Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  "Did I tell you that I bought a truck? Gonna load it with gear and take Jake up to the mountains. Just like we did when we were kids. Just like we promised we'd do with each other's kids."

  "All right, Saint. I'll mind my own business, but I'm telling you, Dad isn't going to let this go. He thinks someone's gotten in your head, and he isn't going to stand for someone brain washing a Stevenson."

  "He's got nerve. Dad might be the actual cult leader. The Stevenson family cult. You're born into it and you can never get out."

  And that's when we both finally share our first laugh of the day.

  * * *

  It's been eight days since I've spoken to Sabrina, and I'm starting to think of some very creative excuses for getting her on the phone. It's not until my brother's words from the other day start ringing in my head like a concussion that I realize what today's excuse will be.

  "Hello, beautiful."

  "Hi, Saint."

  "Miss me?"

  "It's only been a week."

  "So you've been counting."

  "How can I help you today, Saint?"

  "Have you made any headway on getting me any meetings?"

  "Actually, I have."

  "Who?"

  "During the week you have off–"

  "It's called the bye week."

  "Right, the bye week. I'm taking you to three meetings. I don't want to elaborate until I've confirmed the date and times but it's one sports brand, one soft drink and one luxury brand."

  "Fantastic. Just the news I wanted to hear."

  "Glad to be of service."

  "Ooh, don't tease me like that, Miss White, or I'll come and service you right in that cubicle of yours."

  She chuckles at that comment, and now I feel like Superman.

  "Listen, there's one other thing."

  "What might that be?"

  "My father wants to meet you," I blurt out.

  "What?"

  "He's been my financial and career counselor for my entire life, and he wants to meet the person who wooed me away from the bosom of my loving family's protection."

  "You practically stalked me and forced me into servitude. Do you actually want me to tell him that story?"

  "Funny how we interpret a situation so very differently, but I guess that's what makes us work."

  "Are you insane? We don't work, I work for you."

  "Exactly, and I need you to keep that mindset when I finally get you into my bed. I want you to work really hard."

  "I can't with you today. I'm hanging up."

  "Wait."

  "What?!"

  "What are you wearing?"

  Click.

  Fourteen

  SABRINA

  I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a little nervous about meeting Saint's father. I guess for a lot of reasons. After some further research on his family, I realize now how it makes very little sense that Saint has signed with our fledgling sports division.

  His father has a pristine reputation in the sports management world. In fact, it's so good that other professional athletes have inquired about having him represent them, although he doesn't do it often.

  It appears as if the first generation of Stevenson brother's (Saints dad and uncle) bread and butter comes from their NFL pensions and their wildly successful summer combine that they run for student athletes.

  They've been quoted in a few articles as saying that management is not something that they really want to get into full time, especially because it could be a conflict of interest with the combine if they did.

  I feel like I better be on my A game in an effort to convince Saint's father that we have his best interests at heart. People that always want to keep things in-house have trust issues with "the establishment," and while I think we are a unique company with a lot to offer, Carson Financial is definitely establishment. There's no doubt about that, or at least that's the way it will probably look to Mr. Stevenson.

  I regret how I've handled this meeting already.

  I should have insisted that we meet on neutral ground. In New York. Being confined in a car for two hours with Saint in one of my shorter skirts is definitely not what I had in mind. He's already staring at my thighs.

  "You ready?" he asks casually.

  "To attend this very unorthodox meeting all the way in Pennsylvania? Not really."

  "Think of it as a date then."

  "Why would I do that? We aren't dating. Not to mention that it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and this is a work meeting. A meeting which I put on the schedule, so will you take it seriously please?"

  "Why would you put today on the schedule? I told you we were going to have a small chat with my father. Maybe some lunch. Not take a damn meeting with Nike. Honestly, you're the most serious woman I've ever met in my life. It's no wonder–"

  "No wonder what?!"

  "Nothing."

  "Being serious is what got me my position in the company at my age."

  "That's very important to you isn't it? Reaching a certain level of success within a certain time period."

  "I have definite career goals that I want to achieve, but doesn't everyone? Isn't it important for you to get a championship ring sooner rather than later?"

  "There are a multitude of outside pressures contributing to whether I meet the goals on my career timeline. Yours are self-imposed. There's a difference."

  "Well if you mean that I don't have the pressure of twenty-two million dollars to succeed then you're right. You've got me there."

  "I find it absolutely incredible that you are so judgmental about the amount of money I make, yet your entire livelihood depends on the fact that I make it."

  "Actually my livelihood depends on the income of musicians and television personalities."

  "It depended on them. Past tense. Now it depends on mine as well."

  "Not if I get a client like Spin. Then you'll be made somebody else's problem. I know just the person that would love to have you on her roster."

  "You think that backyard band's money is better than mine?" he asks, as if I've totally offended him.

  "I never said that."

  "You didn't have to," his voice rises. "You've all but implied it by your words and actions since the day I signed on the dotted line. Would you feel better if I made my money writing songs about clean water and world peace? Is that what you like, or is the real issue here is that's all you know?"

