Haven Delilah.
My former colleague. My former protégé. And my former lover.
Now, my fiercest rival.
I turn around, bracing myself to remain immune to the chestnut hair, the deep brown eyes, the legs for days.
And the freckles, dear God, the adorable fucking freckles on the face of America’s sweetheart. That’s what the sports reporters dubbed her more than a decade ago when the American-born, French Alps–raised athlete won gold at age twenty-one, snowboarding for the US in the Olympics.
She’s the woman who haunts my dirty dreams uninvited, and that is the worst kind of Inception-level shit, as far as I’m concerned.
Now here she is at the beer stand at Yankee Stadium, looking as sexy as she had every day at the office in her zip-up dresses and skirts. There is little hotter on a woman than those form-fitting skirts with exposed zippers that make you want to unzip them. All. Day. Long.
Athletic clothes look good on her too.
And so, I’m learning now, do jeans and a T-shirt.
“But you know I have fantastic legs,” I say.
“You think I actually remember what your legs look like?” she tosses back, gesturing derisively to my legs.
I don’t take the bait. “No time like the present to get reacquainted, then. Here they are, in all their glory.”
“Hairy glory.”
“Would you prefer I shave?”
She taps her chin and casts her gaze heavenward, her full, glossy pink lips looking entirely kissable. “That would imply that I actually care what you do.”
“And yet, you were the one checking out how I look in a skirt.”
She heaves a sigh, takes a sip of her beer, then shoots me a steely stare. “Summers, you’re parading around a major league ballpark wearing a luau skirt with seashells affixed to your pecs. It’s not that I’m checking you out. It’s that you’re putting on a show. And I find the show . . . Hmm, what’s the right word?” She pauses, deliberates, and eyes me up and down. “Amusing.”
It’s the way she says that last word that makes it a sly insult. I’m amusing, as if she wants to pat me on the head, pick me up, maybe put me in her pocket.
“What can I say? If I’m going to dress up for a long homestretch against the enemy, I might as well amuse people.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Not moonlighting as a hula-girl mermaid with a wig? Is that a thing?” She arches one brow, her tone just as fiery as I’d expect from the woman who believes I’m the reason she lost her job.
She’s not entirely wrong.
But she’s not right either.
I glance down at my skirt, fingering a grass strand. “You think anyone would hire me? Because maybe I could get some cash on the side.”
A smirk seems to tug at her lips. “Think of all the great drag bars in the city who’d be interested. I can picture you in some kinky boots. Could you get those red ones that go all the way up your legs?” she asks, bending over and dragging her hands up her legs.
Oh, hell. Why did she have to demonstrate? Because . . . that look, that position, the curve of her breasts. Her.
I shake off the image I just enjoyed. “I’ll take that under advisement. But really, you’re welcome to stare all you want. In fact, I highly encourage you to.”
I step to the side, swaying, and raise my arms. I even hum a little as I give her my best hula dance.
She rolls her eyes. Her gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes. “It’s funny that you think I’m looking at you for any reason other than entertainment.”
“It was wildly entertaining when Lorenzo capped off an epic World Series with the MVP trophy. That’s why I’m wearing this—I underestimated the number of runs for the game, so when he overdelivered, I had to make good on a bet with my colleagues.”
“Ah, so you’re a betting man.”
“I am indeed.”
She steps closer, takes a drink of her beer, and lets her eyes tour my body once more. “If you want to bet again, you ought to go up against me. I’m a fierce competitor.”
“What a shock.”
She shrugs nonchalantly. “I only suggest it because I play hard and I bet hard, and it seems maybe you like to lose.”
I puff out my chest, the seashells on my pecs probably not doing me any favors, but hell if this woman would ever grant me a favor. “No regrets on this loss. It activated a shit-ton of bonuses for my guy. The same guy you were going after last year too. But I got him.”
She pats my shoulder. “It’s so lovely when you remind me that your dick is bigger than mine.”
“You know exactly how big it is.”
Her eyes darken, blazing with a fiery sort of indignation. “Not as big as your ego. But way to go, trotting out your clients’ accomplishments. Why don’t you name-drop some more?”
I grit my teeth, hating that she’s onto something. That maybe I do come across as a cocky asshole around her. But if the shoe fits . . . “I could, but I don’t think you have all day to hear about the megadeals for the superstars I rep.”
Those eyes? Forget blazing. There’s a five-alarm fire of rage-hate crackling in her irises now. But then she turns the ire down to a simmer, waving a hand dismissively. “So many fading names. Maybe someday you’ll rethink your strategy and focus more on the rising stars. They do have more upside, you know. Lorenzo is, what, the ripe old age of thirty?” She shudders as if thirty is geriatric in pro ball. Unfortunately, it kind of is.
“Lorenzo is not a has-been. And I will bet you anything anytime, because I can win rising stars too.”
She shrugs and gestures to the game. “Can you though? That’s more my thing. Like the new right fielder. He’s been on a tear during spring training. Think of the potential—like investing in the next Uber or Lyft.” She lifts her nose to the air as if inhaling the scent of money multiplying exponentially.
