Dotted Line

by Elise Faber

  Yeah, that was a familiar feeling.

  “You ever feel like seeing the outside of this office,” I said, heading for the door. “My barn door is always open.”

  “Cole?” She smiled over the papers. “That’s never going to happen.”

  I raised a hand in farewell. “Never expected it to.”

  Her laughter trailed me out the door.

  So fucking pretty and smart and kick ass . . . and not interested in me in the least. Stifling a sigh, I turned for the exit, thinking it was probably a good thing that her little piss-ant of an assistant wasn’t at his desk.

  Calling Olivia a bitch.

  That had to be the most superficial description of the woman sitting in that office, and it showed that Lane had absolutely no clue how lucky he was to be working with Olivia Rogers.

  Fucker probably also had no clue how lucky he was that Olivia hadn’t fired his ass.

  I reached the top of the stairs just as my phone buzzed. I pulled it out as I descended, which was probably why I missed the fact that Lane was coming up as I was going down. At least until he stopped in front of me and I nearly mowed him down. Even luckier for the bastard that I’d retained at least a few of my on-ice skills—mainly spatial awareness. Also lucky that my nose worked because the fucker smelled like he’d bathed in cigarette smoke.

  “What’s your problem, man?” he snapped.

  Four steps from the bottom I sidestepped him and continued walking.

  Yet another skill retained: ignoring little man-children who didn’t know when to shut up and keep their heads down.

  “You’re a fucking snitch,” he spat.

  I kept moving.

  “And she is a bitch.”

  I stopped.

  “I don’t care if she hears me say it.”

  Slowly, I turned. He’d had potential, I’d remembered that much. Good hands, good skater, lots of offensive capabilities. Not the best, but he’d been talented. A solid mid-roster guy, who should still be playing in the league. However, Lane’s biggest obstacle to making it more than a few seasons in the NHL had been himself.

  Bad attitude. Limited work effort.

  He’d coasted along on his natural abilities until the pond had grown sufficiently large enough that the fish inside were bigger than him.

  Then he’d floundered.

  No pun intended.

  “I don’t care—”

  I spun around, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. Then I bent so my face was right in his. Not touching him, not putting my hands on him even, though I’d love nothing more than to pound Lane’s face into a pulp. But I’d had a good agent and good opportunities because I didn’t think with my dick. And I didn’t need to prove mine was bigger than Lane’s.

  It was. That wasn’t a question.

  “You will not talk about her like that again,” I growled.

  He rolled his eyes and fuck, it was so hard not to grab him by the lapels of his cheap ass suit and shake some sense into him. Grinding my teeth at the same time as sucking in a breath, I tried to calm my voice.

  “You’re lucky to have a job here,” I said. “Luckier still to have someone like Olivia teach you how to do it well—”

  “I how—”

  “You know jack shit,” I spat. “And the sooner you figure that out, the better chance you’ll have of keeping this job.”

  “I—”

  Fuck this.

  Without another word, I was gone.

  Into the parking lot in an affluent part of the North Bay, my older model pickup truck looking very out of place when compared to the Lexus, BMWs, Mercedes, and the occasional Jaguar. Not like the rinks used to be when I was playing. Tricked out SUVs mixed with the odd Bentley and Maserati.

  My truck had been nice then, with all the bells and whistles. The first new vehicle I’d ever bought myself. Also the last, because I just wasn’t that into ruining a new one by driving it all over my ranch.

  Gravel roads and fresh paint jobs didn’t mix.

  Neither did ding-free doors or unmarred undercarriages or—

  I turned the key, thankful to stop my mental alliteration. The engine started with a roar—definitely not the purr of a sports car—and I backed out of the lot, turning in the direction of home.

  Set more in wine country than ranch country, I still loved the fifty acres I owned in the heart of northern California. My house and horses were nestled amongst the beautiful rolling hills and oak trees, while the land I’d donated for the kids’ ranch was filled with Redwoods and twisting creeks, with the sporadic glimpse of the Pacific Ocean and fog creeping in to keep the entire space cool.

  I’d put an offer in on the land within ten minutes of first seeing the property, almost ten years ago. It had been everything I’d ever dreamed of, growing up as a poor kid in the big city.

  Wide open space. Trees. Fresh air.

  Yeah. Perfect.

  It wasn’t like I hated everything to do with cities or suburbia. I had a condo in San Francisco, enjoyed the restaurants, the way there always seemed to be something new to see or do.

  But when I needed to escape—and that tended to be most of the time nowadays—I went to the ranch.

  I rode my horses through the hills, sometimes camping out overnight and riding them all the way to the bluff on the edge of my property that overlooked the ocean. It was peaceful when I hadn’t had a whole lot of peace in my life.

  Still, I was starting to worry that I’d turned into a hermit.

  Also, the reason I’d jumped into coming in person to the meeting with Devon rather than just Skyping in.

  I’d been part of a team my whole life. It wasn’t natural to be alone so much.

  Lie.