  "I'm sorry if I've made you upset, but I think that I've made it clear ad nauseam that I didn't want to work with you, and that I prefer musicians. So don't get all offended about it now."

  "I'm not even sure what it is I see in you," he blusters.

  "It's baffling to me too."

  "Stop talking."

  "Fine by me."

  "Let's just listen to some music."

  "Fine by me."

  Saint gives me a cold hard stare and then turns on a sports talk radio station instead of music. I had to listen to it for almost ninety torturous minutes.

  Sadist.

  * * *

  Driving almost two hours to Pennsylvania and meeting Saint's family over lunch is increasingly feeling like not a smart thing to do. But there's something about this guy. I let him get away with murder. None of my other clients could pull these antics. Of course none of my other clients look, smell or smile like Saint Stevenson.

  I probably should have cancelled the meeting once I knew that it wasn't in New York. Especially since I can rely on Jason checking in with me like clockwork. This time with a phone call instead of a text. I'm starting to think that Peter is putting him up to these annoying check-ins. Now I'm going to be forced to tell him about this little day trip, which looks kind of unprofessional and suspicious.

  "Hey, Sabrina. Just seeing how you're feeling about your meeting. Making sure you don't need a second man on the bench when you talk to Saint's father. I heard he's a tough old bird. What time will you be in the conference room, or are you meeting somewhere else?"r />
  I can feel Saint staring at me using his peripheral vision while he continues to drive, so I decide to pour it on a little thick, since I was bamboozled into going all the way to Pennsylvania for this meeting. Might as well entertain myself.

  "Dangit. I really had every intention of having you sit in on the meeting, but Mr. Stevenson didn't tell me until the last minute that we were meeting his father in Pennsylvania."

  "What?! You're on your way to Philly right now?"

  "Unfortunately."

  Saint frowns.

  "This is ridiculous, Sabrina." Jason fusses. "He's monopolizing your time. This guy is not your only client and taking a meeting with his father is not only unorthodox, but it was never part of the contractual agreement. You don't have to do this."

  "You're right, this is ridiculous, but--"

  Saint snatches my cell phone right out of my hand and puts it on speaker.

  "Miss White doesn't need any mentoring today, boss man, but thanks for checking in."

  "Mr. Stevenson, I need to say that it is highly unusual and frankly unnecessary for your new business manager to meet the old one. Especially when he lives a hundred miles away."

  "What's your name again, boss man?"

  Ugh, here he goes with that again.

  "Will you quit it and give me my phone back, Saint!"

  Believe it or not I am actually wrestling with a two hundred and forty-five pound quarterback, in a pick up truck, for my cell phone. Someone needs to be taping this. I could star in my own reality show.

  "Oh right, it's Jase. Listen man, this whole mentoring mentee thing you two have going on is honorable, not, but you don't need to have such a tight rein on our girl here. She's proven herself to be fully capable of handling any situation that I may throw in her. Oops, I meant her in."

  I'm mortified.

  And I want to kill him.

  "Hang up that phone," I say through clenched teeth.

  "You heard that, Jase? We have to hang up now. You'll see her in the office tomorrow. We may not get home until late. Don't worry. My family's great."

  Jason tries to say something, but I have no idea what, because Saint hangs up and hands me back the phone.

  "Don't call him back," he orders. Almost as if he's ... jealous of Jason?

  "If you pull one more juvenile stunt like that again, I'm going to ask that you be moved to another account manager, and I'll gladly tell anyone who cares to listen why. No one will blame me."

  He says nothing in response. Instead he turns up the sports radio station, and we drive like that for another twenty minutes. Since I'm not used to him being so quiet with me, I try to busy myself by texting Marisol.

  Me: I'm not trying to sabotage my career, but I'm not sure I can keep working with Saint Stevenson.

  Marisol: Has it even been a month?

  Me: He's a jackass

  Marisol: You already knew that

  Me: He's like a big kid

  Marisol: According to you all players act like that. So why are you surprised?

  Me: Maybe Abby will want him.

  Marisol: You can't be serious. What aren't you telling me?

  Me: Nothing

  Marisol: Lies.

  Me: He just gets under my skin

  Marisol: Well put on your big girl panties, because if you drop the ball with America's quarterback, you can forget about that five year plan of yours.

  I shove my phone violently back in my tote bag. I'm pissed. Saint notices, but still doesn't say a word. His silence is unnerving. I can't take it anymore, so I break first.

  "Say something."

  "About what."

  "What's going on?"

  "What do you mean, Freshman?"

  "Freshman?"

  I know I've heard that before, but I'm not sure where. Is that some sort of football reference? I observe him for a moment as we drive along the final stretch of the turnpike. I mean really watch him. He's grinning, because he thinks I'm checking him out, but that's not it. I want to figure him out. I want to understand why he's targeted me of all people. He's dated underwear models and famous actresses for God's sake. What does this football demigod want with me?

