The Wedding Deal

by Cindi Madsen

  The tip. She’d given her dad a tip. Lance wondered how much that primo information had gone for. She’d worked so hard to ensure no one had told the press before he could announce it—or that’s what she’d made it sound like when she convinced Gavin and his agent to keep it on the down low until Monday.

  “No comment,” he gritted out and hung up the phone. Betrayal sliced open his veins, a familiar stabbing pain he’d sworn to guard against so he’d never have to experience it again. Yet here he was, and this time, it ached with a ferocity so strong his previous hurts felt like child’s play.

  This flayed him, down to the quick. Every ounce of his faith leaked out the gaping wound, and he knew he’d never trust another woman again.

  Then the door to the bathroom swung open, and he steeled himself for an ugly confrontation that was going to sting like a motherfucker.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Immediately Charlotte knew something was wrong, her instincts screaming at her, although her brain struggled to comprehend the what and why.

  Suddenly she felt supremely underdressed, so many inches of her so exposed, but it wasn’t like she could simply duck back into the bathroom when Lance had that look on his face. Raw hurt and shock, and something bad must’ve happened.

  “Is your family okay?” she asked.

  “Funny you mention families,” he said, his words sharp and slicing.

  A sense of vulnerability slithered through her, even as she told herself that he couldn’t be mad at her.

  Right?

  Her mind spun, and she wondered if she’d stepped into some alternate dimension because this didn’t seem like the guy she’d spent the past few days with. “I’m sorry, but I’m totally lost on what’s going on. Tell me and we’ll find a way to fix it.”

  “This isn’t a situation that can be magically fixed—especially by you. You and I are supposed to be the only two people who know we successfully acquired Gavin Frost, so why don’t you tell me how a reporter found out?”

  Offense pinched her gut. “I told you at the reception that I would never give out information about the team to a reporter. I was simply trying to be nice to Martin Simms, something you evidently need more lessons in.”

  “This was a different reporter. Equally as slimy, I’m sure. You know what he just told me?”

  “I’m guessing something about how we were going to acquire Gavin Frost. He was probably fishing— People know we need a quarterback and that he’s been looking for a new position. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

  “You want me to believe that, don’t you?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, too aware of her nipples brushing the gauzy fabric and how this night was going vastly differently than she’d thought it would. “What I want is for you to stop being an asshole so we can have a calm conversation about this.”

  “Oh, we’re far past calm. Simms told me who your dad is.”

  In spite of her best efforts to fight it, she felt her face pale, and she forced her chin to remain steady. “I told you he was a gambler. Pardon me for not wanting to dive into the whole messy story— When your grandpa hired me, he told me that he didn’t judge people by their parents. I always appreciated that, and apparently it’s not something you inherited from him.”

  She turned to gather her clothes, furious he’d make such a big deal about who her dad was. That he was going to make her feel like shit because Dad had made a mistake, and while yes, it was a big one, he’d done his penance and was working to overcome his addiction.

  It hurt even more after opening up to Lance about how rocky her relationship with Dad was. He knew, and he didn’t care— He still threw it in her face.

  “My grandpa obviously didn’t know you fed your dad information to ensure he won more than he lost. Does he at least give you a cut?”

  Her spine went stick straight, and she whipped around. “Are you serious right now?”

  Lance strode toward her, every line of his body tense. “I’ve never been more serious. I was such an idiot, playing right into it. Telling you everything.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Everything? Are you forgetting who made that draft wall over there? Who dived in and helped you every step of the way while doing the job of three people—people you fired because you’re a hothead who apparently loses his mind on a regular basis?”

  “Right, like when I trusted you. Clearly a decision I made when I wasn’t in my right mind.”

  The tears were going to spill, no matter how much she blinked against them.

  “I saw the text. You don’t have to keep denying it.” Lance pulled her phone out of his suit pocket and shoved it at her. “Your dad thanked you for the tip.”

  She lowered her eyebrows, trying to put it together. Somehow she managed to reach for the phone. She saw the text, the one Dad must’ve sent after listening to her voicemail message about how one of the local construction companies was hiring. She’d added that it should keep him busy enough that he wouldn’t be tempted by his phone or his computer as much, since he’d said he had to be careful about ending up on gambling websites.

  The sides of her cell dug into her palm as she squeezed it, her lungs flattening as betrayal burned up what little oxygen she had left. “You went through my phone?”

  “Don’t turn this back on me,” he said. “It was in my pocket. I felt it buzz and pulled it out, thinking it was mine. But when I saw that text, knowing what I now know about your father, you’re damn right I read it. I have an obligation to my team.”

  “You didn’t think you had an obligation to talk to me instead of jumping to conclusions?”

  “I don’t have the luxury of trusting someone, especially when proof that I can’t lands in my lap. And when I saw your roommate congratulating you on my net worth, I figured that made it pretty clear our relationship was never about just you and me anyway.”

  Her throat tightened to the painful point while her heart formed a knot she wasn’t sure it’d ever come undone from. Every organ was working at self-preservation, and they were all too late. “How can you think so little of me? She cares about your net worth. I cared about who I thought you were, but clearly I was wrong about that.”