I do like that particular perfume too. Smells damn good.
I also like a throwdown. “Are you challenging me, Delilah?” I ask, using her last name because it helps me keep her at a distance.
“I am. Since you love to bet.” She pauses, purses her lips, then takes her sweet time saying, “Summers.”
She says it like she knows all my secrets. She knows enough of them to be dangerous.
“Next big rising star athlete up for grabs,” I say. “Let’s bet on who wins him.”
“Him? You’re assuming the next big rising star will be a man.” She shakes her head, tsking. “That makes you like all the others.”
I blanch at my own faux pas. I ought to know better. I rep plenty of top-tier female athletes. “You know I’ve never been a chauvinist.”
“You haven’t?”
I inch closer, getting in her space. “You damn well know I’m not.”
She lifts that haughty chin. That sexy, haughty chin I want to slide my thumb across and bite. “Great. Then let’s wager. When I sign the next rising star, I get to dictate what you’ll wear to the top sporting event in the field.”
Fueled by my own excess of confidence, I show my hand now too. “I’ll wear a shirt that says Haven Delilah is the top sports agent in the country.”
Her brown eyes twinkle like a constellation of stars. “I will take that bet.”
I park my hands on my hips. “And if I win?”
“Yes, if you win, what do you want me to wear?” The question comes out sultry, smoky, as she juts out a hip and gestures to her lithe, toned frame.
My throat goes dry. My brain goes hazy.
What do I want her to wear?
My favorite outfit on her.
I want her to wear my dress shirt, to button it only halfway. I want her to slink into my room, toying with the remaining buttons, and nibble on the corner of her lip as she gives me a come-hither look.
Whoa. That was out of the blue.
And I’ve got to recover from that brain malfunction.
I swallow roughly, past the gravel in my throat, jumping off the monkey bars again
. “How about you wear my college ball jersey?”
She smiles without showing any teeth then taps my chest. “That’s so cute.”
“What’s cute?”
“How you hold on to your college glory days.”
I seethe inside. “Do we have a deal?”
She extends her hand, and we shake. “Of course I will wear your jersey. You were what? A kicker?”
“Try again, sweetheart.”
“I wish my memory were better for second stringers.”
I shake my head. “Rose Bowl, baby. I won the Rose Bowl. All-American.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Rose Bowl is fantastic. But do you really want to go against me in the who has the bigger trophy department?”
“Of course not. We all know you have the bigger dick on that count.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Why, thank you.”
I don’t give another inch. Instead, I sidestep. “How’s the beer?”
She takes a hearty drink, humming against the bottle, then smacks her lips. “Want a sip? Just to show me what a good sport you are?”
Playing along, I take the bottle, down a gulp, and do my best not to think about her lips. “I’m a great sport.”
I hand it back to her, and she takes another drink. “So, congrats on your MVP client. Maybe someday you’ll win clients fairly.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Are you still bitter? I won Lorenzo fair and square. Sometimes you have to play ball fast.”
“Or play dirty ball.”
“I don’t play dirty ball during the day, and you know it.” I move closer to her, dropping my voice to a husky whisper. “I only play that at night.”
A small, traitorous gasp escapes her. Instantly, she snaps her gaze away, her cheeks flushing. Good. Hopefully she remembers every sordid detail of our nights together. God knows I can’t get them out of my head.
“Then I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt about Austin Holloway.” She’d repped the hotshot soccer player until he left her a few weeks ago, and I have a meeting with him tomorrow to discuss his representation plans. He’s breaking out big-time, and word on the street is he’s talking to everyone, including Dick Blaine, aka the guy my boss hates the most.
“I didn’t go after him. Didn’t have to. Austin called me.”
“Don’t lie to me, Josh. I swear, if you keep doing this, I will find a new way to make your life hell.”
“How are you going to make my life hell? Post nude photos of me?”
“One, I don’t have any nude photos of you. And two, how would that make your life hell? You’d probably be happy with it. You’re just like every other guy. You all think you look fantastic naked.”
“I don’t believe you had a problem with how I looked naked.”
She steps closer and sets her hand on my chest, leaving a searing imprint. “No, I didn’t then. But I don’t remember a thing about it now.” The national anthem begins, and she turns on her heel to go. But before “Oh, say can you see,” I call out quietly to stop her. “The bet, Haven. For the rising star.”
“Yes?” She turns toward the flag, putting her hand on her heart.
I do the same. “Who’s the athlete?” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
She whispers too. “I guess we’ll know when he—”
“Or she,” I add.
“—comes on the market.”
“So, we’ll wait.”
“Until we meet again,” she says then gives all her attention to the flag.
I do too, shoulders back, though the seashell bra doesn’t do much for my dignity. And even though I’m damn glad that Lorenzo won the MVP, this isn’t the ideal outfit to be wearing when I run into my ex.
Note to self: next time you see her, wear a suit. Because those drive her wild.
Wait. You’re not going to see her again anytime soon.
