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The survey takes us the better part of an hour to fill out, with lingering highlighted sections that still need follow-ups.

I haven’t looked up from the screen despite knowing the questions by heart.

The form is pretty much standard policy for our new clients and I wrote the damn thing.

Though this version has a few alterations, leaning more toward a team dynamic.

The Vortex are coming on as one of our “remodel” clients.

Ramona talks a big shiny picture with the money spenders while I ferret out the inky black stains that might bleed through the fresh wallpaper we’re slapping on.

These clients are Ramona’s favorite. Kicking off brand new companies is cake, no mysteries to uncover or identities to re-spin.

But resurrecting a name that’s been tarnished is a challenge, and Ramona loves a challenge.

Maybe that’s why she pursued The Vortex in the first place.

That and the money. And maybe to impress her father.

Pretty sure we both have some parental issues.

Mercifully, Dalton’s been true to his word.

Even though I haven’t been able to meet his eyes once since we sat down, he’s been straightforward about his team’s strengths and shortcomings.

Almost all the guys need media training.

Two have semi-concerning incidents in their past and five have zero media presence.

I’m going to have my hands full for the next few months before their season starts, and ignoring the ache in my chest becomes harder as Dalton talks about his team.

“They’re good guys. One of the best teams I’ve played with.

No divas—well, maybe a few divas. Trent’s the biggest. And there has been some minor locker room flexing bullshit.

But there’s a reason we’re looking good for the cup this year.

We play well together. Teams like this one are the reason I want to go into coaching. ”

I look up at the thick sound of his voice. Dalton’s looking down in his lap, finger tracing over the rim of his long empty cup. Has he been looking down this entire time, too?

I clear my throat. “Dalton?—”

His eyes meet mine, darting to my mouth as I wet my lips.

A knock sounds on the door right before it pops open and Ramona bursts in without waiting for a response. We both straighten, sitting back in our seats like two teenagers when mom walks in on their make-out session.

“Checking on my rockstars. We’re all wrapped up, so the team is headed out for practice. You about done here?” She asks, having no idea how done the two of us really are.

Dalton gestures to the iPad sitting between us. “Need anything else?”

“I think we got everything necessary out of the way,” I say with tight lips, hoping he catches the drift.

There’s a spark of challenge in his eyes, but Dalton rises, heading to the door.

He pauses next to Ramona. “Is it okay if I get Jenna’s number?

Since we’re going to be working together over the next few months.

I’m better with texts than emails.” He turns back to me.

“If it’s okay with you. I don’t want to overstep, but also want to be available if you change your mind and need more… information about the team.”

“Great idea!” Ramona answers for me, one hundred percent oblivious to his blatant pause.

“Jenna?” Dalton doesn’t move, gaze weighted by the offer hanging between us. He’s not asking for my number. He’s asking for permission to keep texting me.

“Strictly professional,” he adds, as if reading my thoughts.

I swallow around the yes clawing up my throat.

Of course I want him to text me. Hell, our simple text chain from this morning feels like it’s singeing a hole in my skirt pocket.

I want to wake up in this man’s arms, to spend my nights tangled in his sheets.

But wanting something doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

Still, asking for my number in front of my boss is like getting mom’s blessing.

He just opened a line of communication between us that won’t be questioned.

Despite my better judgement, I relent with a bob of my head.

I flip open the storage case on the back of my phone and pull a business card out, handing it over. The number there is my business one, but as they all forward to my personal phone, Ramona won’t know the difference.

Dalton takes the card, his fingers brushing mine with a look that makes my stomach flip despite all logic telling it to chill the fuck out.

“May I?” Dalton reaches for a pen on my desk. When I nod, he takes it, scratching out the assistant title on my old card and writing in Junior Publicist.

“Thank you, Jenna.” I pray Ramona doesn’t hear the weight in his words as he pockets the card. They feel like a boulder on my conscience.

“My pleasure. Let me walk you out.” I say with a look I hope reads as I’m saying yes, but thin ice, Ward.

