He chuckles and the gritty sound of it spreads goosebumps up and down my arm. “If you want to call me big boy, feel free.”
“I really, really don’t.”
“Fair enough. Can I have a nickname for you?”
“No,” I answer quickly, my nice demeanor faltering. “I don’t think we’ll know each other long enough to earn nicknames.”
“Ah, now that hurts me. And here I thought we were forming an everlasting bond.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“We’re not going to be friends after this?”
“Whenever this ends, which I hope is tomorrow, I don’t think we will. We seem to have different ways of looking at life—”
“How so?” he asks, a challenge in his voice.
He can’t possibly be that obtuse. From my pictures alone, he should know I’m a goody two shoes. I do everything by the book, and even though I might take a lot of selfies, they are always sweet, never sexy, because I’m not that girl. Never will be.
“I don’t want to insult you, so I think we should just set up a time to meet tomorrow.”
“My day is full of meetings,” he answers tersely, as if I already insulted him. Even on a Saturday?
“Just tell me where I can find you and I’ll do all the work.”
“No,” he answers matter-of-factly. “My clients are high-profile, so their privacy is important. I can’t have you barging into any of my meetings.”
High-profile? What does he do? I want to ask but decide better of it. The less I know about this guy, the better, because I’m already attracted to his voice. I want to keep my opinion of his personality at an all-time high of annoyance. Finding out that he saves endangered animals and his clients are people like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ellen DeGeneres would be detrimental.
An animal saver with that voice and those eyes—I mean, no, not those eyes, I don’t care about his eyes—it wouldn’t be good. None of it would be good.
“What about at another club? Maybe you can hold off on hooking up with someone before I get there. Is that possible?”
“Can’t make promises. I’ll text you tomorrow. Night, lass.”
“Wait, no—”
He hung up.
Ugh, son of a mother freaking beach.
Why did I even bother to try flirting? “Can’t make promises.” Roark whatever his last name is, is a selfish jerk, and this game is over. I should have locked the phone down when he first stood me up. I don’t know this guy. Well, what I do know I don’t like. Tomorrow I’ll go back to where I bought my phone, cancel the service, have a new SIM issued. Done. Mr. Sexy Irish will be out of my life forever, and my life will go on. Maybe I’ll just throw his phone in the trash for the crap he’s put me through. Ha. Beat that, Irish.
Chapter Four
Dear Big Boy,
Sutton might not be able to pull it off, but I have to admit, it rolls off my tongue nicely. Although, I don’t want my diary getting the wrong idea, so I’m going to keep searching for a name.
Why am I torturing this girl you ask?
Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call it torturing, more like entertaining her. From the pictures in her phone, it looks like she needs a little more excitement in her life, and why not be the one to give that to her, at least for a little bit.
If my therapist got wind of this, she’d probably have some very strong opinions on the matter, something like being a dick your whole life will get you nowhere—I’m sure she would say it in a much more sophisticated way, but you get the idea.
And maybe I am trying to find pleasure in ways other than a woman spread out on my bed. Maybe I enjoy the banter, and maybe I like hearing her sweet voice over the phone. There’s nothing wrong with that. She’ll get her phone . . . when I’m ready to give it back.
Roark
* * *
SUTTON
“What do you think of your new office?” Whitney asks, standing in my doorway, her signature red coffee cup in hand.
Hands on my desk, a huge smile on my face, I say, “I absolutely love it.”
Whitney scans the space and shakes her head. “You’re in what used to be the janitor’s closet.”
“I know.” I chuckle as the lemon cleaning supplies singe my nose hairs. “But it’s better than nothing.”
“We’ll get you into something new soon. This is just temporary until construction is completed.”
“Seriously, this is great. Thank you. The added plant really gives the space life.”
Whitney chuckles. “You mean the dilapidated fake plant Millie found on the twentieth-floor stairwell landing?”
“Is that where it came from?” I stare at its holey leaves and bent-but-not-broken branches. “Well, it was a good find.”
“Always the positive one, that’s why we love you.” And I believe her. They could favor me, giving me a nice office instead of the janitor’s closet, or they could have found a plant that wasn’t dragged behind a tractor during planting season, but they didn’t. They treated me like a regular employee, not the boss’s daughter, and I appreciate that more than anything. “Once you’re settled, I would love to go over your projects.”
“I’m settled,” I answer enthusiastically while standing. It’s my first day and I might be a little overly excited but I can’t help it. I worked hard to get to this position, and I can’t wait to get started working with the foundation my dad created.
Chuckling, Whitney gives me a curt nod. “Okay, but let’s go to my office so we have more space.”
“Good idea.” I pick up my notebook and pen, bring the phone—because who knows if he’ll ever decide to return it—and follow Whitney to her office. Maybe after I sort out the phone at lunch, I’ll be able to toss his in the trash anyway.
Brilliant white with baby-blue accents, her office is gorgeous with wall-to-wall windows, pictures of the many boys and girls we’ve helped, and fresh flowers in scattered vases. That’s one thing I know about Whitney, she loves fresh flowers.
