by Max Monroe
“I know she’s got some time management issues, but she’s a good kid, Georgie.” There was a smile in his voice.
“After today, I honestly have no idea how you’ve gotten anything done for the past two weeks.” I strived to be the type of woman who didn’t judge other women by their brainpower, but Leslie made the Kardashians look intelligent.
“Are you concerned about my workload, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? I hated that something as simple as Kline calling me sweetheart made my heart flip-flop inside of my chest. But it did. Stupid heart. The damn thing didn’t have a clue. I cleared my throat, ignoring my body’s reaction to his sweet sentiments. “Of course not. Why would I be concerned when you’re the one who hired her? Plus, you’re the one who continues to let your intern make a mockery of her job responsibilities.”
“Is now the right time to tell you Leslie is a friend of the family? Her dad asked for a favor and I obliged. Plus, I’ve got Dean keeping an eye on her.”
“Oh, so you’re making Dean do your dirty work. I see how it is. That explains his bitchy mood today. I was worried Prada went out of business.”
Kline laughed.
Good God, that laugh. It was crazy hot and had my body reacting in all sorts of dirty ways. “I’m kind of sad you didn’t have Leslie reporting to Meryl.”
“Meryl would have had my balls,” he teased. “I’ve seen that woman make grown men cry. Hell, I’ve had to wipe a few phantom tears of my own. Plus, you asked for it.”
I was two seconds away from giving him a telepathic beatdown when his voice turned warm and soft like honey. “Thanks for dealing with Leslie. I really appreciate it.”
Did he just thank me? I pinched my arm just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “Shit, that hurt.” I winced.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just…stubbed my toe,” I tossed out. “Sooooo…did you just call to see how truly awful my day was? Or is there something you actually need?”
“For starters, I wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow night.”
I sighed. “Even though you threw me under the bus and have expressed little to no remorse, I’ll be there. But it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the delicious ten-course meal I know will occur.”
“Duly noted.” He laughed. “If their food isn’t to your standard, I’ll make it up to you. Dinner anywhere. Your choice.”
“That’s easy. BLT Prime.”
“The steakhouse in Gramercy Park?”
“You betcha.”
“Swanky digs.” A low whistle left his lips. “Consider it a deal. I’ll take you there Saturday night.”
“Slow your roll, buddy. I haven’t agreed to a second date yet.”
“Yet,” he retorted with a flirtatious tone. “Haven’t agreed yet. And if it makes you feel better, you can think of it as more of a deal than a date. An I’m sorry for leaving you with Leslie kind of thing.”
When had the tables turned? This wasn’t the Kline Brooks I had grown accustomed to. He was the quiet, reserved, yet frequently demanding boss who made a point to keep me on my toes. Our interactions consisted of cursory emails and business meetings to assess my current game plan for Brooks Media’s promotions strategy.
This playful, charismatic man requesting my presence at dinner dates and effortlessly turning me on in his office was a complete stranger. I couldn’t deny my enjoyment out of seeing this side of him, but dear God, it was completely knocking me off my game. I felt like a fish out of water, floundering for an equally charming response.
And seriously, when had I started wanting to appear enchanting to the enigmatic Kline Brooks?
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Brooks, w-why did you call me?”
“Ms. Cummings, why are we being so formal tonight? I thought we got past the formality bullshit.”
He was probably right. I’d say it happened around the time he pulled my hips into an impressively unprofessional erection in his office two days ago.
“Okay, Kline,” I agreed with a mouthful of sass. I didn’t really want him referring to me by my middle school joke of a last name anyway. “If you’re not calling to chat about work, why are you calling me?”
“I actually need a favor. Are you busy?”
“No, not really. I’m just sitting here…” I paused, reaching for the remote and turning down the volume. Even though we were past “formalities,” my boss didn’t need to know about my reality show obsession. “Just sitting here reading through emails.”
He chuckled into the phone. “I’m sure those emails can wait until tomorrow. I’m in a bit of a bind. Can you turn on ESPN?”
