Thousand Yard Bride

by Nora Flite

  It was a fake-it-until-you-make-it moment, and I prepared myself to fake the heck out of it.

  I was a little embarrassed, but I asked the shop girl if she’d clip the tags so I could wear the dress out of the store. “Sure thing! You look stunning. Oh. You might need a fun clutch with that. Not sure where your phone would fit. And shoes. You can’t wear those. They’re brown,” she said, referencing my sensible flats.

  Fortunately, the millennial retail worker—who might actually have been my fairy godmother in disguise—produced a killer beaded bag which I threw my credit card, ID, lipstick, and phone into as fast as I could. I shoved my suit and everything that wouldn't fit into a Lace Park shopping bag. Then I slipped my feet into the flimsy kitten heels the girl had set out for me and paced around the store trying to get used to them.

  “Thanks for not laughing,” I said.

  “Aw, it’s nothing. You’re like Pretty Woman. It’s adorbs. Now go be fierce.”

  I flashed her a smile before wobbling out the door.

  I arrived at the Croc-Cooler event just as it was starting. The rooftop venue had a nightclub feel. Models in Croc-Cooler logo swimsuits hung out in the pool. Buff-looking dudes stood around swilling the energy drink while cameras flashed. I had to fight through the crowd of models, media, and photographers to get to Hunter, who was the man of the hour.

  "Excuse me," I grunted, finally breaking through the bodies. I had a straight ahead view of my surroundings. Of Hunter.

  Holy hell.

  When he said dress to impress, he really took it to heart. He was wearing a blue button down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his well-muscled forearms, the front left open to reveal a chest-hugging Croc-Cooler graphic tee underneath. He paired the shirts with a pair of just-the-right-amount of tight light gray jeans.

  His hair was styled so that it was pushed out of his face, but not so it seemed like he spent too much time on it. His look was effortless and it had the entire room focused on him. He threw back his head and laughed at something, and I almost swooned where I stood.

  I quickly snapped myself out of it, though. This was business. Go time.

  Slowly getting used to walking in a tight dress and heels, I bee-lined towards him. He was being interviewed by a man I recognized; Maxwell Calhoun, a reporter for SportCore.com and a notorious click-bait writer.

  He was the guy who’d penned the most recent article about Hunter in Vegas.

  And now he's digging for dirt. Great. I doubted Hunter had any clue who Max was. Time to do my job. I grabbed two Croc-Coolers from a table and headed into battle, interrupting Maxwell with, “Mr. Calhoun, I’m Jo Cooke, Mr. Daniels’ representation. So good to see you here.”

  Maxwell looked me up and down and gave me a condescending grin that pissed me off. I was there to do my job, not to get checked out by some poor excuse for a journalist. “Oh, did someone have to lawyer up, Hunter?" he asked. "Has she even passed the Bar yet?”

  I laughed it off and shot back, “That’s cute. Actually, I’m with SportsFire P.R. A real company.”

  “Oh, really? I haven’t heard of any Jo Cooke there,” Calhoun said. “Are you someone’s little assistant? Perhaps one Mr. Daniels took a liking to?”

  My blood boiled.

  “Jo’s new,” Hunter said, leaning into our conversation. I handed him one of the bottles of Croc-Cooler, trying to keep my temper at bay. “I’ve been quite impressed with her performance so far.”

  At the word ‘performance,’ Maxwell gave me another long and smarmy eye-rake, and I bristled under his gaze. I knew I looked good in my dress, but I sure wasn't wearing it for some jerk like Maxwell. “I saw your Vegas piece, Max,” I said. “That was quick work.”

  “Thanks, sugar,” he said with a lecherous wink, clearly misinterpreting my death glare.

  I bent in closer, dropping my voice so he had to work to hear me. “That wasn't a compliment. And what you wrote certainly wasn't journalism. In fact, one might even think you hadn’t fact-checked the info you got from your sources. What happened, you’re no longer allowed in the locker room? So sad. What’s next, will you be writing for National Inquisitor?”

  I could tell I had pissed off Calhoun by the way he sneered at me. Even Hunter was smiling.