  Well, it was the truth, just not the whole truth. I was used to being on a team, sure. But I’d never been one of those guys who’d needed my teammates to function. I’d liked them, of course, but I’d treasured the opportunity for quiet time and space.

  So, if I were going to be completely truthful, the reason I’d come to town was . . .

  Olivia.

  To see her because maybe she might—

  Fuck. I’d been naïve in doing so, in thinking that maybe she might have finally realized I was a man she could see herself falling for or if not that then hoping the time I’d spent away from her had minimized my attraction. But instead I’d sat down in her office, in that chair on the opposite side of the desk, and I’d imagined knocking those files to the ground and fucking her on top of it.

  Again.

  Space hadn’t done shit.

  And she still wasn’t interested.

  I wasn’t her client any longer, but she still looked at me with the detached professional interest she displayed with all of the players under her representation.

  The heat, the need . . . it was all one-sided.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, taking the exit for the small highway that would twist and turn its way up to my ranch.

  I needed to stop fantasizing about Olivia Rogers, needed to stop pretending that opposites attracted and that she was somehow holding on to a flame for me too. I had to realize that our lives were incompatible, and that even if she decided or, fuck, gave in to some secret urge hidden deep inside and figured out she was attracted to me after all, that she’d never be happy on the ranch.

  And I couldn’t be with a woman I couldn’t share my whole life with.

  I needed to get that through my thick skull and forget all about Olivia Rogers and her pretty smile, her gorgeous body, the lush lips always painted bright red, the black hair that hung silky and shiny down her back, the pale blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through me.

  If only Olivia was a woman easily forgotten.

  Three

  Olivia

  The file was on my desk at exactly five, and that meant my day ended on two disappointing notes.

  First, I couldn’t fire Lane.

  Second, I was now working late.

  Again.

>   Normally, I loved working late, being the last one in the building, everything quieting down so it was only me and the sound of my fingers on the keys of my computer.

  But lately . . . I’d been unsettled.

  Stupid. Or utter hogwash, as my granny used to say.

  That, at least, made me smile. She was part of the reason I was a ballbuster, my granny. She’d been a real-life Rosie the Riveter during World War II, helping to build some of the huge ships in the Kaiser shipyards off Alameda. No fear about stepping into a “man’s” job, or at least if she’d had fear, she’d never let it slow her down. And she’d continued living without fear. She became the breadwinner for the family after my grandfather had suffered a devastating heart attack at a young age, beat Stage Four colon cancer, and lived a full life after all that and the premature death of her husband.

  A full life filled with trials and obstacles.

  So, I’d had no choice but to overcome mine.

  And also to become extremely competitive at board games because my granny didn’t like to lose. At anything.

  Funny.

  Wonder where I got that particular attribute?

  Smirking, I picked up the file, kicked my shoes off, and curled into my chair. The folder in question contained all things Billy Thomas, potential new client, rising up-and-comer in the NHL, and what appeared to be an amazing personality both on and off the ice.

  Humble. Confident with the occasional quotable sound bite. Good-looking.

  The perfect client.

  But I hadn’t gotten as far as I had by allowing myself to be taken in by a pretty face and good sound bite.

  I researched. I vetted. And I researched some more.

  Not to say I didn’t miss something, but that research paired with my instincts—I never ignored my instincts—meant that I was very choosy about the clients I was bringing into Prestige Media Group.

  One might reasonably ask why then I chose Lane to be my assistant.

  Well, even though I’d been asking the very same question myself earlier that day, I also knew the kid had potential. I’d known about the chip on his shoulder when I’d hired him, knew that he tended to get in his own way more often than not. I just assumed . . .

  Here was my ego talking.

  Because I assumed that I could be the one to get that plank of wood off his shoulders.

  Now he was on chance three.

  And I didn’t give more than three chances.

  Sighing, I focused on the papers in front of me and started reading. Usually, the first read-through was superficial on my part, skimming and storing the useful bits of information, filtering out the others, relying on my instincts to see if something did stand out to me. It was engrossing.

  Also, probably why I didn’t hear Dev until he was on the other side of my desk.

  “Hey,” he said, and I jumped, almost toppling out of my chair.

  Which made him laugh, the ass.

  “Hilarious,” I muttered, stretching my neck so I could see the clock on my computer screen. I’d been engrossed in all things Billy Thomas for the last two hours.

  “From my vantage point, it was,” he said and plunked himself down into my chair. “Why are you still here, Viv?”

  “Lane.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Why are you here?”

  I rolled my eyes. “In an existential crisis sense or why am I still in the office? If it’s the first, then it’s because we’ve evolved from apes to take over and ruin the Earth and my ancestors decided to contribute to the overpopulation problem. If it’s the second, then it’s because Lane got me the file at the end of the day, and I needed to stay late to go over it.”

  “Dark,” he said and crossed one leg over the other. I’m sure it did something to his bulge, but my eyes weren’t drawn there in the least.

  Le sigh.

  Even when he wasn’t there, Cole still colored my thoughts.

  “When’s the meeting with Thomas?” Dev asked.

  I hesitated. “End of the week.”

