When he pulled up to my building, I looked over at him, taking off my seat belt. “Thank you, Nico,” I said and then smirked. “It’s no Italy, but it was almost like I was there.”
He laughed, and I thought he was going to lean over and kiss me. I had hoped he would, but instead, he just looked at me. “One day, Becca,” he said, and before I could even say anything, the doorman had opened the door. I walked into my building without looking back. But I felt eyes on me, and when I stood in front of the elevator doors, I saw him from the corner of my eyes. He was standing next to his SUV as he watched me. I turned for just a second before stepping onto the elevator, and it was the last thing I saw.
“We’re still here.” I hear Francis say, and I shake my head, looking at myself in the mirror, my cheeks just a touch flushed. I wet my hand with cold water and place my palms on them to cool down. I take one more look at myself before unlocking the door.
I walk out with my head held high and my shoulders back. “What is with you two?” I say, trying to avoid their eyes. “Don’t you have work to do?” I don’t want them to see how affected I was by the flowers. I put on my poker face right before I turn to them.
“Oh, trust me, I have work to do,” Trevor says to me, “but this is a little bit …” He holds his hands out as he thinks of what to say.
“More entertaining,” Francis says, going to one of my empty chairs in front of my desk and sitting down. “So …”
“So, what?” I say, sitting down. I pick up the notes in front of me and put them in my top drawer. Then I get back up and smell the flowers. Grabbing one vase, I walk over to the table in the corner and put it in the middle. “I helped a friend.”
“You helped a friend, and he sends you fifty roses?” Francis tilts his head to the side, and from his tone, it’s more like yeah, right.
“Is this who I think it is?” Trevor asks. He’s always the one who does the thinking between the two of them. Whereas Francis is I’m jumping off the roof, Trevor is going to list the reasons he shouldn’t. Even though Francis is older, Trevor usually has the better sense.
“I did a favor for Nico, and well, he thanked me by sending me flowers.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
“Nico … Nico …” Trevor asks, saying his name twice, and I roll my eyes. “The Nico who owns the Dallas Oilers?”
“There isn’t another Nico we both know.” I cross my legs, putting my shoulders back, making me sit up straight.“I don’t understand all the questions.”
“It’s a bad fucking idea,” Trevor says, and I look over at him.
“What exactly is a bad idea?” I’m annoyed because I’m not ready to have this conversation with anyone. It’s enough that my head is telling me what a bad idea this is. I don’t need to hear it out loud.
“You and Nico,” Trevor says, and I look at Francis to see what he has to say, but all he does is look over at Trevor. “It’s the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Nothing is going on.” I put my hands up. “He needed a player, and I helped him acquire one. It was a win-win for everyone.” They both just stare at me. “And then we had the whole Manning situation and …”
“And we have a policy,” Francis says. “The don’t shit where you eat policy.”
“I am not shitting nor eating anywhere.” I point at him. “And you are not exactly the person who should be telling me the rules. You were having an affair with your client’s wife.”
“Girlfriend,” he corrects me. “At the time, she was his girlfriend, and they were on a break. Then they got back together and got married.”
“They were on a break.” I roll my eyes. “Please.”
“Listen, we know that you would never do anything to jeopardize what you have achieved.” I swear Trevor’s an old soul. “You are also old enough to know what is right and what is wrong.”
“Nice talk, Dad,” Francis says, getting up. “What dipshit is trying to say is it’s a bad fucking idea,” he says, and I think he’s done, but he isn’t. “A horrible, horrible idea.” He turns and walks out of the office.
Trevor gets up. “We’ll support you with whatever,” he says, walking out of the room, and what was a happy moment turned into so much more doubt than I care to think about. So I don’t. Instead, I bury myself in my work, returning phone calls and making sure that all of Manning’s sponsors hear from me.
“Are you ready?” Francis says, coming into my office, and I stand to grab my jacket. “Are you not going to change into something more comfortable?”
“No,” I say, looking down at my outfit. I’m wearing a fitted one-piece white turtleneck long-sleeved dress with a beige jacket over it. “It’s a hockey game.”
“And I’m going for work,” I say, and he shakes his head.
I walk out with him, and we park in our usual spots, walking into the arena. The phone goes off in my hand, and just as soon as I see who it is, I hear him say my name.
“Becca.” I turn my head, and there he is, the man who has slowly crept into my head.
“Nico.” I say his name, and it’s almost in a whisper.
Chapter 10
Nico
“The press is all over the place,” I say to Lizzie while we walk the halls of the arena. The fans have started coming in, and I look down, and then it’s almost as if my body knows she’s close. I look up and around, and I spot her right away. How could I fucking not?
She looks like sex on a fucking stick. My cock becomes semi-hard just looking at her tight ass from the back. My eyes roam all the way down to her fucking sky-high red bottom heels. Lizzie was right—those shoes scream sex. I’ve never actually noticed fucking shoes before, but with her wearing them, the only thing I can think of is fucking her while she wears them.
“Is that Becca?” I hear Lizzie from beside me. “Only she could pull off that look at a game.”
