by Tracy Wolff
“Are you serious right now?” she demands, tugging hard at the door handle. “I need to go inside.”
I keep my hand where it is. “What’s your name?”
She rolls her eyes. “I thought you already figured that out. Sweetheart, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really suit you, does it? And since you didn’t seem to like it much, I figured I’d ask what you prefer to be called.”
“Well, isn’t that magnanimous of you. Too bad it’s my policy never to tell my name to strange men with deplorable manners.”
“Aw, come on now. I’m not that strange.” I flash her my most charming grin, the one that got me my nickname at that first Monday Night Football game nearly a decade ago. “And I’m working on improving my manners.”
“By barring the door to my workplace and making me even more late? Great job, there.” She tugs at the door again.
I still don’t let go. How can I when she looks like she just rolled out of bed after a marathon sex session—all bright eyes, flushed skin and messed up hair. She’s the hottest woman I’ve seen in a long, long time (which is saying something considering professional cheerleaders practice their routines less than fifteen yards from me on a regular basis). She’s also completely intriguing in a way I don’t see a lot and I’m not about to let her walk away without at least giving me her name and number.
She has other ideas, though, because just as I pull out my phone, she grounds the heel of her red pump down on the top of my foot. Hard.
Chapter 3
Emerson
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a great deal of satisfaction watching Hunter “the Golden Boy” Browning hop around on one foot as he tries his best not to whine like a baby. I’m not normally a sadist, but come on. I’ve had my fair share of pain today—at least half of which is his fault. The least I can do is spread the wealth.
And if a sore foot keeps him from performing his best in Sunday’s game, well then, so much the better. It’s the least he deserves for that lame-ass apology and calling me sweetheart in that condescending tone. Maybe he’ll actually learn something about how to treat women who have bigger plans in life than the easy ride that comes with being arm candy for some dumb, conceited jock.
I still can’t believe he actually expected me to throw myself at him—even after he’d soaked me with that ridiculous small penis overcompensation device he likes to call a truck. Seriously. What kind of women is this guy used to? Oh, right. The kind who are dumb enough to think fucking a football player will actually give them a shot at the brass—no, make that diamond—ring. I know the type well, courtesy of my mother’s four failed marriages and innumerable relationships.
But now that his death grip on the door has finally lifted, it’s not like it matters anyway. I’ll never see him again—thank God. While I like football as much as the next girl (and maybe even a little more), arrogant, Super Bowl–winning quarterbacks I can definitely do without. Even when they look like Hunter Browning. Especially when they look like him, all bronzed and buff and too beautiful for his own good.
Not that I’m deliberately paying attention to how he looks, but it’s not like that shit is easy to ignore. You would think I’d be immune considering that, like the rest of the world, I’ve seen him on TV and online and in magazines hundreds of times since his rookie season nine years ago. And he’s absolutely gorgeous every single time, no doubt about that.
But seeing all six foot five, two hundred sixty pounds of him up close (not that I know the stats for every member of the Lightning’s starting lineup or anything) is different. Because it’s not just about his shaggy dark hair, bright green eyes and laser-cut jaw perennially covered with several days’ worth of stubble. No, now it’s about the sex appeal that rolls off him in waves, the charisma that makes it impossible to look away from him no matter how annoying he is.
And he is annoying, I remind myself. Annoying and arrogant and currently in my way. I don’t have time to drown in all that sex appeal—I have a job to try to salvage and an explanation to think up. One that makes it seem totally reasonable that I showed up for my first day as a receptionist looking like I should be working a pole in the middle of some X-rated adult water park.
Just the thought sends a new wave of irritation through me, and for a second I think about sucker punching the great Hunter Browning right in his perfect jaw. He’s bent over clutching his foot right now, so I could actually do it without too much difficulty. But punching him—and dealing with the fallout—would take more time than I’ve currently got, so I settle for yanking the door open and slamming the edge of it into his forehead this time. The pained grunt he lets out almost makes up for all the trouble he’s caused me.
Almost.
Except I barely get three feet inside my brand-new office when the door opens again. I glance back—I can’t help myself—just in time to see Hunter stroll in like he owns the place. Even his new limp and the red streak across his forehead don’t distract from the fact that he looks like he belongs here while I look like I belong anywhere but.
“Seriously?” I hiss as he gets closer, giving him the look I usually reserve for drunk frat boys trying to put a hand up my skirt. “You’re following me now?”
“Wow. Your ego’s a little out of control there, isn’t it, sweetheart?” He’s smirking at me, and—I’m not gonna lie—it’s a good look for him. One that would probably curl my toes if I wasn’t so damn mad. And if my shoes weren’t so damn wet that I can feel the fake leather actually shrinking while I stand here.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that the red line running diagonally across his forehead looks like it hurts. And is slowly turning into a bruise. I should probably be ashamed of myself, and with a normal guy I would be, but he is the one who blocked the door…He should count himself lucky all he got was a limp and a headache considering I can feel my lips turning blue as the air-conditioning kicks in.
“My ego is out of control?” I finally manage to squawk past my outrage.