  "We're here!"

  Fifteen

  SABRINA

  His body is humming. He's excited to be home, and I can see why. Saint's family lives on what looks like a compound. About thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia, his family home is situated on top of a sprawling piece of grassy land with a huge formal stone house in the center and a smaller carriage house behind it.

  According to Saint, it's not a working farm any longer, but it looks like one to me. I see a few horses grazing at the far end of the property and he already told me his mother has a lot of chickens. There's also a beautiful white wooden gate enclosing the entire property and a tasteful sign in front that reads Oak Hill Farm. For a girl from a modest home in Colorado, it's a real farm to me.

  While I'm not surprised at the beauty of their home, due to the fact that the Stevensons are pretty well off, I can't help but take notice of just how good Saint had it growing up. How his sense of entitlement must have begun very early in his life, because he's always had all of this. No wonder he always expects to hear the word "yes."

  "Why are you so quiet?"

  "I'm not quiet. You are."

  "Are you still mad about earlier? I was just playing with you and short dude. Maybe if he thinks he has a little competition he'll finally step up and claim you."

  That's not exactly what it seemed like he was doing to me.

  "Did you grow up here?" I ask ignoring that last statement.

  "Yep and my brother still lives here with his wife, Kennedy, and their son, Jake in the carriage house. Do you like it?"

  "Yeah, it's beautiful. You are very blessed."

  "In many ways."

  He says that while looking in between his legs.

  "Why do you always talk like that?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like you are the most fantastic man in the universe. Like you are God's gift."

  "You said it. Not me."

  "You talk too much about yourself."

  "I've got a lot to say."

  He laughs heartily again, and it's so darn sexy and infectious, I forget for a moment how much he irritates me and laugh with him.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  We were laughing so hard; neither of us noticed Saint's parents approach the car.

  "Oh hey, Mom. Dad."

  Saint rolls down the window. It's not as cold here as it is in New York but it's still a cool afternoon.

  "Hello to you too, Saint, and welcome to Oak Hill, Miss White," Saint's mother pleasantly says. His dad on the other hand just gives me a good once over and turns to walk back towards the main house.

  "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson," I offer brightly. "Nice to meet you both."

  Saint's mother looks at me, then looks at Saint and smiles. It's a grin that completely matches her son's. It's warm and friendly and has a lot of meaning behind it.

  "I hope you like lamb chops. I just charred some to death on the grill."

  "You grilled lunch?"

  "Oh we like to grill all year round here. As long as there's no snow on the ground. All you have to do is wear a jacket."

  I nod my head as if I understand. I see that crazy might be a Stevenson family trait.

  "Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Stevenson?"

  "Oh no, dear. I wouldn't think of it. My husband made you come all the way out here to give you the once over, the least I can do is feed you."

  "That's very gracious of you. Where did Mr. Stevenson go? I'm sure he has some questions for me."

  "I'm not sure he does, now that he's seen you."

  Oh he better ask me something.

  I look at Saint with my best "what the fuck" expression.

  "I'll go get him," he says.

  Yeah, you do that.

  "Oh that's cute," his mother says to me. "You two can speak to each other w
ithout words already."

  Oh dear God.

  The four of us sit down at a beautiful whitewashed, butcher-block, kitchen table to a lunch of very well-done but delicious grilled lamb chops, greek salad and couscous. It was damn good. Saint's mother is an awesome cook.

  The conversation is pleasant. We talk about random things like shows we like on HBO, their plans to add solar panels to the house, and of course football. I was holding my own in the conversation until they took it there. They were mentioning things about players, games and coaches that I knew nothing about, and it was painfully obvious. My only course of diversion was to address the elephant in the room.

  "So Mr. Stevenson, were there any questions you wanted to ask me about Saint's move over to Carson Financial?"

  "Yeah, are you interested in my son romantically?"

  I almost choke on the swallow of lemonade that is in my mouth.

  "Not even a little bit, Mr. Stevenson."

  That gets me my first smile out of the patriarch.

  "That's all I need to know then."

  That's it!?

  "Did you think I was some sort of gold digger, Mr. Stevenson?" I ask a little miffed that he has no serious business questions for me.

  "Anyone can be tempted by opportunity and everyone has their own agenda. That's why I like to keep things in-house. There's no questioning my motives, but you I don't know. I only want the best for my boy."

  "I completely understand. Obviously I don't feel exactly the way that you do about your son, but I don't have any ulterior motives either. Saint signed with Carson, and Carson assigned him to me. End of story. His reasons for signing with Carson are his reasons."

  "That's good enough for me then. How about we toast to my son and what's hopefully his final season with the Nighthawks. Do you drink?"

  Somehow I feel like this is another test.

  "Occasionally."

  "Caroline, what can we drink with 7up cake?"

  "Milk."

  "Alcohol, sweetheart."

  "Hell if I know, Clint. Maybe rum?"