ZOE

Twenty-Eight Days Left…

By 9:45 a.m. the next morning, I am what some would call a “hot mess.”

I snoozed my alarm one too many times, therefore losing the opportunity to completely pull myself together for my meeting with Andre. My dark hair is washed, but untamed, and thanks to the very dry March air, the static teased the strands into something unrecognizable during my morning commute.

My coffee decided to leap out of its home—a Styrofoam cup—and splattered my white shirt. I did what I could to clean the stain while I rode the T, Boston’s subway, on my way in. But no matter how many napkins I’ve pressed to the stain, the dark espresso now resembles something that I would rather not talk about.

And, to top it all off, the heel of my favorite stiletto pair broke. Broke! There I was, striding down the street and giving myself a much-needed pep talk, when my poor Manolo Blahnik succumbed to a crack in the sidewalk. I went flying; the toe part of my stiletto went flying, but the damn heel remained wedged in the sidewalk’s crevice like a white flag waving surrender.

Walking six blocks through Boston’s financial district on bare feet is an experience I never want to repeat.

Honestly, thank God for convenient stores and cheap, plastic flip-flops.

So, like I said, “a hot mess.”

This is so not my day.

Cracking open my day planner, I scribble in today’s key points that I want to cover with Andre. Namely, the fact that we have twenty-eight days to strip him of his bad boy image off the ice.

Having worked with professional athletes before, it’s always been a little strange to me as to where the line is drawn. The public loves guys like Marshall Hunt, one of Andre’s teammates for the Blades. Since Hunt has just come up from the farm team, he rarely gets the same level of playtime on the ice. But the people love him—they love the way he stops to take selfies with fans after games. They love the way he jokes around with reporters, giving them his full attention whenever he’s in the hot seat.

From what I’ve gathered, Hunt also has a reputation as a ladies’ man—he makes no secret about the fact that he dates supermodels, and supermodels exclusively. He’s practically the Leonardo DiCaprio of the hockey world. But the public adores him anyway. They adore his boyish good looks, and the way he takes the time to hold open doors for the various women he dates, even when they change every weekend—or every other night.

The public does not adore Andre. He verbally snaps at the media, and, seeing the way he blew off Suzanne last night, it doesn’t seem that he’s all that kind to the ladies either.

Makes sense, considering the way he treated me too.

I have no doubt that I’m up for a battle today, but I’m hoping that he’ll see reason. Above all else, Andre Beaumont loves hockey. Without sponsors, without a willingness to play like a team-member on and off the ice, this could very well be his last season in the NHL.

Teams will take a risk on a player that’s physically injured, but they’re less likely to keep a player who is a liability to the structure or reputation of their organization.

A knock comes at the door, and I don’t even have to look up to see who’s standing there. Cliché as it might be, but the air changes with his entrance. It shifts and crackles and tenses with anticipation.

Or maybe that’s just my anticipation to get this over and done with.

I feign nonchalance, still scribbling in my planner. Play it cool, girl, play it cool.

“Good morning, Andre.”

The chair across from me creaks under the sudden onslaught of his weight. Like most hockey players, Andre is big. A hulking body of pure muscle that is put to the test on a daily basis.

“Morning,” he says, the ‘o’ drawn out in true Canadian flare. “That’s a nice shirt you’ve got on there.”

My fingers clench tightly around the pen. “I spilled my coffee this morning.”

I glance up in time to see the way he tilts his head in thought. “Very well-placed, eh?”

Perhaps I should have elaborated. When I spilled the Starbucks blend this morning, it somehow—in some stars-misaligning sort of way—splattered me right in the boob area. Specifically, in the left-nipple zone.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I lift a hand to shield the evidence of my embarrassment from his perusal. “I was already running late, otherwise I would have gone back home to change shirts. It’s been a rough morning.”

“It would seem that way,” he murmurs, and I can hear the laughter brimming just beneath the surface.

“Are you going to stare at my chest for our entire meeting?”

“Open your eyes and you’ll see I’m not looking at your chest now.”

With a deep breath for strength, I glance up to find that what he says is true. He isn’t looking at my chest.

His gaze is on my face, and for a moment, so brief that I swear I imagine it, I feel like I’ve jumped back to that second before he first kissed me. In the vacuum of time, I recall his hands lifting to my face to cup my cheeks. His breathing rustling the top of my hair, we stood so close. His mouth moving, expelling the words, “I need you, Zoe,” before he closed the distance between us.

Now, in my brand-spanking new office, I’m highly aware of my altered breathing, and also of the way that I’m squeezing my pen so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.

Worry skits through me. Can I do this?

