SNATCHED (A Sports Romance)

by Harper James

  “Can you please repeat that?” I ask again, my voice rising over the static like I’m yelling through a tin can and a string. But then the static disappears. There’s a moment of blessed silence, nothing but a slight ring in my ear from the earlier connection, but the peace is quickly overtaken by complete and total dread.

  Shit.

  I replace the handset on the cradle and stare at the phone, like I can will the guy to call back and fill in the blanks. I glance at the computer where I’d attempted to take a message, but all I have are fragments that look more like clues to catch a serial killer than a coherent phone message.

  Shit shit shit.

  The glass door of the suite flies open, and a tall figure in an impeccably tailored black suit strides through it. The heels of his large, polished leather shoes — probably Italian, but what do I know from designers— clack menacingly on the tile floor. Just the sight of him standing there, broad shouldered and brooding, his jawline so sharp it could cut glass, makes my eyes go wide and my stomach flip.

  Jared King.

  Fuck.

  My stomach does an epic drop, twisting and turning, feeling like it falls out my feet and through the floor below.

  He crosses the pristine white rug covering the reception area in just three long strides, and then he’s next to the desk, towering over me, but gazing down only at the phone in his hand.

  “Messages?” he says, his voice gravelly, yet cold, his eyes never moving off the tiny screen.

  “Actually, there was one, but—“

  Before I can finish, he holds out his hand, still not looking at me. I click a button and the printer spits out a paper. I pass it to him, and his eyes immediately go to the one at the bottom, the serial killer jumble of words and numbers. His eyes flick from the paper to me, and the heat behind them roots me to my chair.

  “What’s this?” he asks in that way someone might ask a dog what the giant puddle is on the middle of the rug.

  I try to fix a sweet smile to my face, my one and only weapon in my arsenal. It doesn’t work. It only makes his eyes narrow further.

  I struggle to find my voice. “That one just came in. The connection was terrible, and we got cut off before I could get the number down.”

  “This is from David Rochester?”

  Rochester. Ok, so not the city in New York. I nod. “Yes, that was from him.”

  Jared’s eyes narrow. “Did he give approval?”

  “I, um—” I pause, trying to bring back the memory of the call. Did he say anything about approval? He definitely mentioned an account, but I don’t think he said anything about approval. Or disapproval?

  “Did he or didn’t he?” Jared’s voice is quiet, but there is venom behind every word that sends a chill straight through me.

  My smile is all but gone now, and I’m simply trying not to cry. Not in front of him, anyway. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get anything from him before the line went dead,” I practically whisper.

  He stares at me, his chocolate brown eyes suddenly icy. I expect him to start yelling, or to say anything actually, but instead he just stares at me. For the last three weeks I’ve wondered what it would be like to have Jared King look at me, but this is not in my fantasy. The longer he stares, the colder I feel, all the color draining from my face.

  “Maybe he’ll call back?” I say, my voice thin. And as if I can’t get any more pathetic, my shoulders gave a tiny shrug.

  I see something flash behind his eyes, and I swear there’s the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Like he is enjoying this.

  “No, he won’t call back,” he says, his voice like ice cubes running up and down my spine, “because he’s getting on a flight to Dubai, where he’ll be unreachable for the next 12 hours, the one thing I see you actually managed to write down.” Jared flicks the paper at me, and it flutters down into my lap. “Your inability to complete the one task assigned to you has just cost this company hundreds of thousands of dollars and potentially an entire account. So my question is, why are you even here?”

  He doesn’t wait for a response. Apparently the question was entirely rhetorical, because he turns on his heel and disappears into his office.

  I don’t know how long I sit there staring at the discarded message log in my lap, my hands clutching the armrests of chair. Maybe it’s a few seconds, maybe even a few minutes. But when I feel the tears start to prick my eyes, I know I have to get myself together. I will not let Jared King make me cry. At least not out here where everyone can see.

  What I need is a release, and that’s what I have Janet for.

  Janet and I were roommates freshman year at BU, and have been best friends ever since.

  She recently started her first job as an assistant at a gallery in the South End, and she too has a dragon boss. To cope with our respective indignities, we’ve taken to firing off epic screeds to one another detailing all the things we wanted to say to our bosses but couldn’t.

  I open a new email, my fingers itching to tell her about the mixed up message and the way Jared tossed the paper in my lap like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. As I type it, I feel myself getting more and more heated. How dare he treat me like a screw up? I work my ass off, not that he’d know anything about that because he hardly bothers to look at me, let alone notice that I’m an actual human being trying my best.

  I type my thoughts down, enjoying the catharsis of saying exactly what I feel, almost as if I’m saying it to him. Right to Jared King’s smug, cold, arrogant face.

  My boss thinks he knows it all, clearly. But actually the man is blind.

  His arrogance is keeping him from seeing that he has an amazing employee right under his nose, and his reign of terror only serves to silence people and thwart their true potential. And by people I mean me, and by potential, I mean that I am almost certain I could do his job if I was given the chance.

  He has had opportunities, he’s had people treat him with respect, but he can’t be bothered to do the same for someone like me.