  Maxwell held his head high, saying, “You know, Jo, I have more pictures of Hunter in my back pocket that I could release. A few of those girls might even end up pregnant, if you’re not lucky. A stripper baby-mama makes for a great story. Front page.”

  “It sure does, Max.” Now I was happy I’d done my research. It was about to pay off. “But you won’t do that. Because I have a better story for you if you bury the Vegas piece.”

  “I’m listening,” the media shark said.

  “Next week, Hunter is going to visit an animal sanctuary. They rescue wild birds. He’s going to donate a million dollars in the name of the Hawks.”

  Calhoun laughed. “If you think injured little birdies are a better story than slippery naked strippers, you’re in the wrong business, Ms. Cooke.”

  I smiled back. “Oh, Mr. Calhoun, I haven’t told you the best part yet,” I added, luring him in.

  I could tell by their body language that I had both Hunter and Maxwell wrapped around my finger, and it wasn’t even about the dress anymore. I had intel that they didn’t have, and right now that meant power. “After the charity event, Hunter is throwing an exclusive party with all of the Kings Club members—all the top players on the Hawks. If you bury Vegas, you can have the exclusive. You know it’s slow news until training season. This way you can get all the major players together at one fancy party.”

  I knew that this tactic would work. Maxwell was the type of guy who probably never got invited to the cool kids’ parties in high school. He wouldn't be able to resist this.

  “That so?” Calhoun took the bait, though he was still on his guard by how his lips were pressed together so tightly. “This is the first I’ve heard of this year’s Kings Club party. I thought they didn't kick off until preseason.”

  “I didn’t . . .” Hunter muttered just before I stepped on his foot. “I mean, I, too, hope you can come and get the scoop, Max. We’ll be talking team strategy, real insider stuff.”

  “I’ll be there,” Maxwell said. With a quick nod, he turned and walked away. He was trying to act nonchalant, but I saw him pull out his phone, probably to send braggy texts to his friends about getting an invite to the party.

  Hunter turned to me, his eyes wide as he considered me. “That was either quick thinking or you’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

  It was both, but instead of answering I just smiled and kept eye contact while snagging a drink from a passing wait staff member’s tray and taking a dainty sip from the champagne glass.

  Despite the cool exterior, my heart was beating fast beneath my tight dress. Standing my ground and taking Maxwell Calhoun down a peg was better than beating my sister up the climbing wall. This was why I got into P.R.; to help clients stay away from career-destroyers like Max.

  “I don’t say this often to people who have anything to do with my parents, but maybe you’re not so bad.” In addition to my heart’s hard pounding, I felt myself blushing at Hunter’s compliments. “Also, nice dress, but maybe next time let your hair down.” He strolled away toward another group of people, and I was left standing there with my glass in one hand.

  He compliments me and then teases me. What a frustrating guy. As I tucked myself discreetly within eyesight of my client, I reached up and felt my tight bun. I never really did much to my hair, as it was usually up for work or for rock climbing.

  Let him think what he wants, I told myself. It's just hair.

  The next few hours were a blur of camera flashes, drinks, and me hovering nearby Hunter. I was shocked to find that I was actually sort of enjoying myself. Whenever he’d get dangerously close to the bar, I’d quickly send a model or one of the members of the Kings Club his way.

  The Kings C
lub was an elite group made up of the Hawks’ top players—and the only thing bigger than their paychecks were their reputations. Everyone knew about them. It was like the ultimate boys club in New Haven. Men wanted to be in the Kings Club, women wanted to date a member of the Kings Club.

  While they were an informal group of guys, they were the notorious it-boys of sports. Not only that, but they were all gorgeous, successful, and rich.

  Hunter was the King of Diamonds. His best friend and Hawks' quarterback, Reese McDonough, was the King of Clubs. The King of Hearts, Jimmy “Jam” Jamison, was a running back, and the King of Spades, Benny Wilder, the youngest member of the Kings Club, was a safety.

  The Kings Club were like sports royalty, and Hunter, the best looking player with the best stats, was king of kings. The very idea of the Kings Club was pretty ridiculous, but since the four of them looked like underwear models and had egos the size of small planets, the title fit them.

