by Emma Salah
“And before you start with me, this is my week. So, that means we do whatever the fuck I want. No exceptions. And I want us to make dinner. Not me. We.”
She lifted her chin as she said that, getting that stubborn look. Too bad she was about to be disappointed.
“Babe, no.”
“This is my night!”
“Yeah and you can do the cooking while I make sure you don’t burn down the fucking house.”
“I’m not going to burn it down!” she snapped.
“Ree.”
“Zac!”
He sighed. “How about I set the table and wash the dishes, but no cooking?”
She took a moment to think about this before speaking.
“That would be acceptable,” she said, glaring.
“Glad you think so.”
She didn’t bother to reply and instead turned back to cutting. He almost huffed out a laugh but managed to swallow it in the last second. He didn’t want to set a new world record and get into another fight in the span of ten seconds.
“What are we making, then?” Zac conceded, crossing his arms and moving closer to her.
“Zucchini, sweet potato and tomato pasta.”
* * *
Reagan smiled when he grimaced.
“Sorry, there’s no meat. I know how you big men feel about your meat,” she said.
“My meat is big,” he purred, coming up behind and pressing himself against her.
Zac wrapped his arms around her waist.
She giggled. “That was so lame.”
“Got you laughing, didn’t it?” he pointed out.
He kissed the underside of her ear, his talented and dirty mouth drifting to her neck.
“Stop distracting me,” Reagan whispered.
She loved his form of distraction, especially when he nuzzled the space between her neck and shoulder. She shivered.
“I mean it, Zac,” she said again.
To show him that she was serious, she pushed him away. He leaned against the kitchen counter beside her. She peeked at him as she put all the vegetables she had chopped into the pan that was simmering on the stove. He didn’t shy away, but watched her boldly, his mouth quirked but not enough to show off those dimples of his. Her heart beat fast; part of it was nervousness and another part of it was anticipation. She had something to give to him and she had no idea what his response was going to be.
“Um... I just remembered something,” she said nervously. “Let me go and get it.”
She ran out of the room, speaking over her shoulder. “Keep stirring for me.”
Reagan grinned at the panicked look on his face as she skidded out of the kitchen to her bedroom. She found what she was looking for relatively easy since she had left it sitting on her bed. And just like that all the amusement was gone and every single paranoid thought came rushing back. What if he didn’t like it? Oh shit, what if he hated it? What if he found it super weird that she had done this? What if he—
Stop, stop. Remember, cool, calm and collected. Cool, calm and collected.
“Is it meant to be doing this?” Zac asked her when she returned.
The sauce was spitting and turning a darker shade. Hell if she knew. Rather than reply, she turned off the heat.
“Here you go.” She plopped the little gift box in front of him.
“You know my birthday isn’t for another three months, right?” he teased, as he reached for it.
“I know that, smart-ass. I got you this because I was thinking about you and I wanted to.”
* * *
She got him a gift and it wasn’t even his birthday.
Zac had no idea what to say to that so he focused on the present. He opened the gift box. Inside, there was decorative paper that he rooted through until he touched something soft, feathery and long. He brought it out of the box and held it out in front of him.
Zac stared at it. It was a dream catcher. But that wasn’t what had him stunned, it was the fact that the dream catcher was chocolate brown—his favorite color—and engraved with his jersey number. She must have had this made, because he was pretty sure you couldn’t just find this in any store. His jersey, yes. They sold that merchandise everywhere, but this? Nope. And that meant she’d thought deeply about getting him a gift and it wasn’t a spur of the moment purchase.
“It’s supposed to help with bad dreams,” she told him, quietly. “Protect you and keep you safe. I know you’re only a quarter Native American on your mother’s side, but I remember you used to have one a couple of years ago, and I thought you would like one again.”
He looked into her bright brown eyes and saw the apprehension in them. His heart stuttered. He put the dream catcher and its box down on the table and, unable to resist the urge anymore, he ran his hands through his hair. Fuck, fuck. She knew. He could see it written all over her face. She knew.
Reagan had always known about his fucked-up childhood. It was impossible to grow up in their town and not know who Sheriff Quinn was and what he was. And Reagan had unfortunately seen him right after some of his father’s more unforgettable moments, like when he had gotten into an argument with his father and had tried to leave. He’d ended up falling down the stairs when his father had pushed him a little too hard. He had broken two ribs with that stunt. While his childhood wasn’t something he could control, this relationship was something he could. Now, she knew that he was too weak to move past it all and grow up. He thought he was hiding it from her, but apparently not well enough.
“Reagan,” Zac choked out.
“Hey. Hey.” She rolled onto the tips of her toes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “It’s okay. I know you don’t want to talk about it, Zac. I know. But I just want you to know I’m here whenever you do.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, more harshly than he intended.
He felt her flinch.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” she said. “But if you do—”
“I don’t.”