“ESPN?”
“The Western University-New York State game is on. Thatch and I can’t get the fucker to stream on the plane. I need to know what’s happening.”
Thatcher Kelly, the ever-mysterious financial consultant of Brooks Media. He worked as a contractor, providing expertise for several companies, or so I’d heard, but no big money decision within Brooks Media happened without him. I’d heard his husky voice and boisterous personality on several conference calls. Even received emails with his signature sarcasm. But I’d never met the man. Hell, I’d yet to successfully locate an actual photo of him. All of his social media accounts were private and most had some random sports-related profile picture.
“This is life or death here, Georgia,” Kline interrupted my thoughts. “Thatch is a big New York State fan, and I’ve got five on the fact that his Tigers are no match for the Mustangs.”
I scrunched my nose up. “So…what exactly do you need me to do?”
“I need you to give me the play-by-play for the next twenty minutes until we land.”
“Isn’t there anyone else you can bug? I’m probably not the best person for the job.” The last football game I’d watched had been the Super Bowl where Janet Jackson’s nipple had made its television debut, and I could honestly have told you more about her areola than the game. I literally knew zilch about sports, especially football.
“Please, Georgia.” He rasped his words, confusing me by making me think about sex. “I’m begging you.”
I held in my answer until I knew I wouldn’t stutter. “You owe me. Big time.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart.”
The promise of his double meaning oozed from his voice, but I ignored him, grabbed the remote, and switched the channel. “Okay, it’s on.”
Thatch waved his arms manically, trying to get an update. Our personal flight attendant flashed him a look of distaste, but with one quick wink, her contempt turned into consideration. I didn’t have much to my name that said billionaire, but the private plane sure did. With the amount that I traveled and the necessary fluctuation in timing, it was just easier.
When his attention came back to me, I flipped him off, putting Georgia on speaker. “What’s the score? How much time is left? Who has the ball?” I rambled, desperate to know if Western University was pulling through. Fucking Thatch wouldn’t let me live it down if New York State won this thing. It was a nothing game—early season, Thursday night, and unquestionably obscure teams. But Thatch could turn anything into a competition, and he’d created this rivalry out of thin air years ago.
She gave us the rundown in succinct, inaccurate terms, but I got the gist of it.
Fourth quarter. Tigers were winning.
I cursed.
Thatch shouted, “Victory is mine!”
I’d honestly never seen a guy that big Riverdance.
“All of this for five measly bucks?” Georgia asked.
Thatch’s loud, boisterous laugh echoed inside the cabin of the plane.
“No, not five dollars. A little more than that…”
“Five hundred?” Her voice was incredulous. I pictured Georgia’s nose scrunching up in that adorable way of hers.
“Actually…” I cleared my throat. “Five grand.”
“Five thousand dollars?” she shouted.
Internally, I cringed. Hell, externally, I cringed.
I probably sounded like a pretentious asshat. Betting exorbitant amounts of money on sports was not my usual M.O. “It’s Thatch’s fault. He won’t take no for an answer and never bets anything less than a grand. He could be the poster child for gambling addicts everywhere. His only redeeming quality is that he actually knows how to invest his profits.”
Thatch’s smile mocked me. He knew what I was doing, exaggerating his faults to help minimize my own.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Moneybags.”
Yeah, she definitely thought I was an ostentatious dick.
“Georgia girl, give me an update. What’s going on?” Thatch schmoozed, laying it on thick just to get a rise out of me.
“Uh…” she mumbled, trailing off for a brief second. “Boobear just tackled somebody.”
“Boobear? Who the fuck is Boobear?” Thatch mouthed in my direction.
I shrugged. “Who just got a tackle?”
“Boobear. He plays on the orange team,” she repeated as though it made sense. “Oh no, I think Boobear is hurt.”
It took some serious thinking, but I finally decoded the mystery. “Do you mean Boudmare?”