The reminder that I’m on a trial run with Golden Lights Media kicks me back into gear. I’ve submitted so many job applications in the last year, gone on so many interviews that end up with a rejection letter, leading off with, “Thank you for your interest, but we have found another candidate who better suits our needs . . .”

I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m the best publicist in existence—I’m not. But during my half-decade of work in Detroit, I certainly made a name for myself within the business. I got stuff done. I made miracles happen to the unlikeliest of clients. But no one wanted to give me another chance in Detroit, which led to my move.

If it doesn’t work out with Golden Lights Media . . . I honestly have no idea what will be my next step.

I flatten my hand across my day planner, grounding myself for what’s to come next. “We should probably get started.”

His wide shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I’m yours for the next hour.”

The words send my brain on a tailspin. “Technically, you’re mine for the next twenty-eight days.”

He grins, and it’s such a rare thing that I almost sit back in my chair in shock. “Who’s counting?”

I am—not that I’ll ever admit that out loud. “We both should be. I want this job and you want to keep your career. We both benefit from this partnership if we can just work together.”

He’s silent after that, as if pondering my words. His dark eyes flit to my planner, and then to the document I have pulled up on the shiny new desktop computer that arrived this morning—a white one, because obviously Walter Collins has some sort of weird obsession with the color.

Andre sits back in his chair, and though I can’t see his legs beyond the desk, I know his knees must be splayed in that typical hot-guy pose. He looks relaxed, at ease, though his gaze remains sharp. “You’re looking mighty comfortable here.”

“I want to be here.”

“Why Boston?”

At the abruptness of his question, I narrow my eyes. “I’m not stalking you, Andre.”

“I didn’t say that you were.”

“You implied it.”

“Well, if the stalker fits . . . ”

Reflexively, I cross my arms over my chest. “My dad lives here, if you remember. He owns Vittoria.”

Slowly he nods, ignoring my not-so-subtle jab at our past, and a lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead in a ridiculously distracting manner. It’s like a calling card for me to push it back, to run my hands through the thick strands. “Ah, so that explains yesterday’s appearance.”

I don’t want to think about yesterday. I don’t want to think about last year. I want to focus on the now.

“Let’s get back to this, shall we?” I tap my pen on the desk impatiently. “I think we need to start with a bang, something big to let sponsors know that you’re keen on changing things around.”

Andre scrubs a hand over his unshaven jawline. “We talking about charity donations?” he asks, dropping his elbow to his knee as he shifts forward. The new position stretches his gray T-shirt across his broad chest, and I check back the need to salivate. Andre might be an unfeeling jerk, but he is, without doubt, a sexy unfeeling jerk.

It’s unfair, I tell you, so unfair.

Gathering my wits, or trying to anyway, I select a sheet of paper from Andre’s case file and slide it across the desk with the tip of my finger. “Not exactly. Providing assistance to others via charities has never been your problem.”

Dark eyes meet mine. “Is there a compliment in there somewhere?”

“I didn’t intend for there to be one, no.”

He shakes his head with a masculine chuckle, and I swear he mutters the word “ballbuster” under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“I said that I didn’t think there was a compliment.” He cocks his eyebrow, daring me to question him.

I try a different tactic, mainly because I’m weak when it comes to pretending trash talk isn’t the highlight of my day, especially with Andre. “Wouldn’t want your head to get too large,” I say, throwing down the gauntlet. Take. That.

“Are we talking about my reportedly small cock again, Zoe?”

Surprised laughter escapes me. I forget sometimes. I forget that under all that broodiness and sharpness is a man with a quick wit.

It’s hard to remember when he hardly ever lets that man show up.

“No more talking of . . . penises.” I point at the sheet, which he’s yet to even look at. “I’ve signed you up for a few events this week. They work around your schedule and I think they’ll do you some good. The first three aren’t up for discussion.”

He finally drags the paper close, and I see the moment the words sink in because he lets loose a string of curses. “Hell no,” he grunts emphatically, running a hand through his messy, dark hair. His finger jabs down at the black ink, and his chin comes up so that he can glower magnificently at me. “Absolutely not.”

“Non-negotiable. I called your agent and he agrees.”

His mouth falls open, just before he cranks his jaw shut with such force that I hear his teeth crack together. “Joe wouldn’t agree to this.”

Watching the big and bad Andre Beaumont unravel is now the highlight of my day—no, make that my year. Knowing that Joe agreed to this must be killing him. “I asked Joe to reconfirm via email. I had a feeling that you might throw a fit about this.”

From behind gritted teeth, he seethes, “I’m not throwing a fit, Zoe.”

