This is Brent Oliver?

 

“This is Brent Oliver? That can’t be right. This guy plays baseball, not hockey.”

That remark earns me many confused stares.

“Uh, never mind.” I wave my hand.

I’d like to leave, but I know that’s not an option. This is my job. Though one thing is clear. The guy who threw the party—you know, the one I woke up to this morning, kill me now—does not play baseball.

Damn Lainey. I knew she had it wrong.

What are the odds of this happening? Pretty slim, I’d say. But not for me. Oh no, I have the worst luck.

This is what happens when you’re left in the dark. No one told me anything about this guy before I flew in. If the team had e-mailed me, say, a few photos of the new client I would’ve known last night to avoid him like the plague. I would have seen him at the party and, cute or not, run the other way.

But noooo.

This team is so secretive that even the file I was given when I first came into the conference room contained no photos of the client. Not a single one anywhere in the contents.

There are team logos all over the thing—a profile of a red wolf’s head on a black background—but nothing else in terms of images.

Now that I know what I know, I have to ask myself why would there be a picture of Brent Oliver. The guy is a superstar—a fact stressed over and over again in the file. The implication being that everyone must know his face.

Everyone that is, except for me.

Oh, but I do know that face. It belongs to a panty-stealing pervert, one whose damn bed I was in this morning.

Please, let me disappear now.

The new client also happens to have the distinction of being the jerk who kicked me out of his house, sans the underwear he stole.

“I am not working with this woman,” I hear Panty-Stealer murmuring to the man next to him, like he’s the wounded one in this scenario. “I absolutely cannot be around her, Jock.”

I glare over at him. Brent Oliver has some nerve.

He can’t work with me?

He probably has my panties in his possession right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were tucked away in the pocket of that on-fleek suit he’s wearing, the one that looks freakishly good on him.

Yet here he is, acting like I’m the problem.

While I can’t believe this is actually happening, the agent guy is telling Brent to simmer down.

“This subject is not up for debate,” he snaps. “We discussed this in the elevator. You have to work with her.”

“But she’s fucking crazy,” Brent states, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“How do you know that?” the agent asks.

“I just know.”

“That’s enough!” I jump up from where I’m seated at a long conference table and point my finger over at him. It’s not the one I’d like to raise high in the air and shove in his face, but rather the more innocuous one to the left. “I am not crazy,” I go on, defending myself. “If there’s any weirdo in this room, it’s you.”

Oh my God, did I really just say all that out loud?

This man makes me lose control of everything—my body, my mouth, just about every damn part of me. All heads pivot from me to Brent then back to me. They gawk at us like we’ve both lost our minds. Well, everyone does except for Brent’s agent. That guy is chuckling. I even catch him muttering under his breath, “This is going to be more fun than I expected.”

“Whatever,” I grumble.

The man who introduced himself earlier as Mr. Dolby, Director of Player Operations, is seated directly next to me. He hammers his fist on the table and calls for order in the room. There are two interns who were passing out files earlier, and who are currently filling our glasses with water. When they start snickering, Mr. Dolby abruptly dismisses them. As the young lady and her male counterpart scamper out of the room, leaving only four of us, I blow out a breath.

You can do this. Pull yourself together.

Introductions are made like nothing weird just happened. I find out the agent is named Jock Sosarelli. I’ve actually heard high praise for him, so I shake his hand. I refrain, however, from having any contact with Mr. Oliver. He receives only a curt nod from me.

When Brent and his agent take a seat on the opposite side of the table from me and the director, I can’t help but note my adversary—er, I mean new client—looks a little tired.

Good, I hope his head hurts as much as mine does.

My headache had pretty much dissipated, but it’s back to pounding. It’s having an effect on me too, as I suddenly realize I’m the only one still standing.

Oops.

“Sorry.” I nervously smooth down the sides of my skirt as I prepare to take a seat. “Guess I should sit down now too, huh?”

Crap, I’m never all flustered like this. I’m the epitome of professionalism…usually. This damn Brent dude has me off my game.

Mr. Dolby and Jock smile at me politely. But not Brent Oliver. Oh no, there’s nothing polite coming from Panty-Stealer.

No doubt recalling what he stole from me, he stares directly where my hands are smoothing down my skirt, only more centered, like directly at my crotch area.

I sit down hastily. Cocking a brow, I look directly at the epic jerk and hiss, “Really?”