As we head down the hall to where the rest of his teammates are waiting, Ramona catches my arm, lowering her voice. “Like the office?”

“It’s beyond, Ramona. Thank you.”

“You earned it. Oh, and let’s order you some cards today. Scratched-out titles aren’t the high-end look I’m going for.” She says like it’s my fault I don’t have cards ready for the title I didn’t realize I was getting today.

The oversized lobby feels cramped, filled with Dalton’s team.

It dawns on me that hockey players are not small guys.

Even in heels, most tower over me. Dalton’s broad shoulders and lean muscular frame hardly stand out in the pack.

Still, he holds my attention like a moth to a flame.

I don’t see the other faces. Which is not okay.

I make a mental note to pull up the roster and start learning names.

The suits have disappeared from the throng, onto bigger things that keep the hockey world running and multi-million dollar apartments dispensable to your players.

A rotund man with the air of a father waits by the doors.

As soon as he catches sight of Dalton, he jerks a thumb toward the elevators, then taps his watch.

“Let’s go work off those pastries, boys!” His baritone voice carries in the well-practiced manner only a coach or mother can pull off.

Ramona rounds on me with the voracious look of a hunter. “Speaking of those pastries, where did you get them? My trainer is going to hate you for bringing those into my life, and I don’t give a shit.”

The back of Dalton’s hand brushes mine, in warning and question. What the hell do we say? The sweet decadents are literal breadcrumbs pointing to our date.

In the absence of my answer, a baby-faced blonde who looks like the neighbor next door’s adorable brother reaches out to slap a meaty hand on Dalton’s back as we approach the group waiting for the next elevator.

“Hey Dalt, weren’t they from your place?

Second Chance? No one makes a raspberry croissant like Kathy and Mike.

I’d know their work anywhere.” He gives a chef’s kiss before rubbing his flat stomach in appreciation.

Ramona perks up, her potential business radar blaring like a fire alarm. She’s in Dalton’s face before he can blink a startled eye.

“The bakery from your date photos? You own that? What a crazy coincidence Jenna picked them this morning.” And there it is… Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Dalton casts me a side eye that Ramona misses.

“Crazy. I read about them in an exposé and remembered they delivered.” I interject, hoping to redirect her thought process. Every nerve in my body sings with joy when she takes the bait.

“I do love a good kismet story. Tell me, do you need representation? I might make a retainer exception and work for a weekly supply of the cheese danishes.”

Dalton turns on the charm, dimples flaring.

“I’m just an angel investor. Don’t make any of the decisions.

I think they have another person in mind for their PR and marketing right now, though.

If that prospect falls through, I’ll pass your number along.

” He taps the pocket where my business card disappeared.

“I’m holding you to that.” Ramona points a lacquered nail at his chest. “Oh, and your photos go live at two today. I would turn off notifications if I were you. Your profile is going to explode after the release. Jenna, keep an eye on this one. He’s got a knack for selling.

Dalton might have single-handedly sold out our next event. ”

“Must be some photos,” I say, stomach coiling at the memory of taking said photos.

“Best date of my life.” He says without blinking, the weight of his gaze an unavoidable force.

“Lucky girl.” I try to keep the tremor threatening to slip free on lockdown, folding my arms across my chest.

“Lucky me. She was unexpected, in all the right ways. Hell, I could have been stuck with a complete psychopath if bidding had gone differently that night.” He says with a coy smile before stepping into the elevator with a group of teammates. “I look forward to working with you, Jenna.”

The second the doors slide shut, Ramona pinches my side. “If that man wasn’t a client, the dirty things I would do to him.”

Abby lets out a whistle of agreement. “Can assistants date clients?”

“If the boss can’t fuck em’, the staff definitely can’t.

Keep it in your pants, ladies. I will eviscerate anyone who fucks up this deal.

” Ramona twirls toward the meeting room with the skilled expertise of a woman who lives in stilettos, thick black braids swaying behind her.

“Rally the team. We got our hands full with this one.”

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, clearing the knot lodged in my throat. So much for coming clean.