“Becca.” I call her name as soon as I get close to her, and when she turns, I swear I feel like someone kicked me in the stomach. Not only is her hair perfectly styled but the white dress hugs her every fucking curve. The front of her shoes are white, and the back has a leopard print. But what gets me the most is her red-painted lips that scream to be kissed.
“Nico,” she says my name in a whisper, and if I wasn’t closer, I wouldn’t have heard her.
“I didn’t know you were coming to the game,” I say once I stand in front of her.
“I thought Manning could use the support,” she says and then looks over at Lizzie. “You look amazing,” she tells her, and Lizzie laughs.
“I’m in awe every single time I see you,” Lizzie says, and then the guy next to Becca sticks out his hand.
“Hi,” he says, and Lizzie turns to him. “I’m Francis, Becca’s brother.” I look at him, and not one part of him resembles her.
I see Lizzie look at his hand, and she reluctantly shakes it. “Lizzie. I’m Nico’s right-hand.”
I’m watching the exchange between Francis and Lizzie when I hear Becca laugh. “From what I’ve seen, she’s your right and half your left.”
I look over at Lizzie, who nods her head in agreement. “Sometimes I’m both arms.”
“Do you guys have seats?” I ask, and I see Lizzie shaking her head.
“They own the box next to yours,” she whispers in my ear, and I laugh.
“Forgive me,” I say. “I’m usually in the press box and not in my actual box.”
“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Francis says, “but I could use some food and a drink. Lizzie, would you care to join me?”
“I’m working,” she says to him, “but I think those four girls whispering behind you might be available.” Lizzie looks at me. “If you need me, text me.” She looks at Becca. “I’ll see you soon.” Then she turns back to Francis, who stands there with his hands in his pockets. “Francis, nice meeting you.”
He smirks at her. “The pleasure was mine.” He’s about to say something else when she walks away from him, leavin
g him hanging.
“She’s a smart girl,” Becca says to Francis, and he just shakes his head.
“I’ll meet you in the box,” he says and nods, walking away from her.
“How are things?” I ask, and she looks down at the floor and then up.
“I got the flowers,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t text you. It’s been a crazy day.”
“How many calls came in for Manning?” I ask. I had over one hundred calls, so I could just imagine how many she had.
“Serious ones?” She looks at me. “About fifty. Then about five hundred bullshit ones.”
“How did you know which were serious and which weren’t?” I ask, and someone walks by her, hitting her shoulder. I reach out my hand and hold her arm. “We should get out of the way.” My hand falls from hers, and I want to grab hers as we walk away from the crowd and toward the stairs that lead to the private boxes. Instead, we walk with our hands beside each other. I notice the men do a double-take when they look over at her. I’ve been around beautiful women before, and most times, they know the looks they are going to get but not Becca. She walks like she’s on the catwalk and doesn’t even notice the men and even some women looking at her. Instead, she walks with the confidence of a woman who knows what she wants.
“Have dinner with me.” I look over at her as we walk up the stairs. “Not here. After the game.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says when we get to the top of the steps, and I see two reporters approaching us.
“Nico,” one of them says.
“Christopher.” I say his name, and then he looks at Becca.
“If it isn’t the super agent,” he says, and Becca laughs.
“I don’t know about super agent,” she says, “but I did have my cape dry-cleaned.” Even I laugh.
“So what’s it going to be?” he asks her, and she tilts her head to the side. “Manning.”
“Mr. Simmons,” she says, using his last name, and I know from her tone that this is the business Becca. “You know full well my client doesn’t give interviews.”
“There are so many rumors,” he says, and she just rolls her eyes.
“You know the saying, those who feed on rumors are small suspicious souls.” His eyes almost bug out of his head. “Now that isn’t you, Mr. Simmons, is it?” Before he can even answer, she gives him more to stew on. “Weren’t you the one who spilled the beans on someone’s wife being pregnant even before they told their families?”
“That was an accident,” he says with his teeth clenched. “I apologized.”
“Oh, I heard,” she says. “Now, I would hate for you to get stuck in another snafu because of a rumor.” The sound of clapping fills the arena. “Oh, that’s my cue,” she says, smiling at him. “Have a great evening, Christopher.” She turns and walks away from him, going straight to her owner's box.
“That woman,” he says under his breath, and I just glare at him.
“I suggest that you keep whatever comment you were going to make right then to yourself,” I say, and he just looks at me. “Besides, the way I just saw it, she handed you your balls on a platter.”
“Whatever,” he says and walks away from me. The other reporters just laugh.
“He never learns.” He shakes his head, and I walk to the box where she just entered. Opening the door, I find the box empty, but I see her jacket on the couch next to her purse.
Every single box is almost the same. A living room area in the back with a bar right against the edge where you walk down and have ten seats. Looking around the box, I see the logo of her firm on the walls and pictures of her with the clients that she has.
The television on the wall has the view from the ice. The bathroom door opens, and when she steps out and I see her without the jacket, my first thought is the dress needs to be burned and never worn again. It’s showing you her whole body, but it keeps you guessing. Or at least it keeps me guessing. I wonder what bra she is wearing under the outfit. “Oh, hey,” she says when she sees me walking over to the bar and taking a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. “Sorry about just walking away, but that fucking man gets under my skin.”
