THREE
As Georgia left the lounge, the words she’d said to Leo echoed through her head. Why aren’t you wearing a purple tie? God, was it cocktail hour yet? She’d actually snapped at him.
But she’d been caught off guard. As in her guard was on the G train to Queens as soon as she’d gotten a proper look at that chiseled jaw and those big dark eyes, with lashes so thick that there was practically a breeze whenever he blinked.
Now she’d have to take Taylor Swift’s advice and shake it off, though. There was a press conference to throw, and it didn’t matter if her knees were quaking. She walked straight into the press room to find fifty reporters shifting in their seats, hoping that Georgia would get the show on the road so they could file before lunchtime.
Checking her watch one more time, she took up a stealthy position on the side wall, out of sight yet near enough to the dais so that she could put out any fires or provide any necessary information. Everything was in place except for the only thing that mattered—all that was needed now were the team, the coach, and the owner.
Luckily, Nate Kattenberger appeared in the doorway. On his way to the front, he stopped for a moment in front of her. “Good crowd, Number Three. Well done.”
The unexpected praise from a self-made billionaire made her stomach flutter. “Thank you!”
He moved on, stepping onto the raised platform and rounding the table to the center, taking the power seat and smirking at the reporters. Seriously, she needed to work on this man’s RSF. Resting Smug Face. It wouldn’t win him any points with either the media or his players.
Coach Karl was the next man to enter the room, and when he did, all the journalists leaned forward in their chairs. Then they all reached for their phones and began tweeting or texting or whatever it was journalists did first when they were in possession of today’s latest bit of sports gossip. Karl Worthington is the new coach of the Brooklyn Bruisers. Their forefingers began hammering out the scoop as quickly as possible. In two minutes this would be old news, so they had to get it out fast.
As she watched her strong, capable father mount the dais and take a seat, for one golden second she forgot to worry about anything. She’d always loved growing up in a sports-centered household. It was a good life, and she was proud of her dad.
But then, right on schedule, the players began entering the room, passing her on the way to their reserved seats in the first and second rows. One by one they filed by in their suits.
Georgia wasn’t blind—the men whose public image she guarded were hotter than the scotch bonnet peppers at the Borough Hall Greenmarket. But at work, she made it her habit to be a bit frosty. Okay, a lot frosty. Getting them to like her wasn’t the goal. Getting them to listen to her was everything. It was her job to keep the players in line and out of trouble with the media, and she couldn’t do that if they saw her as their buddy. It didn’t help her credibility that she was younger than many of them, either. So she always brought her most professional self into the room when addressing the players.
She braced herself for the arrival of the final two players, but no amount of preparation would have been enough. A broader, superhero version of Leo Trevi walked past, not two feet away. And he looked ridiculously hot in a dark charcoal suit. God. Seeing him was a sucker punch to the gut. Once upon a time he’d loved her. And then when he’d stopped, it wasn’t really his fault.
A girl could get seriously lost in her memories staring at him.
Without wanting to, Georgia began cataloguing all the ways he looked different. His hair was shorter than it had been, and the trim made him look older. The scruff on his chin was new. She wanted to stroke her thumb across his jaw to see if it was rough or soft.
One of his big hands clutched a bottle of water. No wedding ring, her mind offered up. She remembered how those hands felt on her body . . .
Someone coughed on the dais. That’s when Georgia realized she was staring.
Jesus, girl. Get a grip. She just needed to get through this press conference, and then she could go back to her office and be alone for a while to deal with her shock. She would need to form a game plan for coexisting with Leo Trevi. It would take some time to get used to him walking around this place. And it wasn’t only that he looked like a sexy, A-list movie star. Seeing him dredged up thoughts of the scariest time in her life.
Maybe it wasn’t rational, but she didn’t like the idea of Leo invading her little world. Yesterday, Brooklyn had belonged to her. The Long Island ’burbs where she’d grown up had felt far away from the brick streets and renovated factory spaces of Brooklyn. In this job, she’d felt truly independent, putting down her own fragile roots in a new place.
Fast forward twenty-four hours, and her daddy had joined the workplace and her ex-boyfriend had shown up to remind her of all that she’d lost. Really, a girl could be forgiven for feeling slightly hysterical.
Not that there was any time to panic. Right now she needed to focus on the press conference and look like a professional—at least a half-nauseated professional in uncomfortable shoes.
The crowd made their last-minute adjustments, flipping open their reporters’ pads, focusing their cameras. A low murmur of expectation hummed throughout the room.
O’Doul had been the last to enter the room, following closely behind Leo. His eyes met Georgia’s as his hand landed on Leo’s shoulder. Two paces later he rasped something into Leo’s ear. “You gotta stay on the good side of the publicist.” They were moving away, their backs to her. O’Doul tried to keep his conversation private, but she still heard his final whispered comment. “She’s a total bitch on wheels.”
The comment didn’t startle Georgia at all. Nor did it even offend her. Forthright men in the workplace are revered for their strength. Women? You can either be a doormat or a bitch. Take your pick.
But what happened next was a surprise. And not the good kind.
The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. First, Leo and O’Doul rounded the corner of the table where she had carefully positioned their chairs and microphones. Leo’s expression darkened, and she saw his eyes narrow at O’Doul, his beautiful jaw hardening. At the same time, he sat down in his chair . . .
Georgia gasped as he opened his mouth. It was like those dreams where you couldn’t move fast enough to save yourself—she lunged forward, raising her hands in the universal sign for “stop,” hoping the motion would alert him to the disaster that was coming.
But he didn’t see her. Instead, Leo leaned toward O’Doul, as if in confidence. But that put his mouth way too close to the microphone. “If you want to keep breathing, don’t ever call the love of my life a bitch.”
There was a squeal of feedback, or maybe that was just inside Georgia’s head. But either way, heads turned. Because that mic was live. The whole room heard what he’d said.