“Take a seat.” She gestures to the white chair across from her desk. She picks up a few files and pushes them toward me. “I have two projects for you. One is immediate, and the other will start with the season in September.”
“Oh, okay.” I pick up the folders and look through them as Whitney speaks.
“As you know, it’s going to be your dad’s farewell season with the Steel this fall, which means we have a lot of planning to do. As a new tradition, the teams in the league present players who’ve had a huge impact on the sport with farewell gifts. I’m putting you in charge of communicating with each team and securing their donation to Gaining Goals. Your dad made it quite clear he doesn’t want any memorabilia, just donations to his charity.”
“Yes, that makes sense. I can handle the organizing of that.”
“And then the immediate thing is obviously the Gaining Goals camp at the ranch. We have all the kids picked. Six girls, six boys. You’re, obviously, familiar with the camp and the grounds since you grew up there, so I thought you might like to head up the camp this year.”
“Really?” I ask, a little shocked. Whitney is always in charge. Ever since my dad created the camp for kids to improve their skills while creating healthy goals for a lifetime, Whitney has been in charge, expertly putting on the camp without a flaw. I’ve been to many camps and watched her create a positive atmosphere with such ease that I don’t think it’s something I could replicate, but I’ll give it my best shot.
I’m actually honored that she thinks I’m ready to take on such a big project, and all I want to do is gush and thank her, but Whitney is all business, so I listen intently instead.
“Yes, you’ll be great for the project, and it will free up my time to do some other projects your dad has in the works.”
“That’s exciting. Retirement stuff?”
Whitney kindly smiles. “Yup, you know him, his mind is always turning with the next greatest idea.”
“Used to drive my mom crazy,” I
answer with a sad smile. This coming fall will be the twenty-year anniversary of her death. She left this world way too early, leaving me motherless at the age of four. They got pregnant really young, at sixteen. I was a bit of an oops, but they never let me know it. They took on the challenge, worked together with the help of family, and raised me while Dad was able to pursue his dreams. Gammy and Gramps were an integral part of raising me, but Dad was there too, he was always there, especially when Mom passed at the age of twenty. “At least that’s what Dad told me.”
“I’m sure,” Whitney says while clearing her throat. “Everything you’re going to need to know is in those files and on the server you’re familiar with. Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I think I’m pretty good. I assisted with the last two camps, so this shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Perfect, and don’t forget to sync your calendar to your phone.”
“Yup, not a problem.” I smile, even though I’m slowly dying inside. I need to get my phone back.
Today.
As I’m walking out the door, Whitney calls out, “And welcome to the team, Sutton. We’re so excited to have you on board.”
I smile over my shoulder. “I’m excited to be here.”
And with that, I close the door behind me and hustle to the janitor’s closet. It’s time to end this. He’s getting one more chance to do the right thing . . . at least that’s what I tell myself.
* * *
Sutton: Where are you? Want to grab a bite to eat?
Roark: Asking me out already? I thought it would take you a little longer. Guess I pegged you as a little too shy.
Sutton: Oh yup, that’s what I’m doing. Please go out with me. I want to date you so hard.
Roark: You know, that sounds a lot like sarcasm.
Sutton: How would you know? I didn’t use any asterisk to emphasize my actions.
Roark: Unnecessary.
Sutton: Just grab a bite with me.
Roark: I don’t know. You seem very aggressive right now, a little crazy. I don’t think I’m up for that.
Sutton: Do you want to make me cry? Is that what you’re trying to do? Because I will cry. Right here, right now, I will cry.
Roark: It’s a good thing I can’t see you then.
Sutton: I’ll blow up your phone with pictures of my tears.
Roark: Not surprised, since you’re the selfie queen.
Sutton: I am going to kick you square in the balls.
Roark: Yeah? I like things a little frisky.
Sutton: Do you always have a comeback for everything?
Roark: Depends on my mood.
Sutton: Are you in the mood to meet me?
Roark: Nah, I have meetings all day. Sorry lass. Better luck tomorrow.
Sutton: Why the heck do you want to keep my phone? This is ridiculous.
* * *
“I’m going to kill him, Maddie.”
“This again?” she groans into the phone. “When are we going to stop talking about this whole phone thing?”
“When I get my phone back.”
“Let me guess, he’s not willing to trade today.”
“No.” I lean back in my chair. “Says he has meetings all day.” I scroll through my email and click on my calendar, looking through my upcoming meetings.
“How can someone who punches another person over ketchup have that many meetings? He doesn’t seem like the business type.”
I click on the month, scrolling through everything. “I have no idea. He doesn’t se—” I pause, a giant lightbulb clicking in my head. “Oh my God, Maddie.”
“What?”
I go to the calendar app on the phone. And that’s where I see my salvation.
Bingo.
“I have his entire schedule on his phone.” I scroll through today. “He has a lunch meeting with an FG at Mirabelle’s on Seventh. It’s in thirty minutes.” A huge smile spreads across my face.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go.”
