I couldn't stop staring at the way his muscles shifted with every breath.

I forced myself to find my voice.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but I'm not a creative director." The words came out sharper than intended. "That woman grabbed me in the lobby thinking I was someone else. So you've got the wrong person and I'm just going to go."

He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made my skin feel too tight.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. So if you'll excuse me—" I turned toward the door.

"Do you really think this was a mistake, Olive?"

My name in his mouth stopped me cold.

I turned back slowly. "How do you know my name?"

He pushed off whatever he'd been leaning against and took a step toward me.

Just one step.

But the room shrank and the air got thick and I could feel the heat radiating off him from six feet away.

"I know you're not a creative director," he said, voice dropping lower. "I know exactly who you are."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then why—"

"And I know exactly why you're here."

The way he looked at me made my breath catch. Made warmth pool low in my stomach. Made me want things I had no business wanting.

I should move. Should walk out. Should put distance between us.

But I couldn't.

"What do you mean?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm here to support my stepbrother."

His lips curved. Barely. "Is that what you told yourself?"

"It's the truth."

"Then why did you agree to come after seeing my photo in that magazine?"

My breath caught.

How did he know that?

"Your stepfather hates me," Zane continued, taking another step. Closer. "Has for years. And yet you agreed to come to Chicago, to a game where you knew I'd be, right after catching your boyfriend cheating." Another step. "So tell me, Olive. Why are you really here?"

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the way he was looking at me, past the way my body was responding to just his proximity.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He was close now. Close enough that I could see a faint scar above his eyebrow, could smell that clean expensive scent, could feel the heat coming off his bare chest. "Let me make this simple."

He stopped right in front of me.

I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact and the movement made me sway slightly forward, brought me inches from that perfect chest.

"I have a proposition," he said quietly. "One that benefits us both. But first, I need to know something."

"What?" The word came out breathless.

His eyes locked on mine and I felt it everywhere, felt my body responding in ways that should embarrass me but only made the heat between my legs intensify.

"What are you willing to give me, Olive?"