  I knew that they would be my key to keeping Hunter happy, and I, myself, was happy to see that they were all at the Croc-Cooler party. The Kings Club liked to stick together on and off the field.

  Just as I was sure I had things under my thumb, I saw Hunter doing shots at one of the cabana bars with Benny. My client had the nerve to smile at me as he slammed the shot glass down on the bar. “This stuff is really excellent, Jo. Some celebrity’s new tequila. Gotta love LA.”

  I slid the empty shot glass away from Hunter and subtly motioned towards a man wearing a suit who was looking around at the scene. “That’s a Croc-Cooler exec, Hunter. Make sure he sees you drinking his beverage. Getting wasted on tequila won’t send the right message.”

  “Oh, come on. Who are you to tell Hunter what to do?" Benny asked. "I think you need to loosen up and join the party. In fact, how about you and me do some body shots?”

  Clenching my fists, I spun to face the guy. I'd thought the Club members would help me out, but Benny was sabotaging me. Hunter spoke up before I could spit fire. “Hey, man, cut her a break. She’s with me.”

  “Oh yeah?” Benny said, wrinkling his nose at me. “In that case, I’m gonna find some other hottie to drink with.” He wandered away in the direction of a group of Croc-Cooler models.

  I couldn't stop staring. Had Hunter stood up for me? I never expected him to be on my side—except he had been. But when I turned back, the bitterness in his amber eyes cut into my heart. He said, “Don’t tell me what to do around my friends, Jo.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Hunter."

  He did another shot, all while keeping eye contact with me. I wanted to say something, but I decided to give him a little space. I figured that if I let him have some room to breathe, he might warm up to me a little more. I also made a mental note that Benny might be bad news.

  I needed to have at least one of Hunter’s friends on my side, so I cornered Reese by an ice statue of the Croc-Cooler mascot crocodile drinking the brand of the hour. “You’re Reese McDonough,” I gushed, playing up my admiration. “I’m a huge fan.”

  Reese, a second generation Irish immigrant who looked like an actual storybook prince with his dark hair, blue eyes, and perfect teeth, acknowledged me by kissing my hand. His charm knew no bounds, it seemed. “You must be Jo. Pleasure to meet you. I hear you think you can tame our favorite lad. That, my new friend, is a tall order.”

  He'd given me an opening, I had to take it. “Well, if you can turn your life around, why can’t he?” I was a little nervous to bring up Reese’s past, but Reese himself often talked about it openly to the media. Reformed bad boys didn't happen often.

  Laughing, he said, “Because he’s a privileged twat, God love him. I grew up on the mean streets, football was the only thing keeping me from a gang life. Hunter grew up in a huge mansion, silver spoon and all that. That’s how he became the loveable fuckwit I call my friend today.”

  “Got any advice?” I continued. “I could use some help.”

  “You'll need help for sure. But as for advice, let me see. He likes to drink. He drinks too much. And he doesn't care." His grin was apologetic. "He really is a good guy, though.”

  “Got anything more specific? What about his ex, Poppy? I heard that ended badly.”

  His expression hardened. “It’s best to keep him away from her. In fact, don’t even talk about her. He combusts whenever she’s around—or even mentioned."

  “Why’s she still such a sore spot?” I pressed.

  “Well, they were really close when they were together. Hunter had it bad for her. Then she screwed him over. Let’s just say that he didn’t take it well. I tell you this because I find Poppy loathsome and because you seem decent. You’ve got quite the task ahead of you.”

  I slumped, sensing the conversation was over. I hadn't learned as much as I wished, but he'd given me some things to mull on. “Thanks, Reese.”

  “You’re quite welcome, love. It’s about time our boy stopped with this particular brand of jackassery. Good luck,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

  Reese’s innocent flirtation summoned Hunter like a moth to the flame. “Reese, I see you met Jo. Hands off my P.R. rep, bro.”

  “Hey now, Hunter, we were just talking business. I was expecting a stodgy old curmudgeon, but I find I quite like this girl,” Reese chuckled.

