Let his imagination follow that, she thought with a smirk.
She gathered up her things—purse, keys, wallet, etc., then, with one more swipe of red lipstick, Heidi was out the door. She slid into her convertible, which she’d bought after receiving her first big paycheck, and typed the address into her GPS. He’d asked her to meet at his house, as the rabidity of the press wouldn’t allow for a more public rendezvous.
Just as well, she thought. Wasn’t like she had an office anymore.
She hit the gas, turned up the radio, and began the half-hour drive from her trendy downtown loft to his exclusive gated community, which was home to football players, celebrities, and rich retirees. She was stopped at a gatehouse on the edge of the neighborhood, where the security guard gave her a visitor’s badge while cameras recorded the interaction.
Driving up smooth gray streets, so different from the pock-marked ones in front of her own home, she looked around with big eyes at the sprawling homes. Each was the size of a small shopping mall.
At last, the GPS dinged—she’d arrived. She slowed down in front of a towering, modern-style mansion, all clean slate edges and chrome finishing. It was like a contemporary castle; she half-expected to see a dashing prince come waltzing out of the front door.
Don’t think about dashing princes, she scolded herself.
She parked her car in the driveway, fixed her hair once more in the rearview mirror, and began the interminably long walk from her vehicle to the front door, down a path covered by bamboo trees and pebbles, interspersed with little stepping stones (her heeled feet were grateful for the stability). A large pond sat to her left, and she spotted koi fish swimming around in its depths.
Finally, she reached the door and, heart racing with anticipation, she knocked.
Seconds later, as though he’d been just steps away, waiting eagerly, Bradley Fox opened the door. Her lips—not of their own volition—parted as she drank him in.
He was dazzlingly tall, with smooth, bronze skin, and green eyes that sparkled as though they were real emeralds. He had the perfect, Adonis build of a classic QB: all sleek, panther-like muscles, with strong calves and bulging arms. That simple white T-shirt hid what she knew would be a V-shaped torso, covered in toned abs. His teeth shone white against tan skin, and his hair hung down to just past those wild eyes, dark strands curling gently around his high cheekbones.
In short, his portrait belonged in the Louvre, Mona Lisa be damned.
How could she be expected to concentrate on the job, when the job was managing the most handsome man she’d ever met?
Heidi took a breath, steadying herself, and held out her hand.
Chapter 6
Bradley
Bradley hadn’t done any research on Heidi prior to opening the door. Or rather, his ‘research’ had amounted to desperately group-texting his teammates, and asking for recs on which PR person in the city was best equipped to handle all his bullshit. The first name he’d gotten back was Heidi Morris at Image-ine, and so that’s who he’d called.
He trusted his team, and kind of hated the necessity of working with management. He preferred to just pick someone relatively at random and hope for the best, as opposed to drawing up careful lists of potential hires. He hadn’t really thought about what she’d be like—he’d assumed middle-aged, like most of the agents in the city, and probably heavily Botoxed. Possibly a high-pitched, obsequious voice.
It wasn’t like he cared—anyone who could get the job done was fine by him.
Bradley wasn’t even mildly prepared for the dynamo of a woman who greeted him. The real Heidi Morris was of average height, and above average curves, and with that tumbling auburn hair, could easily have been a swimsuit model if she'd wanted. Her eyes, framed by heavy lashes, looked at him straight on, which he didn’t encounter often; usually, women giggled and hid behind cupped hands when meeting him.
An almost imperceptible, centimeter-wide piece of lace stuck out from the neckline of her shirt. He found himself wondering what the tactile sensation of touching the bra would be like, just that little sliver, and then how his hand would move lower, following the lines of the fabric…
No, he thought, catching himself. Keep it professional.
“Nice to meet you,” he said with some difficulty.
He was flustered, while she looked completely unfazed. How frustrating.
“And you as well,” she replied, in light but self-assured voice.
“I’m Bradley.”
Of course you are, you moron, he thought reproachfully.
“I know,” she responded with a little smile.
His heart pounded, and he chided himself. Get a grip. Talk normally.
“Please, come in,” he said, pulling the door back and ushering her inside.
She followed the sweep of his arm, and strode in like she owned the place. He watched her hips sway from side to side in that tight skirt.
Focus, he thought, even while knowing that would be an unfair challenge to himself. He was a straight guy with eyeballs; how on earth could he be expected to focus with her in the room?
“Here, follow me,” he said, and led her to a dining room that boasted an enormous light fixture in brushed silver, its many arms suspended above an industrial table large enough to seat an entire football team.
He hesitated on the threshold, then changed his mind.
“Actually,” Bradley said, “let’s go somewhere a little more intimate.”
He then led their party of two outdoors, to a small table covered by an awning. The seats offered a magnificent view of his waterfall pool that splashed over the edge of the small hill his property sat on. He pulled out her chair smoothly—he reflected that his mother would’ve nodded with approval—and offered her a drink.
“Coffee, beer?”
“I’ll take a water,” she replied.
He went to the mini-fridge, which was fully stocked beneath the pool bar, and pulled out a bottle of water. He returned to the table, slid it in her direction, and watched with admiration as she popped the lid and drank from it masterfully without smudging her crimson lipstick.
