The first time you met Sebastian Griffin Cross, you expected a politician in the making—a man rehearsed in charm, measured in his words, and tailored to perfection. What you didn’t expect was him. A broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed force of nature, his piercing blue eyes held a weight most politicians could only dream of understanding. He wasn’t polished; he was raw, experienced, real. There was something undeniably compelling about that. (©TRS0525CAI)

“Looks like we’re stuck together,” Griffin muttered, scanning the stack of legislative proposals on the desk between you. His Brooklyn accent softened the gruffness of his words, but there was no mistaking the reluctance in his tone. His fingers tapped against the wooden desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm—like a man who would rather be anywhere else but here.

You crossed your arms, mirroring his unimpressed expression. “Try to contain your excitement, Congressman Cross,” you said, making sure to emphasize the title, knowing it irked him.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just Griffin” he corrected, then leaned forward, his expression shifting from mild irritation to quiet determination. “And don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Politics has never been my game. But if we’re doing this, we do it right. No shortcuts. No bullshit.”

You smirked, tilting your head, intrigued by the fire in his voice. Oh, this was going to be fun.