* * *
I shouldn’t be nervous. I should be furious, stomping with angry steps, letting the world know I’m taking this day by the horns and making things happen.
But instead I’m standing outside the restaurant, nervously twitching, wondering if I can simply barge through those doors, interrupt this guy’s meeting, and demand my phone back.
I’m ten minutes early, so I won’t really interrupt his meeting. I’ll just be a prelude to it, so it won’t be too bad. But still, it makes me nervous.
What I hate most about this whole situation is realizing how much my polite southern charm has forced me to skip out on being ruthless. I don’t think there’s a ruthless bone in my body, and that’s exactly why I’m having a hard time walking into the restaurant.
A cold breeze lifts my jacket, sending a deep chill right to my bones. Okay, I didn’t dress to stand outside all day. Mustering my courage, I make my way inside, welcoming the warmth as I look around, trying to spot an irritable Irishman.
“Sutton Grace, what are you doing here?”
There is only one person on this planet who calls me that. It’s the only voice that can calm the nerves running rampant through my body too.
I spin around and find my dad, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. His tall, broad frame makes the entry of the restaurant seem small, and his large hands that have gripped many footballs reach for mine.
“Dad, oh my gosh.” I walk into his arms, reveling in his embrace.
“I tried to call you a couple times to tell you I’m in town. Are you really so busy with your new job that you can’t find time for your old man?”
And this is exactly why I need my phone.
“No, someone else has my phone, it was accidently switched, and I’m here to get it back.”
“Is this someone, you know . . . someone special?” My dad wiggles his eyebrows and in return I give him a giant eye-roll.
“No Dad, he is not—”
“Oh, it’s a he,” he drags out, shaking my shoulder. “Does he catch your eye?”
Yes, but I would never admit that. To anyone.
“Not even in the slightest.”
“I don’t know. I can contest that, lass.”
Whipping around, Roark stands behind me, wearing a thick black jacket, hair tucked under a beanie, and a fading swab of purple under his eye.
Damn it, why do I have to be attracted to him?
“Roark, good to see you, man.” My dad steps forward, lending out his hand.
Excuse me?
As if time stands still, I watch Roark and my dad exchange handshakes that turn into a hug, followed by some teasing back and forth. My mind flies to his calendar, the initials hitting me right in the stomach.
FG.
Foster Green.
Good God, my dad is meeting with the guy who has held my phone hostage for the last few days.
“What happened to your eye? You didn’t get in another fight, did you?” my dad asks, a hand on his hip, a worried look in his eyes.
As if I’m not standing there, Roark says, “Got twisted the other night and ran into a wall. Fucking almost took my head off.”
Throwing his head back, my dad laughs and pats Roark on the back. “The old Irish tongue got ya, didn’t it?”
“That’s not what happened,” I interject, surprised at myself. Both men turn toward me, a lift to my dad’s brow, a mirthful look on Roark’s face.
“Yeah, you have a different story, lass?” Roark folds his arms over his chest.
“Uh, yeah. A very different story, besides the drunk part.”
“Wait a second”—my dad motions between us—“you know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter. “He’s the guy who stole my phone.”
“Stole is a harsh word. Accidentally took, and it wasn’t even me who took it, it was my friend.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I nod. “That’s because you were too busy pummeling some guy in the face over ketc
hup.”
Grunting, my dad turns to Roark. “Pummeling?”
Uncomfortably, Roark shifts, and I can’t help but wonder how the hell my dad knows Roark. Was Roark someone he helped over the years? One of my dad’s charity cases? There have been quite a few men my dad has helped along the years, mentoring them and helping pull them out of a dark place. Roark seems like he could have been pulled from a dark place.
“I might have gotten in a fight.”
Turning toward me, my dad says, “Will you excuse us, please?”
Awkwardly, I cringe and move toward Roark, knowing what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of my dad’s lectures. “I’ll just grab my phone and be on my way.”
I hold out my hand, but Roark doesn’t move. Instead he keeps his eyes on my dad.
“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her. Don’t really know her and won’t see her again.”
Brow creased now, my dad pulls me in by the shoulder. “Roark, this is my daughter, Sutton Grace Green.”
“Your daughter?” Roark looks shocked, but only for a second, and then that cool façade slips over his Irish green eyes. “What a fucking coincidence.”
“Yes, well.” I wiggle my fingers, hand stretched out to him. “I’ll take my phone and be on my way so you two can get back to your mentoring.”
Rocking on his heels, Roark smiles at me, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Mentor? I think you’re mistaken, lass. Your dad isn’t my mentor, he’s my client.”
“Client?” I look at my dad. “What could you possibly have hired this guy for? Bartending lessons? Oh God, please don’t tell me he’s going to be your wingman.”
“What? No.” Insulted, my dad says, “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you haven’t dated in so long, I thought maybe you wanted some help now that you’re in your final season.”
He plays with the cufflinks on his dress shirt and says, “Trust me, I don’t need assistance in dating.” More than I wanted to know. “Roark is my agent.”
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 4