  Charlotte stormed into the bathroom, shoved everything she owned into her suitcase, and grabbed the bathrobe off the hook on the door. Once she’d secured it over her nightie, the belt tied tight, she forced herself to walk out of the bathroom instead of lock herself inside it to cry.

  Lance was still just standing there, anger wafting from him, his expression shuttered off and his walls up.

  “I told you I was raised by a dad who gambled a lot and how often I ended up hurt because of it,” she said. “I figured that was enough information, especially since he’s been working hard to change. Not to mention there was a big complicated legal battle and his lawyer warned me not to talk about it. Most of all, I wanted to hold on to that hope that the program he was enrolled in—the one I also told you about—was going to help him get better.

  “But if you want the ugly truth, he’s called me several times through the years, asking what I know. Asking about the draft, asking who’s starting or injured before the reports go out. Wanting me to rattle off stats and give him percentages. I haven’t given him anything since I was a naive teenager. Since I realized that I was enabling him and making it worse—that his calls didn’t mean he loved me, but that he loved using me— I became a vault when it came to information he might use for gambling.”

  It hurt to admit it aloud. To feel that same shame and pain she’d experienced when the truth had hit her hard. “After that I clung to the rules, determined never to dabble in any gray areas that’d send me down the path I’d seen him go so far down. Every time he called to ask me for information, I’d tell him he had a problem and that he needed professional help. It took eight long years and an offer to pay for it to get him in that program.

  “You can’t control what people think— That’s your thing, right? But
you can control what you think, and you’ve chosen to go with the worst.” How could she have been so wrong? About him, about stupid fairy tales—about any of it. “If you would’ve simply asked instead of jumping to conclusions, I would’ve told you my dad checked himself out of rehab early, and while that scares the shit out of me, he seems to be doing well and wanted help finding a job. I put out a few feelers and found a company that was hiring, so his thanks for the tip was in response to that.”

  “You expect me to believe that? If you didn’t tell your dad about Gavin Frost, and you didn’t tell Simms at the reception, how exactly did the press find out, Charlotte?”

  “I don’t know! I would never disclose any of what we’ve been working on. Not to my dad, not to reporters, and not even to my best friend, who’s currently obsessed with guys’ salaries because she had a freeloader boyfriend who bled her dry. Not only because it’s not who I am, but I signed a nondisclosure agreement. Don’t you remember what a stickler I am for the rules?”

  “And yet you still slept with me.”

  Everything inside of her shattered apart. The only thing that kept her knees from buckling was sheer force of will. She wouldn’t let him see how easily he’d destroyed her. “You asshole,” she said, her voice shakier than she would’ve liked, but at least she’d managed to force out the words.

  Each step was a challenge, but she made it to the door. She didn’t allow herself to look back, doing her best to ignore the fact that the distance she was putting between them made her physically ache—how stupid for her body to hurt so much when he clearly didn’t care about her.

  By the time she made it down the hall, her heart was nothing more than a mangled mass that bled misery. But she made it inside the safety of her room before she dropped to the floor and allowed the tears to overtake her.

  As she cried out every ounce of saltwater she had in her, she told herself that it wouldn’t hurt this badly forever.

  Even as a tiny part of her whispered it’d be impossible to fully get over the loss of what she thought she’d had.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  That had to be the worst night of sleep Lance had ever had, and he’d had plenty of bad nights in his day. Nights in physical pain and hours spent tossing and turning before a big game. Lumpy mattresses and bumpy flights and countless other things had kept him awake and miserable.

  But this…?

  Every inch of him ached, and it felt like someone had punched a hole clean through his chest. Rolling over only reminded him Charlotte wasn’t next to him, regardless of it being something he’d already known.

  Over and over her hurt expression flickered through his mind on a torturous loop.

  The news about who her dad was had sent him spiraling, stirring up his trust issues and making him doubt everything, and that damn text had pushed him over the edge.

  The fight spun out of control so quickly, words spewing from his mouth before he could check himself. A pounding headache loomed as he recalled that retort he’d made about how she’d slept with him despite the rules.

  He was an asshole.

  He groaned and shoved a pillow over his head, not wanting to face the day or the plane ride home. Was it bad that a small part of him didn’t care if she had told her dad and he’d leaked it?

  Yes, yes it was. He couldn’t afford not to care. Couldn’t afford to get so wrapped up in a woman who hadn’t been 100 percent honest with him. He was already so tangled in her web that every ounce of happiness had drained from him the instant she’d stormed out the door. Much longer and he’d be sucked dry and unable to break free.

  After a few minutes of wallowing, he sat up and reached for his phone.

  His stomach sank. There were several missed calls from Gavin Frost and his agent in the mix of dozens of others. The news must’ve broken, and Gavin was probably upset he hadn’t gotten to announce it the way he’d hoped—hell, the way any of them hoped.

  As much as he wanted to put it off, it wouldn’t change anything, so he dialed up Gavin, preferring to talk to him over his agent. He’d been in the guy’s shoes and was always better with players anyway.