  “So, it’s Monday. Why are you staying late today?”

  “If I don’t get this done today,” I said. “I’ll get behind.”

  “Will you really?”

  I sighed. No. I probably wouldn’t. Friday afternoon was a long way from Monday. But—

  “Why are you still here?” I asked.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “And yet, still here, pestering me in my office.”

  He sighed and pushed to his feet. “I’m going. But Viv, I see you. Not sure why you’re hiding from life by working all the time—”

  “I—”

  “Not judging,” he said, lifting his palms. “But as a person who spent many years in the exact same state, I’ll just say that I’d love for you to find your own bit of happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  “Noted.” He waved, headed for the door.

  “They counter yet?” I asked.

  “Yup.”

  I waited for him to tell me about the offer for Cole. When I realized he wasn’t going to, I asked archly, “And?”

  He paused. “They’ll play ball,” he said and flashed me a smirk. “I’ll tell you about it at a reasonable hour.” A beat. “Tomorrow.”

  “Hilarious,” I called, watching his retreating back, knowing he was looking forward to seeing Jasper and Becca. He deserved that, deserved a happy ending, and so did Becca.

  They both deserved a lifetime of contentment.

  They were worthy of finding that fictional happily ever after in real life.

  I wasn’t cold-hearted. I wouldn’t pass up a happy ending.

  The difference was that I knew one wouldn’t find me.

  Sighing, I curled back up in my chair and flipped to the next page.

  I’d learned that men aren’t the only ones who resent strong women right around the same time I learned that I was bossy and too abrupt and far too outspoken for my place in the world.

  I learned this over time and throughout my interactions in school, but I had the last driven into me by a particularly nasty female teacher in elementary school.

  Questions weren’t allowed.

  And I raised my hand far too often to be allowed to answer hers.

  I should let others have a turn.

  Also, a boy was never going to be interested in me if I kept taking all of the attention. I should step back and let them have their fair share of it.

  Of course, that fair share was most of it.

  Attention hadn’t been something I was after at the time. Or not in the way that the teacher had thought. I’d been proud to know the answer, happy that I was smart. Brains had been celebrated by my granny, by my father, and as much as I’d never wanted to be like my mother, I had definitely wanted to be smart and tough like my grandma. My granny never let being a woman stop her from doing anything, I remembered that fiercely, even though she passed just a few months after my father.

  I’d lived in this blissful existence until they were gone thinking that I could be anything I wanted to be, if only I worked hard enough, that the outside world had little bearing on my trajectory if I just kept pushing.

  Oh sure, I’d been called bossy or a know-it-all, but those weren’t bad words to me.

  I was independent. Strong. Like my grandma. And those were great things.

  But with one interaction, one time being kept after class to give me some “advice,” that teacher had broken something inside me.

  And my mother had stomped on those pieces by pulling me out of school. I was too loud, too disruptive to be in a classroom, and so for the sake of the teacher and the other students, I couldn’t be allowed to go back.

  But in reality, it was a punishment, moving away from everything I knew, being isolated, hearing the litany of negative things about me day in and day out. I’d competed with my father’s attention, taken something from her, and so once he was gone, I’d needed to be tau
ght a lesson.

  I’d once been all of these great things my grandma and father respected . . . and yet it didn’t matter to my mother. I was a failure.

  I could be independent and strong and smart, or I could be worthy of those around me. I could be tough and brilliant, or I could be a pathetic, spiteful, lonely individual whom no one saw any value in.

  Looking back, I couldn’t be ashamed for having retreated, for getting small and quiet while those words had cut at my soul.

  I regretted it to this day, however.

  I’d let them change me, solely because they’d sized me up and thought I was unworthy.

  Not any longer.

  Eventually I’d found my way back to strong.

  “Great,” I muttered, standing up from my chair and stretching out my aching back. The file Lane had pulled together was just as I’d requested. Finally. And my initial read-through had only thrown up a couple of items I thought warranted a deeper look. Which meant that I was done for the night.

  My heels went back on, along with my coat. My laptop went into my bag because it was my life and I never went anywhere without it. Then I turned out the lights before heading for the stairs.

  Steph was coming up, a vacuum in one hand, headphones around her neck. “You’re out early,” she said, smiling at me.

  It was our routine, no matter how late I came across her. Sometimes I missed her altogether because she didn’t vacuum this floor if I was holed up in my office, just kept to the ground level and hit the offices the next night.

  I grinned. “Want me to go back and work some more?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t think that’s possible, coming from you, Viv.”

  “Meh,” I teased. “I’m sure I can find something to keep me busy.”

  “Shoo,” Steph said, indicating the front doors with the vacuum. “Find someone to keep you busy. I’ve got work to do.”

  And considering she did have work, I nodded and kept walking. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

  “Will do,” she said, already at the top of the stairs and unwinding the cord.

  Sam was her son, a precocious six-year-old with adorable blond curls. He was also the reason she worked so hard. A single mom who took care of her mother and son by owning a cleaning business for residential clients during the day and businesses at night.