“Well, if you’re keeping score. It’s Becca one, Christopher zero,” I say, looking around. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know who this everybody is you’re referring to?” She takes her glass of wine and takes a sip.
“The box is empty,” I say, looking around. “You get twenty-five tickets with each box.”
“Yeah and?” she says, walking toward me. “We give out Saturday games mostly. The week is just mostly us, depending.”
“Depending on?” I ask, and she sets the wine down on the table.
“Depending on if any of my other clients are coming into town. I usually meet with them for lunch or dinner the day before if time permits it.”
“Who do you root for?” I ask. Reaching out my hands, I hold her hips and pull her a bit closer to me. I can smell her citrus perfume. It smells like fresh lemons and sunshine.
“That depends,” she says, her own hands holding the lapels of my blue jacket. “I usually just root for whoever wins.” She steps closer, and even with her heels, she still has to tilt her head back in order to look up at me.
“Wrong answer, Becca,” I say softly, and she chuckles.
“Why is that?” she asks. “For me, I win either way.”
“I hate to lose,” I say, and I’m not talking about hockey anymore. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s making me go crazy, and she has no fucking clue either.
“No one likes to lose, Nico,” she says. All I can think about is her saying my name over and over again while I bury myself inside her.
“You’ve gotten under my skin, Becca,” I say.
“I thought nothing gets under your skin.” She smirks and moves in closer, placing her palms flat on my chest.
“I thought so, too, and then …” I bend my head down ever so slowly. “Then there was you,” I say as my lips get closer to her. “You know what I thought when I saw you today?” I murmur. “I thought that your lips were made for me to fucking kiss.”
“Nico,” she says with a sigh, and it’s the last thing she says before my lips are on hers. Her mouth opens for mine, and when my tongue slips into her mouth, I swear the world stops. Her tongue slides against mine, and my hands move up to her face. Our heads move from one side to the other, both of us fighting against the other. Her hands finally move from my chest upward as her chest presses against mine. She wraps her arms around my neck, and we both moan.
The sound of talking gets closer, causing us to move away from each other. “No chance in hell.” We both hear Francis from the hallway.
We don’t have a chance to say anything else before the door opens, and he comes in, followed by the four girls hanging around him downstairs. “Hey, you two.”
I nod at him and put my hands in my pockets to hide the fact my cock is hard as a rock. I look at her, and if my cock wasn’t hard before, it definitely would have gotten hard looking back at her. Her eyes are an emerald color, and the tint of pink trails down to her chest. But it’s her lips that make me get even harder. They are plumper than before and are still painted the brightest red.
Chapter 11
Becca
“Becca.” Hearing my name, I look up from my phone toward Matthew Grant.
I smile at him, getting up from my chair. “Mr. Grant,” I say, holding out my hand, and he just shakes his head.
“Enough with the Mr. Grant bullshit,” he says. “It’s Matthew.” I laugh at him. “Follow me,” he says, and I take my cashmere jacket and my wine-colored Louis Vuitton bag that matches my shoes and sweater. “Is it cold enough for you?” he asks, seeing me put my jacket over my arm.
“I love New York,” I say, “from April to October.” He laughs as he holds open the glass door to the conference room.
The big brown table in the middle has black leather seats all around it.
Water bottles sit in the middle of the table, and the New York Stingers logo paints the wall. Pictures of them with the Cup throughout the years hang all along the wall. “Those are the same months I hate Dallas,” he says, pulling out a chair for himself to sit down. I put my jacket and purse in the chair beside him and sit down facing him. “The humidity is enough to make you crazy.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Thank you, by the way.” I sit down in the chair. “I hated to cancel our meeting, but I was needed in Dallas.”
He nods his head. “I got to give you that.” He looks at me. “You handled that like no one else,” he says of Manning and the fucking blowup I handled.
“Between you and me,” I say, “it’s always easy when you have someone who won’t run his mouth.” Matthew puts his hands on the table.
“You’ve got that fucking right,” he says. “MC is on his way up,” he says, and I look at him. “That is Cooper’s nickname. With my father and the other kids, it was always MC even when he was younger, and it stuck with him.”
When the glass doors open, I look up to see Cooper come in, and he is the stamp of his father, just a touch skinnier. He wears track pants and a black T-shirt. His baseball cap sits backward, and you see the hair coming out in the back. I get up. “Cooper,” I say, putting out my hand. “Becca.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. After shaking my hand, he walks to his father and gives him a hug.
“Did you eat?” Matthew asks him, and he looks just a touch embarrassed.
“Dad,” he says, “I’m almost eighteen.”
“You could be almost a hundred, and I’d still ask you,” Matthew says, sitting down. “Now answer my question.”
“I had a protein shake. I was going to grab something, but I was running late,” Cooper says, looking at the water bottles and grabbing one. “I didn’t want to be late.” He looks at me, and I smile.
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