“So,” he said, when she’d finished a long sip. “Where do we begin?”
“We can start with you telling me the whole story, from just your perspective. I know what the media is saying, but I don’t really give a fuck about their opinions.”
He raised his eyebrows. That was pretty fiery language for any professional meeting, let alone the first one between them. I like it, he thought.
“Things have been…rough…for a while now,” he replied. “During the last season, I was on decent behavior. The press said differently, but whatever, it’s true. All that shit about me falling out of a ride-share, completely plastered? Fabricated. I have my own driver.”
He sniffed a little at this, then glanced sideways to see if she was impressed. Disappointed, he found she appeared to be unfazed by mention of his driver. How unusual.
“Anyways,” he continued, barreling on, “I was doing pretty well, keeping in shape, and more importantly, keeping my rep clean. During the off-season, though…”
Here, he paused, searching for the right words. He found himself wanting Heidi to understand, beyond surface-level comprehension. To really get him.
“During the off-season,” he went on, “I get rowdier. Always have. Something about not having anything to do, all day every day, besides maybe a two-hour promo shoot or a meet-and-greet…it just makes me restless. Makes me hungry. I don’t see my teammates, and I offered to move my mom out here but she says she’s always lived in Hawaii, and she’ll die there too.
“So, I’m alone most of the day, unless Todd, my agent—has he contacted you yet?—unless Todd comes to hang out for a bit. Then, at night…well, at night, the town is my oyster.”
He smirked, then added, “Every door in Orlando is open for Bradley Fox. I mean, of course I party. What else is there to do? And, yeah, sometimes, that partying goes too far.”
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He looked down at his interlaced fingers, and then up to Heidi, trying to work out how she was taking this. He was being startlingly honest, he thought—perhaps too honest. Where was his usual obfuscation and merriment? He didn’t know, but she was looking back at him with a crinkled brow and sympathetic eyes. Her earnest pity prodded him to continue the story.
“So, yeah. I just want you to know that I know that this doesn’t look good. The sex tape, the arrest. All of it. And it’s not who I am. I promise, I’m more embarrassed by it than you could possibly know.”
His deep voice was filled with regret.
“And the arrest…I mean, Jesus, even I can’t believe that I hit some innocent guy in a bar. That’s not playing fair. To get into a fight with some dude who doesn’t have a full staff of trainers at his beck and call? It’s not okay. The sex tape, on the other hand…” he trailed off.
After a moment, sensing he needed some encouragement, she urged him to keep going. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”
“I gotta be honest, I don’t feel like that’s my fault. You can believe me or not, and I understand this is a hard line to swallow but…I didn’t know I was being recorded, and I have no clue who released it.”
He paused, letting that sink in, only able to hope that she would trust him. Because, as it so happened, he was telling the absolute truth—he’d never knowingly participated in a sex tape in his life. The tape had been filmed in his own home, which made it that much worse.
“Is it possible the woman in the tape was the one who leaked it?” Heidi asked.
“I guess,” he replied, and then blushed. “But I don’t remember who she is. I guess she could’ve been the one who planted the camera. That would make sense, in terms of monetizing our, er…time together.”
Heidi nodded, taking it all in, then finally said, “I don’t think it’s your fault either.”
The knots in his chest loosened. It was the first time in a long time that someone had performed the simple act of taking him at his word. Usually, people didn’t believe him so much as they hadn’t cared if he was lying. But Heidi hadn’t muddied the waters of her belief with the reputation the media had imposed upon him.
A long moment passed between them. Bradley hoped his gratitude was tangible.
“I’ll do everything I can to help you,” she said finally, returning the smile. “When I’m done, you’ll come out looking cleaner than a Boy Scout’s asshole.” She held up two fingers in a salute as Bradley chortled. “I promise.”
She moved her head to meet his eyes, which were lowered to the table.
“We’re gonna fix this, okay?” she assured him.
“Okay,” he sighed.
Heidi rested her hand on one of his and squeezed it. She meant to be reassuring, he knew, but the touch tingled through his whole body.
Bradley pulled back—the last thing he needed was to cross professional boundaries with the very person meant to rehab his image. Sleeping with management? That would be painfully in-line with the same actions that had gotten him to this point.
He stood up abruptly, signaling the end of the meeting. The sooner he got this woman out of his house, the better. Surprised, she scrambled to grab her things, and rose to her feet.
“I’ll keep you posted on updates,” she said. Seemingly unable to help herself, she grinned and added, “Try not to punch anyone before we meet again.”
He returned the smile and nodded.
Bradley escorted her back through the house, to the front door, promising on the way to keep in touch and stay out of trouble. As she was about to leave, she turned once more to him, and leveled him with her clear gaze.
“Don’t panic,” she said. “I’ve got you covered.”
With that, she walked down the gravel path, got into her car that was parked on the edge of the driveway, and drove off.
Damn, he thought, if that’s the woman cleaning up my messes, I might have to make a few more.
Chapter 7
Heidi
Heidi’s next two weeks were consumed by thoughts of Bradley: which journalists were covering him, which outlets were willing to rethink their personal spin on his bad-boy ways, which sponsors were tentatively returning to the table.