“Yeah, that’s him. His nickname is Boobear.”
“The commentators are calling him Boobear?” I asked, fighting a smile.
“No, I nicknamed him Boobear. He looks like a giant teddy bear. He’s so cute!”
“Oh, dear God,” Thatch groaned.
“Oh, thank goodness. Boobear is back up and on his feet. They’re lining up again. White team has the ball. The big guy in the middle chucked it to the thrower guy. He threw the ball… really far…” She trailed off, and then the line went silent.
“Georgia?”
Nothing.
“Georgia!” I strived to grab her attention.
“What?” she snapped.
“The ball was thrown…where? What happened?”
“Coca-Cola threw it a bunch of yards to Stuart Little. They’re lining up again near the touchdown box.”
Coca-Cola? Stuart Little? Who in the hell was she talking about?
“Who is she talking about?” Thatch mouthed, arms wide in frustration. “I fucking knew we should’ve called Wes,” he whispered, pacing the aisle.
“Help me out here,” I said into the phone. “Who is Coca-Cola?”
“The quarterback on the white team.”
“You mean Cokel?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Is she fucking nicknaming the players?” Thatch boomed in disgrace.
“Uh-huh,” she responded over what sounded like a mouthful of chips, not an ounce of shame in her tone.
I couldn’t even get pissed at her. She was too fucking adorable. I glanced over at Thatch. He was wearing a figurative hole in the aisle carpet and practically pulling his hair out. I grinned. Even though I hadn’t a clue what was happening in the game, watching Thatch’s upset come to a crescendo was worth it.
“Touchdown!” she whooped. “Coca-Cola to Howie Mandel!”
Translation: Cokel to R.J. Howard.
“Fuck yes!” I cheered.
“Son of a bitch!” Thatch shouted.
“Go Wild Horses!” Georgia put in.
I chuckled. “That’s right, sweetheart. The Mustangs are going to pounce on Thatch’s pussy Tigers.”
While my best friend was cursing up a storm, Georgia commentated the game for the rest of our flight. She added ridiculous nicknames for every player, called running backs’ stutter steps Icky Shuffle steps, and gave her overall opinions on which player looked the most cuddly (Boobear, of course), the meanest, the nicest, etc. It was an endless list and I damn near forgot there was five grand and a long-standing rivalry between Thatch and me on the line.
Once we landed and were sitting with beers in our hands, watching the final five minutes of the game in the airport bar, I still kept Georgia in my ear.
I couldn’t help myself. This woman whom I’d seen handle an entire boardroom full of cocky sons of bitches without batting an eye was crazy adorable. She was tough as nails and hotter than sin. And Christ, she was hilarious. I wanted more of her. A lot fucking more.
“Sorry your flight got delayed on the runway, but I’m glad you guys got home safely.”
“Me too,” I replied in half-truths, taking a swig of beer. I wasn’t even remotely upset about the extra time I’d spent talking to her. “So, is it safe to say that Georgia Cummings is now a Western University fan?”
“Uh-huh.” She giggled. “They kick ass.”
“Next year, you’ll have to come to a game with me. It’s insane.”
“Kline Brooks, are you still trying to plan a second date before we even go on a first?” she teased.
I laughed. “You’ll find I’m a determined kind of guy.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” She yawned. “Well, that’s my signal to get my tired ass in bed. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Georgia girl,” I said, stealing Thatch’s endearment.
“Night,” she whispered, ending the call.
I set my phone on the bar and downed the rest of my beer. “Ready to hit it?” I asked Thatch, tossing money down on the bar.
He just shook his head, sighing heavily. “Glad you got time for precious pillow talk during the fucking game.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I think Boobear will be healthy and ready to play next season.”
“Fucking Boobear.” He chuckled with another shake of his head. “Even I can’t deny that’s hilarious.”