He waggles his brows. “I’m glad to see you recognize it. Admitting there is a problem is the first step to getting help.”
“Are you fucking with me now? I mean, you have to be fucking with me, right?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Because no guy is actually—”
“If I was fucking with you, I guarantee you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.” He shoots me his patented grin, the one that has women from eighteen to eighty dropping their panties after just a glimpse of it.
Despite everything he’s done, I can feel my own panties start to slip. Which pisses me off so much that I snarl, “Can you be more of a cliché?”
“Have a drink with me and you can find out. We’ll call it an apology and, if things go well, you’ll know what it feels like to be fucked with by me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t drink with men who get me wet.”
Fuck. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. Even before his grin turns wicked and his eyes go dark. And while I’m normally all for trading double entendres with a sexy man, this one sets my teeth on edge. And not in a good way.
“Now that seems like a pretty bad policy all the way around, sweetheart,” he tells me with a wag of his eyebrows. “I mean, what’s the point of drinking with a guy who doesn’t get you wet?”
“Call me sweetheart one more time and I’ll—”
“Mr. Browning, so glad you could make it in this morning, after all. I see you’ve met our new receptionist. I hope you weren’t caught in the rain, too.” My boss, Kerry—who is very definitely in the office—strides past me with her hand extended toward Hunter.
As she does, she gives me a cursory once-over, one that makes it evident just how displeased she is with my appearance—and the fact that I was mouthing off to Hunter, who is obviously a very important client.
“No problem.” The wicked edge leaves his smile as quickly as it came, and when he takes Kerry’s hand, he looks totally p
rofessional…except for the wink he shoots my way. “I want to get this process over with as quickly as possible.”
“I know looking for a house can be frustrating,” Kerry soothes as she turns to escort him back to her office. “But I’ve done a lot of research since we met last and I have five houses I’d like you to take a look at. Any one of them should meet your needs nicely.”
“I hope so. I’d like to get settled in the house as soon as I can.”
I don’t hear any more as they’ve reached my boss’s office and she shuts the door once they’re both inside. Terrific. Not only do I show up late and looking like a drowned rat on my first day, but I also insult a client who is probably planning on dropping millions on a house. It will be a miracle if Kerry doesn’t use her four inch stilettos to punt my ass straight out the door at her earliest convenience.
But I’m here now, I decide. I might as well get to work—if I’m lucky, maybe she won’t get around to firing me until this afternoon. The hundred and twenty dollars I’ll make between now and then will go a long way toward paying for this morning’s Uber ride and next week’s groceries.
First though, I need to clean up. A quick glance at the mirror over the receptionist’s desk—over my desk, at least for now—tells me that it’s even worse than I feared. I’ve got raccoon eyes, electric socket hair and my very carefully chosen outfit looks like it’s been through the Hunger Games…twice. And lost both times.
Damn it. I so didn’t hit Hunter hard enough with that fucking door.
Figuring the last thing Kerry wants is a receptionist who looks like she slept under a bridge after a late night bender, I make a mad dash for the bathroom. I don’t have much with me—just a tube of red lipstick and a ponytail holder, but I do the best I can.
I use hand soap to wash my makeup off, determinedly ignoring the too-tight feeling it gives my skin. Then I use my fingers to scrape my war-zone hair back into a ponytail. It’s not a perfect look—or anything close to it with the way my curls are kinking up all over the place—but it’s better than the drowned rat look I was rocking when I came in here.
My shirt is the biggest problem, and while I don’t have an extra blouse in my bag, I did bring a cardigan in case the air-conditioning got to be too much. I start to slip it on, but the sweater is white, too, and I’m still so soaked that I’m afraid it’ll just mold itself on top of the blouse. And while it won’t be see-through, it sure as hell won’t do anything to disguise the fact that my nipples are very definitely standing at attention.
With a muttered curse, I step into one of the two stalls and shrug out of my blouse and my sopping wet bra. Then I pull on the cardigan and button every button. Unfortunately, it’s got a V-neck that stops right at my breastbone so I’m still exposing more skin than I’d like—at least for my workplace. But it’s better than the alternative, so I go with it. If nothing else, I can spend the hours until I get fired hunched over like Quasimodo. Surely no one will notice.
Pulling out my phone, I text my bff, Sage.
Me: FML
Sage: What’s up????
Me: Going to be fired on my first day
Sage: Employment is highly overrated
Me: Just like eating and paying rent
Sage: Exactly
Sage: What happened?
Me: Hunter Browning happened
Sage: Who?
Me: You really should crawl out of your yoga studio every once in a while
Sage: FYL
Me: Exactly
I shove my phone back into my bag, take another look in the mirror. Then, figuring I’ve done the best I can with what I’ve got—and promising myself that I will never again leave the house without a makeup kit and a change of clothes stashed in my bag—I square my shoulders. Take a deep breath. Tell myself that once the worst has happened, everything from here on out is smooth sailing. Well, right up until I get fired, at least…
Feeling a little more human, and a lot more calm—maybe Rajiv is right, the secret is accepting what the universe has planned instead of fighting it—I make my way back through the suddenly bustling office to the front desk. I was only in the restroom a few minutes, but in those few minutes, the place filled up. There are suddenly close to a dozen agents sitting at their desks or milling around what I assume is the break room, coffee cups in hand.
