Page 29

It takes every ounce of strength to keep my eyes off Dalton for the rest of the meeting.

Anger simmers just under my calm facade, only kept in check by fake smiles and polite commentary.

By the end, I am lucky my electronic notepad is filled with actual meeting notes and not pages full of Jack-Torrance-level-insane scribbles of “what the actual fuck makes Jenna a crazy girl” on repeat.

In the three years I have been with Ramona, she has never mentioned wanting to get into sports PR and Dalton said squat about his team signing up for our services.

Fuck! If Ramona had given me even the slightest hint that The Vortex was the new client she was gunning for, I wouldn’t have shared an elevator with Dalton, much less used my thighs as earmuffs for the man.

Now, day one of our new partnership and I have swindled our newest client out of money for charity and then fucked him.

Several times. In several ways. And then asked him for more this morning.

I chew the inside of my bottom lip raw. Client code of conduct, officially obliterated.

I can feel Dalton’s eyes every time they land on me, the weight like an anvil pressing on my chest. The man’s gaze bringing on a slew of emotions winding me up while slamming me back down with a wave of guilt.

If Ramona sniffs out even a hint of our weekend together, if she recognizes me in any of the photos, I am royally screwed.

Job—bye! New pay bump—poof! Career I’ve been working so hard for—kiss that shit goodbye!

She’ll blacklist me. I would blacklist me.

No one wants to work with the woman who jeopardizes contracts by fucking the client.

God, I hope Dalton didn’t know about his team hiring us before we went out.

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the twist of his mouth every time I sneak a glance in his direction isn’t reassuring.

My favorite boss has been busy behind my back planning this partnership, the reality stinging that she hasn’t trusted me to talk about it.

The woman’s research is usually on par and she’s put in some big lifting upfront to sign the team.

It’s clear my next few weeks are going to be spent executing the grunt work.

The Vortex have been killing it on the ice, but a few bar fights, messy break-ups and a drunk and disorderly aren’t winning over the tabloids.

Sponsorships are at an all-time low, and current ones are at risk of bailing.

Even if there’s a prediction of them winning the Cup, that doesn’t mean much if they lose funding and fans due to a poor public image.

Champions used to get away with all sorts of shit back in the day, but in today’s world, entire teams can get canceled overnight and sponsors will pull out faster than a teenage boy too stupid to use a condom.

The NHL has big money and hardcore followers, but they’ve never pulled numbers like the NBA or NFL.

Being the ambitious person my boss is, she wants to change that.

Ramona claps her hands together in the way that signals the end of a meeting.

“Gentleman, the executives, coaches, and I have big picture details to discuss in my office.” She says, gesturing to the only five men wearing suits and the two women in dresses just as professional.

Ramona’s penetrating stare returns to the players.

“In the meantime, please enjoy the food and coffee. There are profiles each of you needs to fill out before leaving.” Abby appears in the doorway with a stack of printouts and a cup of pens.

“Lie, and I will know. I can only clean up your shit if you tell me how to avoid stepping in it. We clear?”

There are mutters of agreement and Ramona is not having it.

“I said, are we clear?” There’s an impressive edge to her tone this time.

Almost in unison, the room erupts with a series of “Yes, ma’am.”

As the room fills with the sound of scraping chair legs and murmurs about homework bullshit, I dart through the ridiculously tall and muscled bodies to follow Ramona out of the meeting room.

I’m almost to the door, when she rounds on me so fast I almost spear her left boob with my iPad.

I apologize, taking a step back, though she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Ah, Jenna, I forgot to mention.” With a glance over my shoulder, Ramona snaps her fingers, then waves someone over.

I tense, thawing, when Abby appears at my elbow.

“Abby will be taking notes for me with the execs. I need you to take the lead with the team. This is a huge opportunity for you to step into your new role. You’ll be meeting with, ah!

Speaking of the legend. Jenna meet Dalton Ward.

Captain, MVP of The Vortex, and star of our bachelor night.

Dalton, Jenna. You two are going to be heading team management together.