Those were the professional thoughts, of course. Her other, private thoughts—well, they were unprintable.
With every charming headshot of his that she saw plastered to the top of an article, Heidi thought of those oversized hands, and imagined what they could do besides throwing a football. But she couldn’t dwell; she couldn’t let a man like Bradley pull her under, or she might drown in his world of charm and debauchery.
She’d set up shop in a cafe down the block, a place called Annie’s that served the best brownies in town. The owner—the eponymous Annie—had taken a liking to Heidi, and soon, the brownies became complimentary. In return, Heidi offered to help Annie with business models, revenue projections, and whatever else might require a master’s degree.
Annie kindly refused, saying all the help she needed was for Heidi to sit by the window and draw in customers with her good looks. In other words, she willingly became the decoration. She had to fend off some thirsty men (and a few women), but mostly, the joint was quiet.
Heidi found herself falling into a routine, with most days looking like so:
6:00 a.m.: Rise and shine, with the help of some pop music from the early 2000s. Check her phone to make sure Bradley hadn’t gotten up to anything while she slept. Every day, she found with relief that he had not.
6:15 a.m.: Out of the house, and off to the gym. Yuck. At least she looked good in athleisure. Watch the morning news on the treadmill, or the elliptical, or the bike. Read some emails, think about how deeply she was not a morning person. Catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror and decide getting up with the sun was worth it.
7:30 a.m.: Return home, eat breakfast, and prep for the day ahead.
8:00 a.m.: Drive to Annie’s, purchase her baked good and caffeinated drink for the day, and settle into the armchair in the corner. Spend the rest of the workday filling out various grant applications, loan agreements, offers of employment, and legal documents. Establish a web and social media presence and dial up former PR buddies to “get drinks,” which was code for “schmooze.”
All this while also putting out the fires of Bradley’s indiscretions, which took metric tons of metaphoric water. Some journalists and websites were happy to oblige; they, too, wanted to resume writing fawning blogs about him and his dashing good looks. Others, well—not everyone was ready to “reimagine,” as it were, his shenanigans.
Screw ’em, she thought.
She also touched base with Meredith, whom Heidi realized was one of the only reasons she’d stayed at Image-ine. Meredith had made Gary’s idiocy bearable with her constant mocking; she did a wicked impression of him that often left Heidi in fits of laugher. There was no way Heidi could forget a friend like that just because they weren’t working together; their relationship ran much deeper than that.
So, with an open invite from Heidi, Meredith would sometimes drop into Annie’s after work hours to keep Heidi company, helping her work out fledgling business kinks and just commiserate. Occasionally, this commiseration would spill over into the nighttime.
8 p.m.: Annie’s closing time, a full 12-hour workday later. If Heidi was alone, she’d go home, watch some trash TV and eat low-calorie ice cream. She was too tired to flick through dating apps, which had previously been a bit of a hobby of hers. Though, having swiped on the entire city of Orlando, that interest had naturally dimmed of its own accord.
If she was with Meredith, as she seemed to be more and more, they’d get cocktails at some hip new bar in the downtown area, one of those places with a live DJ scratching vinyl and bartenders who took their jobs way too seriously. More specifically, the women would get the men around them to buy the cocktails.
Heidi reasoned that, as a soon-to-be new business owner, it would be criminally stupid of her to
spend her own money on booze. Flirtatious strangers, on the other hand, were welcome to waste as much of their cash on Heidi as they pleased. And, boy, were they ever happy to oblige. It was almost too easy, and Heidi would’ve missed the chase if she weren’t so damn worn out.
11:30 p.m.: Bedtime. Heidi would strip off all her clothes and clamber naked into the cool, refreshing sheets. The schedule was incredibly rigorous, and a few more hours of sleep would be welcome, but actually—and this even came as a surprise to her—she was really happy.
Doing a job well suited her; it left her exhausted and satisfied at the end of the day. It was kind of like vigorous sex—sweaty work, but worth the end result.
And when she finally did hit the bed, her dreams were all about the very thing she couldn’t have: Bradley Fox. No sooner would her eyes squeeze shut, then she’d begin to see hot scenes of them doing various intimate activities.
She saw herself visiting him for a follow-up meeting, but unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor as she walked into his house. She saw him shoving her up against those granite kitchen counters, saw it so vividly she could almost feel the icy touch of the counter on the small of her back. She saw his lips spreading open, and moving close to press against her own.
The dreams were bathed in sunlight, and were so tactile that sometimes she woke with a start, rolling over in bed expecting to find a naked Bradley. Alas, they were still just dreams, and her bed remained sadly Bradley-free.
They’d been in occasional contact over the past few weeks, but nothing more than a text or two, just her running plays by him, no pun intended. Business texting left little room for romantic tension; calendars and email coordination did not lend themselves to innuendo.
But now, after working some backbreaking hours, she was ready to give him a call. She found herself excited to hear that melodic voice saying her name, as though it was a song he sung gladly. Besides, away from the confines of what was acceptable to say over text, perhaps he would get a little…freer…with his words.
The Baby Blindside (Baby Surprise Romance) Page 3