"Tell me you're not going to that gala," Jake said flatly, his tone halfway between concern and disbelief.
Samantha didn't look up from the invitation in her hand. The heavy cream envelope bore the embossed golden seal of Carter Group — and beneath it, handwritten in elegant cursive, her name.
Samantha,
It would mean a great deal if you could attend.
— Nick Carter
A faint smirk curved her lips. "He still has good handwriting," she murmured, more to herself than to Jake.
"That's not handwriting," Jake countered. "That's a trap written in ink."
Samantha chuckled softly, placing the letter down on her desk. "Relax, Jake. It's just a gala."
"Hosted by the same family that tried to ruin you," he said pointedly. "And let me guess — sponsored by someone mysterious, with too much money and no conscience?"
Her gaze flicked to him, sharp and amused. "You've been reading my thoughts again."
