I shake away the memories. “Great. Because I think this can be the perfect solution for you and the Mustangs organization. My job is to make everyone happy here.”
“Good luck with that. I’ll try this, but I don’t care about making everyone happy. I want change and progress, and I won’t stop kneeling or blacking out my logo until I see it.”
Well, crap.
One step forward, two steps back.
Story of my life.
“Well, I would never ask you to stop.” I lean across the table, meeting him in the middle before lowering my voice. “And I do love a good challenge.”
He sucks in a hiss of breath and his eyes widen a fraction. Then, without warning, he leans back and starts to laugh. A laugh so raspy and deep, it’s as if he hasn’t done it in years and I can hear the rust falling away. And fuck me now if it’s not the hottest thing I’ve heard in a long, long time. Maybe ever.
“Looks like I’ve finally met my match.” He takes the tablet back and I watch as his fingers dance across the screen before he pushes it back to me. “Tomorrow at noon. I put the address in for you. I’ll see you then.”
“Tomorrow.” The amount of work I have to do in less than twenty-four hours causes a weird sense of calm and determination to come over me. “Hope you’ll be ready.”
“Haven’t you heard?” The cocky smile I’m so familiar with from watching him play flashes across his face, his midnight eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m always ready.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Then, in a move I’ve only seen executed in movies and just about every reality show on Bravo, I get up and leave without a goodbye.
Like a boss.
Quinton Howard Junior was right. He has met his match.
Five
It took until I got to my car before I remembered that I was supposed to stay at HERS to meet Liv for drinks.
And nothing ruins a boss-ass exit more than having to walk back in with your tail between your legs.
Which is exactly why I sit in my car until I see Quinton leave.
I mean, the guy shot me down with barely a glance. I wouldn’t consider myself a prideful person, but even I don’t want to be embarrassed twice in the span of a single afternoon.
Liv texts me while I’m hiding—I mean, waiting—that she’s stuck in traffic and running late, but to order her any drink that looks fancy and has gin. I’m more of a whiskey girl, myself. Call it an Irish thing . . . or being raised by an Irish-American single dad thing. But the only time I’ve had a drink anyone could refer to as fancy, it’s been ordered for me, not by me.
I walk back in just as two women are leaving the bar. It’s that awkward time after lunch, but before happy hour. I don’t think HERS is ever empty, but it’s far from crowded now. Which works for me because now I can rant to Liv as soon as she gets here and not worry about tons of strangers hearing.
From watching Love the Player, I recognize everyone behind the bar immediately. Especially Brynn Sterling (not Lewis—I swear, her not taking Maxwell Lewis’s name was an entire storyline last season). I don’t know why, but I assumed in real life, she wouldn’t be as pretty as she is on the show. Some of that had to be TV magic. You know, soft light, glam squad, something. But nope. Somehow, behind the bar with what looks like not even a scrap of makeup on her face and a messy bun on top of her head, she’s even prettier. And how unfair is that?
All of this to say that even though I want to play it cool, I’m pretty sure I have hearts in my eyes as she walks my way.
“You’re back!” Her smile is so white that I swear it brightens the entire room. I look over my shoulder to see who came into the bar, but nobody seems to talk to her. When I turn back around, she’s standing in front of me with a menu in hand. “I’m so glad you decided to stay and grab a drink. That conversation looked like one was needed.”
“Um . . .” My eyes shift from side to side. I’m still unsure that she’s actually talking to me. “Me?”
Her eyes twinkle as her laugh fills the room, and suddenly I realize why HERS is so wildly successful. One second around its owner and I already feel like she’s my best friend.
“Yes, you!” She places the menu in front of me and a glass that she starts to fill up with water. “Elliot, right? Gemma, Mr. Mahler’s secretary, told me I should be expecting you.”
“Yeah, well, people usually call me Elle.” I take the menu, grateful to have something to do with my hands.
“Is it okay if I call you Elliot? I’ve always liked that name, but it’s just so kick-ass for a woman.”
“An opinion I’m sure you’d reconsider if you had an encounter like the one I just had.”
Lovely. I haven’t even ordered a drink yet and I already have loose lips.
Oh yeah, Brynn is a freaking master at what she does.
“Really?” She props her elbows on the bar and leans in closer, as if she wants to both protect my privacy and expose all my secrets at once. “It did look really intense, but I figured that was just because of the subject matter at hand.”
“Actually, when we were talking about that, things were fine.” I hold the menu tighter, the memory of total humiliation making me tense. “It was his initial reaction to seeing me and letting me know that, in no uncertain terms, I’m not his type and he’s definitely not interested that wasn’t so pleasant.”
The smile she’d been rocking falls off her face almost as fast as the color rises in her cheeks.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she damn near shrieks. “What an idiot! First of all, not like you’re probably not already aware, but you’re drop-dead gorgeous. And second, even if you weren’t, who says that?!”
I know I’m thirty-one and being self-conscious is supposed to end in high school, but loving the way I look has never been something that comes naturally to me. So having a stranger—a beautiful and successful one on top of that—tell me I’m gorgeous actually means a lot to me. Probably too much, if I’m being honest with myself.
“Thank you!” I finally let go of my death grip on the drink specials and throw my hands in the air. “That’s what I was thinking! I mean, in what world do you assume that a person is approaching you just to sleep with you?”
Brynn purses her lips and gives a wicked side-eye. “I’m married to a football player.” The fact that she acts like I have no idea who she is or that she’s married to Maxwell Lewis makes her that much more endearing. “So I’m not the kind of person who likes to paint all athletes with the same brush. So many of them are the shit. They can be the nicest, most generous, smartest guys in the world.” The way her eyes gloss over as she talks makes it clear she’s describing her husband. It’s disgusting . . . but also freaking adorable. “But there are also guys who have heads so big, it’s a miracle they can find a helmet to fit them. And their heads stay that big because people feed their egos all day, every day. And have been their entire life.”