Zac took a deep breath. And then another. Trying to calm his heart. He closed his eyes, unable to keep looking into her face of compassion and something else...something deeper that he didn’t want to look too closely at and examine.
“You don’t fight fair, Ree.” He swallowed.
“No, I don’t. Not when it comes to someone this important to me.”
He felt her mouth press gently against his.
“Reagan.” He didn’t kiss her back, too stunned to move.
“I’m right here, Zac,” she told him against his mouth. “I’m all yours.”
She kissed him again. He deepened the kiss. His hands cupped her ass. He enjoyed the feel of her cheeks in the palms of his hands. Let the feeling of having her in his arms consume him, pushing everything else out.
The gasp she made against his mouth was well worth it. He lifted her up onto the counter, pushing her knees apart and settling in between her thighs. She moaned as he kissed down her throat to the sensitive area of her neck.
“Zac.”
“Mm.” He pulled her flush against him, rocking their hips together. She moaned again.
She shook her head as if trying to clear her head. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because...” She seemed to lose her train of thought when he put his hands on her breasts and squeezed. He took her mouth again.
For a few more minutes, they made out. Until Reagan pulled back, gasping.
“Okay. Okay. No more.” She took a couple of deep breaths. “Food first. Sex later.”
“You sure about that?”
“Um...”
He smirked. She knocked away his hands, glaring.
“Yes, I am sure about that. Now, go and get the lettuce out of the fridge.”
Before he could pull away
though, she put her hands on either side of his face.
“Stay with me tonight.”
“Ree, you know why—”
“Stay with me,” she cut him off. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”
And like the previous night, he was unable to resist her. The smile on her face and the kiss she gave him was almost worth it. Almost.
Chapter Nineteen
Reagan juggled some files in one hand and a mug of cinnamon latte in the other as she made the trip back to her office. Walking down the hallway, she passed Mitchell’s, her boss—or more correctly, her boss’s boss—office. The entire wall was made of glass and allowed for anyone to see inside. This was supposed to promote openness, but that wasn’t what made her pause. Trent Newman sat in the visitor’s chair across from Mitchell’s desk and Daniel, the condescending douchebag, was standing beside Mitchell. Trent Newman, her client. The client that she had to justify to Daniel that she knew what she was doing every other day, even though Alan, the Executive Managing Director, her and Daniel’s boss, was fine with letting her take the lead. And they looked like they were arguing.
Oh, that did not look good.
“Reagan, could you—” Mari, one of her fellow junior agents, said, coming down the hallway towards her.
Reagan had no idea what Mari was about to say and she didn’t care.
“Take this to my office please,” she said to her, dumping her files into Mari’s startled arms. She thrust the mug at her, forcing Mari to take it or spill coffee down her blouse.
“Thank you!” Reagan said, over her shoulder, hustling over to Mitchell’s door on her four-inch heels. It was not easy.
Reagan took a deep breath. Okay, Reagan, everything is going to be fine. Calm, cool and collected. You’re going to ask them what they’re doing and then you are going to listen to their rational answer.
She knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice answered.
Reagan opened the door and entered. Trent swiveled around to look at her. All three men watched as she came to Mitchell’s desk, beside Trent’s chair.
“Reagan.” Mitchell greeted her with a blank expression.
“Mr. Mitchell, it’s nice to see you again, sir,” she said politely.
Pointedly ignoring Daniel, she turned her attention onto her client.
Trent Newman was a good-looking guy. With sandy blond hair and a killer smile, he looked like the poster child for surfers. He was young, only twenty-two years old, but he had a right arm that made him worth millions of dollars. And right now, he was fidgeting in his chair, looking extremely uncomfortable.
“Hey, Trent. It’s good to see you.” Reagan comforted him with a smile.
“Reagan,” he said, in relief.
“Reagan,” Mitchell called to her. “Is there a reason why you are here?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “I’m not sure why I wasn’t asked to come in the first place.”
“That’s what I said!” Trent burst out.
“Have you not seen your emails? My assistant emailed this to you this morning.” Mitchell crossed his arms on his desk.
No, she hadn’t checked her emails. She had spent the morning helping a client not freak out at his photo shoot. It involved chamomile tea and a hot towel. Something she did not want to repeat, unless the person was buying her dinner first.
“I didn’t see it, but shouldn’t Alan be here?”
Mitchell looked to Daniel to answer. Reagan was already gritting her teeth even before he opened his mouth.
“I felt like Alan wasn’t really addressing the concerns I had so I thought it’d be best I bring this issue to Mr. Mitchell’s attention.”
Of all the slimy, douchebag things—Reagan shook her head.
Trent’s right leg bounced up and down. “They’re telling me to sign the shoe deal, but I told them you said not to do it. That you’ll find me something better.”
“What?” Her mind whirled.