  Readying myself for Hunter to poke at me some more, I steadied myself and faced him. There was a light in his eyes, a bend to the edge of his mouth that reminded me of a man who'd tasted something new and was deciding if he liked it.

  His hand came down on my wrist, circling gently—firmly. "Like her all you want, she's mine. Got it?"

  Mine? Surely he just meant I was his rep, but fuck, why did my heart swell up and stick in my throat at that word?

  All at once, my insides fluttered. I was too aware of my thin dress and how Hunter's body heat was sliding through it without any part of him touching me but his hand.

  "Hey man," Reese said, his eyes sparkling. "She's all yours. Have fun."

  Looking down his nose at me, Hunter whispered, as if he was talking to himself and no one else.

  "Maybe I will."

  After shots, dancing, and well planned photo ops, the party eventually wound down. Models left in giggling groups or paired off with a Kings Club member. A few hold-outs, waiting for their chance with Hunter, eyed him from across the roof.

  I also kept close watch over Hunter, who actually seemed to be attempting a night of good behavior, all things considered. He drank—but not to excess—and he danced with a few girls, but it was all pretty innocent.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when the last of the suited Croc-Cooler execs made their exit. I had survived the night. My work is done, I thought proudly. Gripping my hips, I watched with the quickest flicker of foreboding as Hunter suddenly raised his arms in the air.

  Shit. What now?

  “Listen up, Standard!" he bellowed. "I’ve got a massive suite just below where we stand now. Everyone’s welcome to come down and keep this party going!”

  So much for an easy night.

  I approached Hunter with a soft hand on his arm and a whisper in his ear. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Things have been going so well.”

  “For you," he said, cutting to the quick.

  "Yes. For me. Which is good for you, Hunter."

  Rolling his eyes, he gestured at the people who were already parading off the roof. "Come on, Jo. The stuffed shirts are gone, we can finally relax. Look, you did a great job tonight. I didn’t fuck up. It’s a first, and I think we need to celebrate that.” There it was again, his winning smile. Did everyone fall for it? “How about you come down for just one drink? I can control myself at my own after party. Give me another chance to impress you. I want to.”

  His gaze held me, all soul and none of his usual arrogance. He was a different man.

  That, or I'd just fallen under his spell like a damn idiot.

  “Ok," I said hesitantly. "But just one drink. And you better stay true
to your word and behave." I pushed my fingertip into his chest. I'd meant it for emphasis, to show him I wasn't joking around.

  Under my touch, I felt his hard muscles—how his heart ticked just a bit faster when I came in contact. Hunter was already watching me closely, his amber irises rolling with a beautiful darkness that seemed to shock him as much as me.

  Yanking my hand away, I darted my stare from his eyes, to his lips, then back again. Hunter was no longer confused. He wasn't the sort of man who usually was, if I had to guess. This creature of strength and passion knew when he wanted something.

  And as I stood there, my brain dizzy and my core roiling with wicked heat, I knew exactly what he wanted.

  Me.

  Hunter Daniels wanted me.

  3

  Jo

  The after party at Hunter’s suite was not that much smaller than the party on the roof of The Standard. There were people there who hadn’t even attended the rooftop party. I’m not sure how Hunter pulled off that trick, but I figured that maybe I didn’t want to know.

  While everybody else let loose, I had to focus on keeping everything remotely PG-rated. Hunter spent most of his time in an armchair relaxing with a drink, taking audiences with his various admirers as they came up to him and vied for his attention.

  Hovering by a wall, I found myself focusing intently on the women who sidled up to the football player. Whenever they bent close, giggling or flipping their hair, a sharp something inside of my heart would start to dig its way free.

  This isn't like me, I thought in despair. Why does it matter if these girls fight for Hunter's attention? I tried to shake off the heavy shroud of budding jealousy, convincing myself I only cared so much because it was my job.

  Even with the one drink I'd agreed to have muddying my brain, I couldn't quite fool myself.

  I thought the party would never end, that I would never sleep another wink in my life. Hunter sent more drinks over to me—which I ignored—all the while staring me down with that damn smirk of his. He was getting off on teasing me.