It was Friday—the big date night with my boss—and I was sitting on the subway, heading home from work a little early. Nerves were starting to get the best of me. My brain ran through a thousand possible scenarios of how the charity event with Kline would go. Most of them were awkward and ended with me doing something outrageous. It was my M.O. I had a serious propensity for word vomit. A certified foot-in-mouth expert.
I needed someone to talk me off the proverbial ledge or else I’d end up faking the flu and backing out last minute.
Cassie was a no-go. She had just boarded a flight to Seattle to photograph an up-and-coming football star who’d signed with the Seahawks. My beautiful, spunky best friend had made a name for herself as a freelance photographer. Her photos had graced the pages of The Times, Cosmopolitan, and even ESPN. It seemed her lens had a knack for hot men flexing their muscles. Shocker, huh?
My mother was a hell-no. Ever the sex therapist at heart, she’d probably offer her sage advice of rubbing one out pre-date to stave off nerves.
My finger hovering over the TapNext icon, I finally said, “Screw it.” Maybe BAD_Ruck could make me feel better about this situation. We’d been chatting back and forth over the past few days, and despite the absurdity of our introduction to one another, I was really starting to like the guy. He was funny, laid-back, and could give good flirt. I spent a crazy amount of my day wondering what he was like in person. Did he really look like the guy in his profile? What did he do for a living? Where did he live in New York?
We hadn’t shared any intimate details of our personal lives, a la You’ve Got Mail, which I preferred at the present time. We weren’t living in the dial-up internet era of Kathleen Kelly, and it was a different world. For me, all of her dangers were magnified by a thousand—and she was worried Tom Hanks was a serial killer! These days, there was a show called Catfish. It seemed like people got off on it now more than ever. And, although Ruck was quite charming in our online conversations, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a complete weirdo in real life.
Funny how that didn’t stop me from messaging him.
TAPRoseNEXT (2:15PM): Ruck? Come in, Ruck? I need someone to talk me off the ledge.
BAD_Ruck (2:16PM): We’re talking proverbial ledge, right?
TAPRoseNEXT (2:16PM): Yes. Don’t worry, I’m not literally standing on the ledge of a skyscraper.
BAD_
Ruck (2:16PM): That’s good news. So, tell me, why are we flirting with proverbial death?
TAPRoseNEXT (2:17PM): I’ve got a date tonight. I’m nervous. And freaking out. Big time.
BAD_Ruck (2:17PM): And here I thought I was the only man in your life. You wound me, Rose.
TAPRoseNEXT (2:18PM): Get over yourself. I would lay money on the fact that Mr. Charming himself has a date tonight too.
BAD_Ruck (2:18PM): Maybe.
TAPRoseNEXT (2:19PM): My point exactly. Now, help me out here.
BAD_Ruck (2:19PM): Okay. Let’s start with the obvious. Why are you nervous?
Why was I nervous? That was the big question. I stared across the aisle, watching an older woman working on a crossword. The tip of her pen ran across the empty blocks as she tried to think of a four-letter word for 15A. “_____ comes trouble!”
Here comes trouble. Apt phrase for my present state. My mind had been shouting this from the second I had agreed to a date with Kline.
God, I was definitely freaking out over a bunch of things, and one thing, in particular, stood out the most.
TAPRoseNEXT (2:20PM): For one, I work with him. If things end up badly, I’m worried it could cost me my job.
BAD_Ruck (2:20PM): Ah, the old coworker conundrum. Did he ask you out? Or did you ask him out? And is it forbidden in your employee contract?
TAPRoseNEXT (2:21PM): He asked me. And I have no earthly clue. Was that something I was supposed to actually read?
BAD_Ruck (2:21PM): Okay. Different tactic. Does he normally date women he works with?
TAPRoseNEXT (2:22PM): No, never. Either that or he’s a super sleuth about it. I’m not personally the office gossip, but I know someone with an ear to the ground.
BAD_Ruck (2:23PM): If he asked you out, and you’ve never seen him date any of your colleagues, he’s probably thought this through. How long have you worked with him?