“I’m sorry, perhaps I should use another word instead? How about ‘tantrum’?”

He blows out a big breath, then pushes back off his elbow so he’s slouched in the chair again. All he needs is a cigarette tucked between his full lips, and I’d swear I was looking at a young John Travolta, circa Grease. Minus the slicked-back hair, of course.

“I’m not doing an interview with Fame.”

“You’ve done it before,” I point out. Fame is a woman’s magazine that has popped onto the scene in the last few years, no doubt in an effort to shove Cosmopolitan out of the way. I can’t say whether their plans for world domination are working, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they are willing to feature Andre Beaumont, even with his less-than-stellar reputation. “Or have you forgotten?”

“Yes, but—” He breaks off with a sharply drawn breath. “The last time Fame interviewed me, it was about the game. People named me . . . ”

“Sexiest Man of the Year?” I supply, because there’s no point dancing around the issue. If he wants his career back on track, then he needs to do the grunt work. And that’s proving to the world that he isn’t a complete a-hole when it comes to the female sex. “What bothers you more? The fact that you’re scheduled for an interview with one of the top women’s magazines in the world or the topic you’ll have to discuss?”

His palm lands with a thwack on the sheet I’ve given him. “Is it really the best for my career to talk about the various ways I’ve ‘scammed women’? For the record, I don’t scam.”

“For the record, Joe obviously thinks you need to learn some manners,” I tell him. When I notice the way his expression shutters, I forge forth and refuse to feel guilty about going behind his back to chitchat with Joe, the sports agent he’s had since he signed with the Red Wings as a rookie. Steepling my fingers, I focus on the gold watch encircling his left wrist. It looks like it costs more than my salary has earned me in the last five years combined.

“Listen, Andre, I’m here to rebuild your reputation.” He opens his mouth to counter that, and I head him off, already knowing he’s about to take a dip down memory lane. “We can’t change your actions in the past, but we can work on how you move forward. The first step is talking about your desire to be seen in a different light with a publication that will ham it up. Fame will ham it up.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

With a semblance of patience that I don’t actually feel, I fold my hands over my knees. “Why’s that? Because you might come off as—I don’t know—vulnerable and human for once?”

Andre’s mouth flat-lines at that, and he shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable to have his sins exposed under the spotlight. “I can be vulnerable.” He pauses, then averts his gaze. “I’m not made of ice, Zoe.”

“Sure,” I say agreeably with a nod. “You cried after you won the Stanley Cup two years ago. But, again, I’m not talking about hockey here. I’m talking about you, and the way you interact with people that aren’t decked out in pads, jockstraps, and hockey sticks.”

“You just had to add in the jockstrap bit, didn’t you?”

I struggle with fighting off a smile and he knows it too. In a voice laden with sexual promise, he adds, “I know you, Zoe. And I know what game you’re playing at.” He points to my PR plan, then lifts his gaze to my face. “Out of every publication you could have approached, you chose this one, probably with the hope that it’ll embarrass me.” His hands rest on the desk, and he slowly unfolds his body from the chair. My chin tips up to make sure we don’t break eye contact, because if this is a face-off, I refuse to lose.

I mimic his stance, dropping my palms to the desk and leveraging my weight to a standing position. I lean forward, too, until we’re in the same breathing space, until we’re so close that if I wanted to, if I dared, one more inch would land my mouth on his.

Do I dare?

Do I even want to?

My eyes drop to his mouth, and for one idiotic second, I wonder if he tastes the same, like the mint-flavored Tic Tacs he used to snack on throughout the day. Can a person change so drastically in a year? I doubt it, but you never really know. Hell, maybe I’m the one who tastes different, like a juxtaposing cocktail of bitterness and optimism. The pour of each depends on the day of the week and the hour of the day.

When I’m sprawled out on my makeshift bed at my dad’s house, thinking of my old job and the vacations I used to splurge on without second thought, bitterness wins out.

Always.

It’s not something I particularly like about the new me. I don’t like it at all.

“Zoe.”

He says my name like he can’t imagine not doing so, like he did in that laundry room, right before he pushed me up against the door and set my body on fire. My eyes flutter shut, and I inhale so deeply that I can hear its shuddery crackle in the silence of my office.

“Zoe.”

I’m not ready to look at him yet. “What?”

“I’ll do this interview on one condition.”

“What’s the condition?”

His mint-scented breath wafts over my face. “You have to look at me first.”

My eyes crack open, and he’s right there. Big. Imposing. His dark eyes are centered on my mouth, and I’ve got half a mind to ask him if what he wants is a panty-wetting kiss. I wonder if he would say yes. Instead, I murmur, “Condition completed.”