  “Gavin, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said, and Lance focused on the way he’d said the words. Not sarcastic. Genuine, with a hint of remorse. “I told my mom not to answer the phone, but when I wouldn’t talk to the reporters, they called her, and she has this thing about lying. I tried to tell her it wasn’t lying, but you know how pushy those reporters are. She cracked. My family was just so excited about me playing for the Mustangs, and…”

  The rest of his words faded as Lance put together what he was saying. “Your mom talked to a reporter.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t Charlotte. Of course it wasn’t her.

  It’d never seemed quite right, and he hadn’t wanted to believe it. But he’d let himself believe it anyway, and he’d accused her of tipping off her dad and shit, shit, shit.

  “If your people want to put together a statement for me to release or read,” Gavin said, “I’m happy to do it. I’ll do whatever I can to make this right.”

  Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. Pre-Charlotte, he would’ve let his frustrations spill out of his mouth without thinking, but he was slowly learning to take a second before he spoke—with the exception of last night, damn it. She’d made him better, and for all her efforts, he’d accused her of being a liar. He cleared his throat and concentrated on staying on good terms with his newly acquired quarterback. “Don’t worry about it, it happens. Let me get back to you on the statement.”

  He didn’t have people quite yet. Technically, he had one person, and he’d screwed up so badly he wasn’t sure she’d ever speak to him again.

  Every thought turned to going to find Charlotte so he could apologize and beg for forgiveness. He hung up, flung off the covers, and tugged on jeans and a T-shirt— Even a shower would take too long. He finger-combed his hair and stepped into his shoes as he made his way to the door.

  As his horrible luck would have it, the halls were full of people checking out.

  Not that it mattered. He knocked on the door to her hotel room. When she didn’t answer, he pounded on it. “Charlotte? Charlotte, please talk to me. I was an asshole, and I’m sorry, and I…”

  Everyone in the vicinity was staring now, but he didn’t give a shit. “Charlotte, please. Please let me in so I can tell you what an idiot I am. Not that you don’t already know.”

  Nothing.

  He strode to the front desk, impatiently tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waited in line.

  Finally a desk clerk waved him over, and he asked about getting a key to Charlotte’s room— He’d paid for it, after all, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Oh, Miss James checked out early this morning.”

  It was early now. “What time?”

  “Four thirty.”

  Two hours ago. “Did she say where she was going?”

  The desk clerk hesitated.

  “We work together, and I’m sure you can see that my name is on the room. I just… My phone’s not charged,” he lied.

  “We called her a cab to take her to the airport.”

  His tattletale phone rang in his pocket, and when the desk clerk frowned at him, he gave him a sheepish look.

  The second he answered it, Gavin’s agent added his apologies about the leak. “We know you wanted to make a big announcement, and that’s what we wanted, too.”

  “It’s fine. Let me call you back.” Lance disconnected the call and tapped Charlotte’s number. As the phone rang and rang, he paced the lobby like a madman. Considering he’d completely lost his mind, it was accurate.

  He swore when it reached her voicemail, earning him dirty glares from a few of the people in the lobby. With no other choice but to go on with the day he’d planned before his life fell apart, he went back to his hotel room, shoved everything in suitcases, and call
ed for a car to take him to the private airfield where a plane would be waiting for him.

  On the drive over, he wrote up two press releases using the examples of others he’d found online—one from the team and one for Gavin. Then he fired them off to the sports reporters he had a good rapport with and told Gavin and his agent they were free to shout the news from the rooftop.

  He called Charlotte again as he was boarding, leaving her a voicemail that begged her to call him back.

  Just before the plane landed in San Antonio, he called again and left another voicemail.

  Lance’s phone rang nonstop the rest of the day, long after his flight had landed and he’d arrived back at his empty penthouse that seemed even emptier than when he’d left it.

  But none of the calls were from Charlotte, and as he fell into bed at the end of the day, completely exhausted, he worried that she’d never talk to him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Charlotte’s heels clacked a happy-sounding rhythm against the hardwood floor Tuesday morning, so at odds with how she felt inside.

  Those sucky emotions were going to stay under a rock-hard facade of okayness, because she was nothing if not professional. Over the last couple of days, she’d seriously thought about quitting. Enough so she’d called in a personal day yesterday so she’d have another twenty-four hours to decide. But to let go of everything she’d worked for because her boss turned out to be an asshole?

  Nope. She wouldn’t let Lance take that from her.

  She settled behind her desk, opened her inbox, and winced, and then she got to work.

  After two hours, she’d filled out and emailed enough forms to make her head swim.

  At the heavy footsteps that neared her door, she tensed and steeled herself.

  But it was just Sean Bryant, their new head coach. Official as of yesterday, and the news had hit the interwebs first thing this morning.

  “Hello,” she said, standing halfway and extending a hand. “So nice to meet you in person.”

  “You, too.” He gave her hand a firm shake and settled into the chair across from her. His blond hair was thick and had a hint of strawberry to it. His simple T-shirt and jeans style paired with the beard, chiseled facial features, and all the muscles gave him a sort of All-American Dude meets Viking vibe. His knees went to bouncing, the frantic energy she’d heard a hint of over the phone fully on display now. “The receptionist said you were the person who could help get me started.”