Mr. Dolby clears his throat and, twisting to me, says, “Ms. Shelburne, do you foresee a problem working with Mr. Oliver?”

Yes, I foresee about a hundred problems, my internal self screams. But to Mr. Dolby, I mutter, “No, there’ll be no problems.” I open the file and pretend to peruse the contents. “Everything is fine. I’m just feeling a little off from the long flight out here.”

“Clearly, though,” he goes on, unconvinced. “It appears by your and Mr. Oliver’s behavior that you two are already acquainted in some way.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, except for maybe a little squeaky, Help. Someone save me now.

Someone does save me, someone I’d never expect. And it’s Panty-Stealer, as he interjects, “We met once, sir. It was at a party at my house in Minnesota.”

More like post-party, but okay, I can roll with this.

“Minnesota?” Mr. Dolby asks, clearly perplexed.

“Interesting,” I hear Jock the smarmy agent murmur.

I nod and throw in, “Yes, yes, we met in Minnesota. There was a party at Mr. Oliver’s house. I must say, however, that it was a very brief interaction.”

Brent smirks over at me. “It would’ve lasted longer, our, as Ms. Shelburne puts it, interaction.” I glare over at him. What is he doing? “But,” he goes on, flashing his million-dollar megawatt smile. “We were both very tired. Isn’t that true, Ms. Shelburne?”

“Yes, yes, we were,” I murmur, my cheeks flaming at the memory of Brent in his bed, his washboard abs and huge biceps on display—as well as another huge thing making an appearance—as he leaned back against the headboard.

“In fact,” Brent goes on, “our meeting occurred under the craziest of circumstances. Ms. Shelburne here had somehow found her way to my b—”

I lift up and smack the file down on the table, making everyone jump. Well, everyone except for Brent. He’s too busy chuckling, even as I state in a rather loud voice, “Okay, I think that’s enough idle chit-chat. I’d like to get started on what’s expected of me.”

Jock and the director share a confused look, but then Mr. Dolby just shakes his head and says, “Everything is outlined in the contract you signed before Mr. Oliver got here. But the main thing is we’re expecting to see a lot of one-on-one time spent between you and Mr. Oliver. I can’t stress that enough.”

I hear Brent mumble, in a most lascivious way, “One-on-one time sounds good to me.”

I resist the urge to throw the file at him.

“Due to the extreme amount of travel involved throughout the regular season, which isn’t that far off, we’ll be making arrangements for you to go everywhere the team goes. You’ll fly on the team plane, Ms. Shelburne, with Brent. You’ll also stay at the same hotel as the team—”

“She’ll have her own room, I hope,” Brent interjects.

“Of course she will,” Mr. Dolby replies dryly.

“Good.” Brent nods, his damn whiskey-colored eyes trained on me and dancing with mischief as he adds, “I’m only thinking of Ms. Shelburne’s safety. Like, what if she were to wander into one of the player’s rooms? Maybe even mine, God forbid. But it could happen. She seems to have a very bad sense of direction. As I was trying to explain earlier, before I was so rudely interrupted,”—he smirks over at me—“when I first met Ms. Shelburne she had inexplicably wandered”—I will kill you, I will kill you, I try to convey as I glare over at him—“out to the back deck of my home.”

Phew!

Jock, his Botox-ed forehead barely creasing, gives Brent a what-the-hell-are-you-rambling-on-about look. But Mr. Dolby doesn’t appear amused.

“Mr. Oliver, I’m sure Ms. Shelburne will be fine. Hotel layouts aren’t that confusing. Can we stay on topic here?”

Ha, take that, smartass.

“Sorry,” Brent says, his eyes focused on me, not the director.

Wait. Is that remorse in his eyes? Is he apologizing for fucking with me at this meeting? Maybe he’s not so awful after all.

Maybe.

I guess I’m about to find out.

After we review more of my duties, I’m informed that during the times the team’s in Vegas—and that includes starting today—I am expected to live at Brent Oliver’s property.

“What?” he says. “Like in my house?”

“Yes,” Mr. Dolby confirms.

“You can’t be serious,” I chime in.

“This is crazy,” Brent grumps.

“I think a hotel room of my own would be more appropriate,” I add.

“Absolutely not” we are told, first by Mr. Dolby, and then by Jock.