I met most of them last week, when Kerry had me come in to do all the paperwork for the job, and Alice—one of the younger agents—waves to me from where she’s waiting in line for coffee. I wave back, and start to walk over to say hello (and maybe get some tips on how to salvage the mess I’ve already made of my first day) when the door to Kerry’s office flies open hard enough to slam against the wall with a bang.
Her eyes scan the room, obviously searching for something before locking onto me. “Emerson, could you come in here please?”
For a moment, just a moment, I can’t help hoping that she means some other Emerson. I even glance behind me, just to make sure no one else is standing there. Unfortunately, no one is. And when Kerry quirks a brow, silently asking what’s taking me so long, I start walking. And planning Hunter Browning’s murder with every step I take.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that Kerry isn’t happy. Her body is stiff, her fists the next best thing to clenched and her smile is way too aggressively bright. Looks like I won’t be surviving until this afternoon, after all. That’s okay, I tell myself as I follow her into her office. Eating is highly overrated.
“Have a seat,” she tells me, nodding stiffly to the only available chair in the room. Which just happens to be next to Hunter. Of course.
He grins at me as I slide into the chair next to him, way more relaxed than either my boss or I at this point. When I glance back at Kerry, her eyes are darting between us like she’s looking for something. God only knows what.
Another look at Hunter doesn’t give me any clues and I can’t help wondering what’s going on. Am I expected to apologize for what happened outside even though he’s the dick who started the whole thing? Or is Kerry going to fire me in front of him in order to appease him? I’m searching her face now, looking for some cue to how I’m supposed to behave. But she’s still smiling that fake smile, looking like she wants to stab me with the pen she just picked up.
“So, Emerson,” she finally says, her voice so sickly sweet that I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for her to slide that damn pen between my ribs like a shank. “Hunter tells me you two really hit it off this morning.”
Hit it off? Umm, okay. Definitely not what I was expecting to hear. But Kerry is obviously waiting for me to speak, so I say, “I think that might be a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Oh, don’t be modest. He’s been singing your praises.” Her smile turns razor sharp. “He’s particularly impressed with your initiative. So impressed, in fact, that he insists you be the one to show him houses from now on.”
Shock holds me immobile for long seconds, my brain refusing to compute what she’s saying. When it finally sinks in, though, I start to stutter. “But it’s my first day. I just got my real estate license a few weeks ago and I haven’t done any research on homes in the area. I—”
“All valid points,” my boss agrees. “Points that I’ve already explained to Hunter at great length. But he says you two have a connection and he is certain that you’ll be able to figure out what he wants better than anyone else. Even someone with fifteen years’ experience in the real estate market who owns her own firm.”
Wow, she doesn’t sound bitter at all.
Kerry takes a deep breath, then fixes a saccharine sweet smile on her face before sliding the folder across the desk to me. “So, here are the houses I was planning on showing him today. You can start with these, and then go from there.”
“Go from there?” I ask faintly.
“Well, you do have a connection. If none of these houses are a fit for him, I’m sure, you’ll be able to find one that is.”
The �
�or else” hangs ominously in the air between us.
Chapter 4
Hunter
Emerson is pissed. And not just the normal kind of pissed, either. Nope, right now she’s the kind of angry it takes a lot of effort to talk a woman into—and even more effort to talk her back out of again.
Usually I’m pretty good at talking myself out of trouble…and if talking doesn’t work, I’ve got a bunch of other methods that usually do the trick. But the way she’s looking right now, it’s going to take more than my usual repertoire to get me out of this and back on even ground.
Then again, I’m not so sure I want to talk her out of being mad. Not when she looks so spectacular with her red cheeks and her blue eyes sparking with rage.
“You’re going to have to drive,” she says as she pushes past me and begins the long march to the door at the front of the office.
“Fine by me. Most people think I’m fairly good at it.” Of course, most people are talking about my ability to organize a line drive when they compliment my skills, but I don’t see the need to point that out right now. Especially since Emerson still hasn’t shown any indication that she knows who I am. Unlike that man-eater boss of hers who seems determined to get me into the biggest, most ostentatious bachelor pad in San Diego—no matter how many times I tell her I’m looking for a family home.
“Couldn’t prove that by me,” she retorts as she reaches for the door. “Or my clothes.”
I maneuver around, so that I can push the door open and hold it for her as I gesture for her to precede me. She walks through without so much as a glance my way, let alone a thank-you. Which is a good thing because I don’t even bother trying to hide my grin.
“That’s a pretty big assumption you’re making.” I pull the passenger door open, then wait patiently for her to climb up into the cab. As she does, I get a really good look at her really great ass. And since there’s no panty line—despite the fact that the wet material of her skirt is still clinging to her generous curves—I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t imagining her in a little red thong. Or better yet, completely bare beneath that red polka-dot skirt.