  But of course, no one has ever or will ever call him on being so cruel and coldhearted. When you’re rich and sexy you can get away with treating people like servants or scum. When your employees spend their breaks talking about you bending them over the copy machine, you will pretty much always get your way. I can’t believe I let myself think that this job would actually be good for me. That I’d learn something and show people what I could do. Instead it’s just another company where the CEO treats everyone like shit and we all creep around pretending it doesn’t suck.

  By the time I get to the end of the email, I can feel the heat start to recede. The truth is, Jared pays so little attention to me that he’ll probably forget all about the botched phone message by tomorrow.

  I bet if I cut my hair, he’ll think he’s gotten a new temporary assistant, for all the notice he gives me. I decide to add that part in for good measure, smiling to myself as I sign off and hit send. The little whoosh sound of the email pops through the speakers, but before I can sit back in my chair, my eye catches on one line in the disappearing email. One little bit of text in the “To:” field.

  No.

  I couldn’t have.

  I didn’t.

  I pull up my sent mail, my eyes frantically searching for Janet Kinney, but it isn’t there. The last email in the queue, the one that opens with “You will not believe what my flaming asshole of a boss just did,” was not sent to Janet Kinney.

  It was sent to Jared King.

  Shit. Shit. Fuck. Goddammit.

  Chapter 2

  My stomach immediately leaps into my throat and then plummets into my toes for the second time this day.

  Five minutes ago my biggest concern was crying at my desk, but now I’m worried I might actually vomit. Right onto the white carpet. And I had tomato soup (standing up over the sink in the break room) for lunch.

  Panicking, I stand up, like I might actually just flee the building and never return, but instead I clutch
the desk, take a few deep breaths, and then sit down at the computer. I let my eyes skim over the offending email, opting to open a new one instead. My fingers are shaking, my breath coming in rapid bursts, as I type.

  Mr. King,

  Please disregard the previous email, which I sent to you in error. I would appreciate it if you would delete it upon receipt.

  Sincerely,

  Quinn Carson

  I send it, and then I wait.

  It feels like two eternities pass, but really it’s just a few moments during which I have to stop myself from chewing my fingernails down to ragged stubs. The reply dings in my inbox. I don’t even have to open it before my heart drops. I can see the that the body of the email is blank, the subject line simply reading, “NO.”

  My first thought is that I need to go empty my mailbox, pack up my desk, and get out of here before this gets any worse.

  Sure, I won’t be able to make rent this month without a paycheck, but I could go live with my parents out in Worcester while I search for something new. Of course, if Jared King decides to give me a bad recommendation or blackball me entirely, getting another job won’t even be an option. I’ll have to leave the state. Probably the entire east coast. Or I could go back to school, maybe get my teaching degree like mom. I don’t even really like kids, but maybe I could learn …

  “No,” I whisper to myself, feeling the sudden swell of the ego and pride that got me a 4.0 at BU. I’m not a quitter, never have been, and I’m not about to start now. “This is ridiculous. You can fix it. You will fix it.”

  I can’t leave the state. Or go back to school. I don’t want to. I love business. I worked my ass off all the way through school, and then worked my ass off to get this job. I will not let one jerk of a boss and one accidental email take all that away from me.

  When I’ve managed to talk myself up into something resembling courage, I rise from the desk and move to his office door, which is firmly shut. I raise my hand, but it takes me a good ten seconds before I can bring myself to knock on the door. When I do, it comes out quick and staccato, like machinegun blasts. Every nerve ending in my body feels electrified. Calm. Down. I tell myself, but it’s not working. I can feel my heart rapidly doubling its pace.

  “Come in.” His voice is low, the command practically a dare.

  I step into his office and find him behind his desk, a shiny black pen in his hand that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His gaze is on the stack of contracts he’s signing. I wait a beat for him to acknowledge me, but he refuses. I’m standing there on the rug like a first grader who’s been called before the teacher. He’s going to force me to say something, to start this conversation.

  I take a deep breath, hoping my voice will come out without a quiver, but knowing that’s mostly a losing battle. “I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry about the email,” I begin. I channel the professionalism that got me through three interviews and a presentation to get me this job. “I was blowing off steam to a friend, but it was unprofessional and out of line. I was really frustrated with myself for the message error, because I work very hard to avoid mistakes, and missing that message was definitely a mistake. I am deeply sorry, and it will not happen again.”

  There’s a long silence, during which he continues scrawling his name on documents. “For the email or the message?” He still refuses to look at me, and I can tell now that it’s purposeful.

  “Both,” I reply.

  “And you try very hard not to make mistakes, you say?” His voice is still low, gravelly and — I can’t believe I’m thinking this — sexy. He’s starting to sound almost amused.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “So then you weren’t mistaken when you called me, what was it again?” And then his eyes flicker up to mine, his gaze intense, pinning me to my spot on the carpet, “Ah yes, cruel and coldhearted.”

  Oh. My. God. I feel like all the air is getting sucked out of the room, which is the only excuse for what comes out of my mouth next. “Hey, it wasn’t all bad,” I say, almost certainly oxygen deprived, the only excuse for me right now. “I also called you sexy.”