Brent continues to bitch, and his boss says, “For Ms. Shelburne to be effective she needs to be close to you. Her living in a hotel room, miles away from you, would be of no help. We need her in your house, monitoring your drinking, watching your diet and training guidelines, keeping tabs on any drug use—”

“I don’t ever do drugs,” Brent snaps.

If that’s true, it’s one less thing to worry about.

Mr. Dolby goes on. “Okay, but there are other concerns. We don’t want you distracted by women.”

“She’s a woman,” Brent interjects in a pouty voice.

The director glares at him, and I hear Jock murmuring, “This is what the team wants, Brent. There’s no use fighting it. Just keep in mind that it’s not forever.”

That reminds me to ask Mr. Dolby, “How long is this assignment expected to last? I was told up to possibly four months.”

“Or more,” he replies, to my dismay. “We have plans to revisit this discussion in December. If all’s going well at that point the contract will conclude. If things aren’t to our liking, there could be an extension. In the meantime, as outlined in the contract, we’ll expect timely updates.”

Still stuck on the fact that my last day with this asshole is sixteen long weeks away, I murmur, “December, no…”

Am I really going to be stuck with Brent Oliver till Christmas?

“Yes, Ms. Shelburne,” Mr. Dolby says, “December. You’re all ours till then. Is there a problem with that?”

I must be professional. I must be professional. “No, no problem at all.”

I make a mental note to lock up all my panties.

The rest of the meeting passes by in a blur. I nod to questions that require an affirmative and shake my head for any nos. But mostly I sneak peeks over at Brent. He’s busy doodling on the folder they gave him. Since he’s paying me no heed, I have an opportunity to check him out.

Unfortunately for me, he truly is a hot specimen of raw maleness. It wasn’t simply my drunken state last night or hangover mirages this morning that had me viewing him in that way.

Nope. This guy is everything I never find, but am always looking for—a perfect face, a body to die for, and a cocky attitude that I hate and love at the same time.

I did not just think that! Stop it right now. Thoughts like that will only lead to trouble, especially since you have to basically live with this guy.

I sigh, and Brent looks up, his pen stalling on a doodle. He catches my eye and smiles, like he knows what I’m thinking. Or is that just a nice smile, a truce maybe? I hope not, because that makes him even more attractive.

Living with him might pose a problem.

No, I’ll be fine. I’m the pro here, and not the hooker kind he’s probably acquainted with. In any case, this Oliver dude must really be a big deal. I’ve never been required to live right on top of one of my clients.

On top of Brent Oliver, would that really be so bad? All those muscles under little ole me. And I bet with playing all that hockey, his endurance is—

Wait! What the hell is wrong with me?

Luckily, the tortuous meeting adjourns. I quickly gather my folder and say good-bye to everyone. And then I make a beeline for the elevator.

Seems my life is becoming a series of escapes from Brent Oliver.

I stop in the ladies’ room on the first floor to splash some water on my face. That delays my trip back to my waiting car with the friendly driver.

Bad move. When I arrive outside my car is waiting for me, yes, but my driver—the rabid Wolves fan—is talking animatedly with none other than my new client.

Big surprise there.

Not.

Prancing up to the car, kitten heels clicking, I announce my arrival with a very loud cough.

Brent turns and instantly offers me his water. “Here. You sound parched. Have some water.”

“What? You expect me to drink from the same bottle as you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He wiggles the water out in front of me. “Have a sip. You look like you could use some cooling down.”

“As if,” I declare, channeling my best Cher Horowitz from Clueless. “I’m not, nor will I ever be thirsty enough to drink from a bottle that has touched your lips.”

Brent shoots me a look like I’m half off my rocker. “Suit yourself,” he says.

It’s still stifling hot outside, and I actually am thirsty as hell. But I’ll be damned if I’m drinking from his bottle. One of the “problems that need addressing” listed in the file stated that my client is a womanizer.

With this in mind, and clearly without thinking it through, I blurt out, “God knows where those lips have been and what you’ve picked up this summer.”

Okay, it’s now official—the Las Vegas heat has melted my brain and my filter.

The friendly driver gawks at me, surely shocked I’d say such a thing to Mr. Superstar. But it’s Mr. Superstar himself who looks genuinely hurt by my comment.

“Relax. It was just a joke,” I mutter.

I don’t think he takes it very well, since the look he gives me shouts a clear, Game on, bitch.

Since I have a job to do, one that demands he respect me, I send him a message with my eyes that says right the hell back, Go ahead and bring it, buddy. Show me your best.