I want you to develop a plan for each of the players and spin that back up for approval. ”

I didn’t hear him approach, but warmth radiates up my side as a well-muscled arm almost brushes mine.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Grant.” Dalton’s smile is so perfectly professional I want to slap it off his gorgeous face.

“Likewise, Mr. Ward.”

“Dalton, please. I get the feeling we’re going to be spending a lot of time together and getting to know each other very well.” His eyebrow quirks in a far too suggestive manner.

Smile faltering, I grip the pad tighter to keep from actually smacking that look off his face.

“Wonderful!” Ramona proclaims, with a glint in her eye that has my stomach flipping. “Dalton, why don’t you grab a coffee and something to eat? Jenna, then please take him to your office and begin filling out the questionnaire I’ve prepared.”

Abby taps her tablet and an airdrop PDF pops up on my screen. I don’t miss the way she eyes Dalton’s ass as he walks toward the buffet. I can’t blame her, knowing full well how spectacular it is.

I lean closer to Ramona, dropping my voice. “My office?”

“Brad’s old office. I cleaned it out.” Ramona gives me a wink, then turns to schmooze the bigwigs.

Abby flaunts a grin as she scurries after them.

My cheeks redden as I wonder which one of the retreating suits is Peter, the team’s owner, praying he never learns what happened in his bed and his shower this weekend.

“Lead the way,” Dalton says from my elbow. Offering one of the two coffee cups he poured. I take the one without the plate of pastries balanced on top, managing a tight-lipped thank you, positive if my mouth opens any further, yelling is going to come out in front of his entire team.

With a directional nod, I lead the way down the hall towards Brad’s old office.

Please let Ramona have actually cleaned the space and not just shoved shit around.

Since her public relations manager quit last year, his old office has become a glorified storage room.

At least if the room is filled with papers and boxes, it will muffle my yelling when the door closes.

I grab the handle, marveling when the door swings open without hitting a single box, then suck in a shocked breath.

The room is immaculate, like brand spanking new.

A year’s worth of crap has vanished over the weekend, unearthing a small white desk and teal guest chairs I’ve never noticed.

I love Ramona, but the woman did not do this herself.

A cleaning crew was hired for sure. This level of organization is something I do for the company. Organized chaos is more Ramona’s jam.

Dalton lets out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

At first, I think he means the newly tidy room, but when I look back, he’s gesturing to a name plate on the door with his steaming cup. Brad’s name is gone, replaced by a new one.

Jenna Grant - Junior Publicist.

The coffee cup slips in my hand as the gold letters sink in.

Holy shit, this is my office and not just an assistant’s office but a PR Specialist’s!

My old desk had been a sad little table shoved in a corner outside of Ramona’s office.

Honestly, I’ve preferred to spend most of my time in the meeting room.

The chairs there didn’t leave a kink in my back at the end of the night.

But this… This is a p roper office, a space I can call mine.

With my name on the freaking door! I repress a squeal.

Ramona and her damn surprises this week.

There’s a quick bite of tears that I have to blink back into submission.

“Jenna?” Dalton's forehead wrinkles, concern flooding his expression as he takes a step toward me.

I pull up a hand, waving him off, and move to close the door behind us.

I lean on it as soon as it shuts, leveling the man I was just this morning wanting to start a potential relationship with.

The weight of the door against my back gives a sense of support and grounding I crave.

I push into it until my shoulder blades ache.

Dalton deposits his food onto my new desk before perching on the edge with a fuck my life kind of sigh. I’ve never been more grateful for four feet of vacant space.

“I’m assuming negotiations are back off the table.”

“You bet your fucking ass they are! Did you know about this?” I wave my arms like a lunatic, sloshing coffee on my sleeve.

“You seem to have a bad habit of wearing your coffee, forty-eight.” Dalton hands me a napkin as I set the mug and my tablet on an empty shelf. My returning glare snuffs his smile.

“Did you know?” I press, dabbing at my soiled sleeve.

“Yes… and no.”

“Cause that’s a crystal clear answer.” I snap back, keeping my voice pointed but low. I throw the napkin at his head. It flies aimlessly until he snags it out of the air, dropping it into the trash can next to his leg.