Why the hell would they do that? If Trent was a seasoned mediocre player with several other minor deals under his belt, it would be a fantastic idea, but as a rookie it was a dumb idea. If Trent was half the player he was, this deal wouldn’t even be bad considering how global the shoe company was. But he was the most sought out baseball player of the decade. This deal would mean he was fucked out of a lot of money—especially if he played an amazing season, which in all likelihood he would—and locked into this deal for three years where anything could happen. That was crazy. Reagan had no idea what Daniel or even Mitchell was thinking.
“Because it’s a good deal,” Daniel said, smiling that smarmy smile of his that always rubbed her the wrong way.
Yeah, it was a good deal if you were an agent trying to stiff your client, like Daniel clearly was. And Reagan was all for telling him he could shove his opinions and his micro-aggressive behavior, but...she couldn’t. Daniel still outranked her and she needed to stay cool, calm and collected.
She opened her mouth to vehemently deny that claim, when Mitchell spoke.
“Mr. Newman, will you leave us alone for a few minutes, please?”
As soon as Trent left, Reagan looked at Mitchell.
“Mitchell, I’m sorry, I don’t know what Daniel has been telling you, but this isn’t a good idea. Trent should be looking to squeeze every penny out of this deal, not to downsize. Besides, I’m currently working on getting him a deal with—”
“This is the best deal for him. We have no idea how well he will perform during his season or if he might get injured,” Daniel dismissed with a wave of his hand.
“He’s twenty-two years old with no record of getting injured, who’s batting better than anyone else. He’s at the height of his career,” she said, in disbelief. “I think we should—”
Daniel pointed a slim manicured finger at her, over the desk.
“I don’t need to explain my decisions to you. I have cleared all of my ideas with Mitchell and that is all you need to know.”
If the boy interrupts me one more time, I’m going to... She clenched her teeth together. They’re not listening to me. And they’re not going to. Reagan took them in and realized that they weren’t talking to her like she was in charge of Trent Newman’s management or that she had any part in his career at all.
“What’s going on here?” she asked Mitchell slowly.
“Nothing.” Mitchell didn’t move. His arms stayed crossed, those calm eyes focused on her. “We were talking to Trent about some ideas we had.”
“Ideas that he doesn’t like.”
Daniel’s eyes flickered with annoyance. “We all know that the clients don’t always know what is in their best interest, which is why they have agents, thank god. Or they’d probably be flat broke.”
“Sir—” Reagan began.
“It’s nothing personal,” Mitchell cut her off. “Trent Newman is a valuable client.”
“I know that.” She stepped forward. “I was the one who brought him in. And Alan gave me the okay to manage him.”
“And you were rewarded for that,” Mitchell reminded her.
Steven’s party was her reward? And her consolation prize to soften the blow? She stared at him incredulously. But no way was she ready to give up that easily.
“I sent you and Alan a report detailing my plans for Trent’s future. Have you seen—”
Mitchell nodded. “I have seen it and while it was adequate, the points I’ve made are still valid. You do not have the level of experience needed.”
“And you’re a junior agent,” Daniel added from his little corner, playing with the end of his light blue tie.
“And junior agents are allowed to build up their own clientele,” she shot back. “And Alan—”
“I’m sure Alan will come to see who the right person is for the job.” Daniel smiled.
He scoffed. “If you ever thought you were going to be allowed to manage Trent Newman then you are delusional.”
“Daniel,” Mitchell said mildly, turning his head to meet Daniel’s gaze. “Please refrain from insulting people in my office.”
Daniel fell quiet, looking away.
“But Daniel is correct, you are a junior agent, Reagan. I value your contribution to this agency, but there remains a hierarchy in place for a reason. While I value that Alan would put you in such an enviable position, I do think you cannot manage someone of Trent Newman’s caliber. You do not have the expertise for it, but one day I assure you, you will. For now, however, Daniel will take the lead on Trent and I will allow you to help Daniel as he sees fit.”
Reagan had no idea what to say to that. Shit, she knew what she really wanted to say. That what he had just told her was a chauvinistic piece of crap, seeing as how Daniel had signed Mason Dalton while he was a junior agent and Mason Dalton was one of the best American football players and continued to be amazing even though he had transferred to their LA branch. No, this was a power move orchestrated by Daniel. And because she didn’t have a dick, she was being frozen out of the old boys’ club. Or was it because of the color of her skin?
Daniel watched with a gloating smirk. Reagan swallowed her words. She would not give him the satisfaction of turning to Mitchell and saying, “See, I told you. Hysterical females can’t handle themselves the way that men can. She’s nothing but an angry, black woman.” She pasted on a smile and focused on Mitchell.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be glad for any opportunity I can get,” she said.
Inside though, Reagan had never wanted to punch something or someone more in her whole life.
* * *
Later that night, when Reagan opened her front door, Zac held up a single flower: a white rose.
“I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t get you a bouquet, but I thought you would...” His voice trailed off when he got a good look at her face.