  I meant it as a joke. At least, I think I did, because if the feeling of heat spreading between my legs is any indication, I also think I meant it for real. But those eyes — those gorgeous, cold brown eyes — betray no laughter. The joke, if that’s what you could call it, lands with a thud and a whimper. For a girl who tries not to make any mistakes, I sure am racking up my fair share today.

  Gee, why don’t you just lunge across the desk and take your top off while you’re at it?

  Dear God, please let this floor open up and swallow me whole.

  I try desperately to recover, to salvage this rapidly disintegrating encounter. “Again, I’m so sorry. I was — well, there’s no excuse. All I can say is that I’m having an unusually bad day, and if you give me a chance, I think you’ll find that I can be valuable to you,” I say, then realize what I’ve said, my cheeks flushing. “I mean, to the company.”

  He drops his pen and sits back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, which is broad and defined, even in a suit. He cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I feel my knees quiver beneath me. Thank god I’m standing on carpet, because my heels would probably audibly click on the bare wood floor with all the trembling.

  “Actually,” he says, his voice still full of gravel and sharp edges, “there is something you could do. For me.”

  “Of course,” I reply. I wish my voice didn’t sound quite so eager.

  “I need you to make a reservation for two at Renew. 8pm.”

  I nod, a feeling of relief sweeping over my trembling body. This I can do. No problem.

  “For tonight,” he says, that touch of amusement back in his voice, like a panther playing with a baby deer before he devours it.

  My heart sinks. This is going to be no easy task. Renew just opened last month, and thanks to rave reviews in both the Globe and The Times, it’s been the hot reservation in town. I’ve heard the waiting list is weeks long, if not months. And he wants a reservation for tonight? Would he also like a golden chariot and a seat in the dugout for the next Red Sox game?

  But of course I can’t betray a hint of nervousness. I told him I was valuable. Capable. I can’t show him that I’m already going back on my declaration within ten seconds of uttering it.

  And from the way he’s staring me down from behind that desk, I know he’ll be watching every move I make for even the slightest hint of a misstep. Well he’s going to have to look hard.

  “Of course,” I say. And then I turn on my heel, glad I’m wearing new, scuff-free patent leather heels that I found for 75% off at the outlet mall instead of the more-comfortable black clogs that I usually wear. Not that I should care what I’m wearing around Mr. King. Or that he cares. Or notices.

  Dammit, Quinn, get your head in the game. You have a Herculean task to complete

  As soon as I’m back at my desk, I pull up the phone number and dial.

  This is my chance to put the awful last few minutes in the rearview mirror and convince Jared King not to have me fired, for he surely has every right to do so.

  “Renew,” the clipped voice of the restaurant’s hostess says. Her accent is something Russian or otherwise Cold War-era, and it gives me a shiver just listening to it.

  “Yes, I’m calling to make a reservation for two. 8pm,” I say, then swallow to make sure my voice is appropriately authoritative. “For tonight.”

  There’s a beat of silence, during which I half expect her to start laughing. Instead, she says simply, “We are completely booked.”

  “Is there anything —“ I try, but she cuts me off with a simple, unsympathetic no. I sit back in my chair wondering how much of the paltry sum of cash in my bank account that I would have to offer this woman and still make my rent when my eyes land on a framed article hanging on the opposite wall. It’s the cover of Boston Magazine, featuring none other than my boss, Jared King, in a black
pea coat, the collar popped, his gaze a picture of smoldering sex. Alongside his chiseled features are the words “Boston’s Most Eligible Billionaire.”

  I can feel myself smiling as I lean my elbows onto the desk, preparing to lay my trump card. “The reservation is for Jared King,” I say, and that’s all it takes. Suddenly the hostess’s tone isn’t so clipped. I wouldn’t call it warm, because warm is just not done in Boston’s trendiest restaurant, but it’s definitely accommodating.

  By the time I hang up I not only have a reservation, but the promise of one of the best tables and a personal welcome from the chef. It sounds like it’s going to be an incredible night.

  I don’t let myself wonder who else is going to be eating with him tonight, sharing this incredible night with him. That’s not my job. I work for Jared King, and whatever beautiful model or actress he is courting at the moment, I needn’t give it a second thought.

  What do I care? I don’t. I got the reservation. That’s all that matters.

  And yet I do find myself picturing them together, and feeling a surge of inexplicable jealousy at the thought that I can’t be her—whomever her is.

  I don’t qualify.

  But maybe if I were just a few inches taller, and thinner, and able to afford the best clothes and the best trainers to get my body tight and toned…maybe I would qualify. Maybe I would be worthy of his time and attentions.

  But I don’t qualify and that’s why he doesn’t even see me.

  As much as I want to march back into his office and declare mission accomplished, I don’t want to risk another crash and burn like I had earlier.

  Instead I fire off an email confirming his reservation, closing with yet another apology.

  His response is swift, and surprising.

  My office is all the email says. No please. Not even a complete sentence. Just a fragment of an order.

  And as much as I want to be angry, there’s a flutter inside me that has me standing from my chair, pulling my shoulders back, and striding into his inner sanctum once again. This time he’s waiting for me, his elbows resting on his glass-topped desk, his hands clasped beneath the subtle cleft in his chin.