Also, you don’t care if you drive her crazy. Repeat after me—you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care.
2
Haven
I like to keep lists of rules for different situations, and after running into Josh at the ballpark, I make a new entry in my personal rulebook.
It’s number eight in My Rules for Being a Woman in a Male-Dominated Field.
1. Don’t ever be surprised.
2. Remember you will always be thought less capable because you have ovaries.
3. Don’t let it get you down.
4. Kick unholy ass every single day.
5. And take no prisoners.
6. You will have to work ten times harder and ten times smarter and be a thousand times more ruthless than your male counterparts.
7. Never let them see you sweat. Ever.
And here is where I add the next rule.
8. Especially that one guy in particular. The one who gets under your skin. The one you wish you’d stop thinking about. Also, how is it possible for him to actually look hot in a luau skirt and seashells? But that’s the problem with Josh Summers. The man exudes masculinity even when he’s wearing tassels. Riddle me that.
Wait. I need another rule.
9. And of course, never ever let on that you can still recall every single detail of the nights you spent with him. Every. Single. Mouthwatering. Detail.
And one more.
10. Do whatever it takes to avoid seeing him at the upcoming Sports Network conference. Surely there’s no way he’ll be invited to speak as well.
There. That’ll do. This list looks perfect.
3
Josh
You know how some people have a dessert compartment? Where there’s always extra room?
I have a compartment for competition. It never runs out of space.
The next morning as I run in Central Park, peeling off a few miles before I meet a prospective client, I’m going to have to dip into that drawer.
Because that guy in front of me? The one decked out in spandex and EarPods? Wearing dark shades and a beanie in the summer, and breaking away from the pack?
Not going to fly.
Don’t know him. Don’t care. He passed me; therefore, I must pass him.
It’s not going to be easy, because he’s Hermes, light as air and damn near impossible to catch. He’s ten feet in front of me, fifteen, twenty. The dude is aerodynamic and built like he was born for the sport of kicking my ass on the Reservoir path.
I open the competitive compartment, grab some of the reserves, and crank it up.
More RPMs. More speed.
My lungs burn. My thighs ache.
I’m not skinny, not supposed to be. I’m six three, and I played wide receiver in college. That was fifteen years ago, but you can’t be slow at that position.
And I wasn’t.
So even though the guy trying to show me up—because obviously, it’s about me—is built for speed, I’m built for competition. I didn’t get to the top of my field without thriving on the fight, the chase, and the wins.
I power along the path, pushing, pushing, till I’m a few feet behind the fellow with the winged feet.
My muscles scream that I’m not that twenty-year-old cocky shithead charging downfield, chasing balls, and making beautiful catches anymore. Plus, there is a helluva lot more ground to cover here than during the average touchdown catch.
And yet . . . here I go, a few more steps.
Then some more.
He’s inches in front of me now.
My heart pounds from the exertion, and my reserve tank is nearly empty, but I push past the beanie-wearing, sunglasses-sporting guy I’m about to smoke.
Whoa.
I nearly stop in my tracks, turning to face him. “Austin Holloway?”
He jerks his gaze in my direction then nods in recognition. “That’s me. Nice work, Josh, by the way.”
I slow to a jog, and he does too, as I break into a smile. “I could tell you I wasn’t trying to pass you on purpose, but that’d be a lie.” And it’s a damn good thing I did. This is competitive
compartment serendipity. I point to his newly shaven face. “What the hell did you do with the full beard?”
“I donated it to men who need beards. It’s terrible how few can grow a full one, so I wanted to do my part,” Austin jokes.
“Good of you to look out for our fellow men.”
He drags a hand over his jaw. “Anyway, I heard ladies liked the smooth-faced look these days, so I’m trying this on. Also, I knew you were trying to pass me three minutes ago.”
“I had to pass you, man. You passed me. I had no choice.”
“Man code. I hear ya. But I do need to tell you something.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I let you pass me,” he says with a grin.
I shake my head, cracking a smile as my breath comes fast. “In this case, I’m good with that. Because you?” I point at the potential client, the guy I’m meeting in an hour. “You better be faster than I am.”
He rolls his eyes. “So much faster. Race you to the coffee shop.”
“I guess our meeting is starting earlier than planned,” I say.
“Let’s do it now.”
I take off, going for the element of surprise, but that only lasts so long against the emerging soccer star. This guy is known for his horsepower.
He wins out, outpacing me to Central Park West where he offers me a handshake. “Good job. You’re faster than my last agent.”
I catch my breath, then ask, “Speaking of your last agent, why didn’t it work out with her?”
Austin sighs as we walk up the avenue. “You want the God’s honest truth?”
“Yeah, I do. It’ll help if we’re going to work together.”
“I dropped her for a very important reason.”
“And that reason is?”
“It’s no good having an agent you want to bang.”
Wait. Did he really just say that?
“And that’s why you left her?” I keep my tone even because this is important and I want to make sure I have it right.
Overnight Service (Always Satisfied Book 4) Page 2