His head shakes a little, and his dark hair boyishly sweeps over his forehead. My hand itches to push the strands back, but that’s my lust talking, and so I close the door on those crazy thoughts.

“No,” he says, “That wasn’t my condition.”

“You can’t up it to two conditions on a whim.”

The papers under his palms slip as he leans back, away from me, away from the unspoken desire to throw everything to the floor and do it on my pristine, white desk.

Of the two of us, he’s probably the only one thinking straight.

Personally, I blame my hormones. The time of the month just came and went, and we all know how that goes.

“Here’s my condition.” He steps around his vacated chair to the back, so that there is ample space between us. Maybe he needs it just as much as I do. “I’ll do the interview with Fame, but you’ve got to come with me. I’m assuming it’s not just a phone gig?”

My heart stills, and suddenly it’s hard to find air. “Um, excuse me,” I wheeze out, clutching my chest like it might give out and fail me. “Did you just suggest that I come with you? To New York City? Absolutely not.”

He stares me down over the crooked ridge of his nose, broken from countless skirmishes in the rink, and I resist the urge to fidget. The shiner on his cheek from the other day is nearly gone now, too. “You did it when you worked for me in Detroit.”

“Yes, well, back then . . . ” There’s no good excuse here. I used to attend big interviews with him. Largely I did it because my old firm made it a requirement, but the other part of me, the part of me that viewed Andre as a friend and not just as a client, wanted to ensure that everything went smoothly for him from start to finish.

I don’t believe that Golden Lights Media has the same protocol, or, at least, it’s not mentioned in the training manual. Also, Andre and I are no longer friends.

Which means that this whole “go with me” thing is null and void.

Striving to effuse some hardness into my voice, I say, “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to swing that.”

Apparently, that’s not going to fly with this pro-hockey player. He points at me with his index finger. “You have one client, Zo”—that finger swivels until it’s aimed at himself—“me. The way I’m looking at this, you don’t have a viable excuse to get out of this, unless . . .”

Breaking off, he gives me a considering look. It’s a look that I can’t even begin to interpret, but when he makes a move to tug on his left earlobe, I peel back and shove a hand up. Oh, this is not good. The left earlobe thing is his tell—always was, and apparently still is.

“No.” I put up my other hand, too, for good measure. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. Right now.”

He tugs again on the same ear, and then a grin, one so sexy it actually hurts, cuts across his face. “Now, Zoe, I’m not the one who said that this job is their last hope.”

My hand falls to my side as horror seeps into my veins. “You wouldn’t,” I whisper.

With his hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans, he saunters toward me, cutting around the desk until he’s there, right in front of me. My butt hikes back against the lip of the desk, my pencil skirt indecently riding up my thighs. I struggle to appear unaffected, even as I glance down to see if my Spanx are putting on a show.

They’re not, thank God, but that doesn’t mean anything because he is so close, and I don’t know what to do, and every rational thought has fled my brain in favor of one word: Abort! Abort! Abort!

There’s not a chance in hell of that happening.

He swaggers so close that my hands have no choice but to find purchase on either side of my hips. He swaggers so close that my knees part, the hem of my skirt tightening across my splayed thighs.

Get your mind back in the game, girl.

Get. Your. Mind. Back. In. The. Game!

Naturally, I say the first that comes to mind. With no lead-up whatsoever, I blurt out, “I thought we weren’t going to have sex again?”

Ugh, that was not supposed to be a question.

Andre’s full mouth tilts at the corners, like he finds me hilarious.

I’m not hilarious. I’m panicking.

Mainly because while my brain is shouting for me to take cover and hide, my body—traitorous thing that it is—wants to lean into his touch. Wants to feel his fingers dance their way over my skin.

It’s an absolute betrayal, I tell you.

Andre’s gaze trails down my body, lingering at my coffee stain, before flicking back up to my face. “We’re not having sex.”

Oh, oh is that right? He says it so flippantly, whereas I’m over here panting like I’ve just had the best orgasm all year. Considering that I’ve been living a completely orgasm-free life since moving to Boston, that’s not much of a feat.

Peeling a hand away from the desk, I motion at the scant distance between us. “Then please let me know why you’re trying to get between my legs.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, voice low, “if I were trying to get between your legs for the real deal, you’d know it.”

I look down and feel heat swarm to my face. “Then why are you . . . up?”

He follows the direction of my gaze, and then laughs. Laughs! I want to crawl into a ditch somewhere and stay there for good.

“Case in point,” he tells me silkily. “If I had a small cock, I’d doubt you’d be able to tell that I was . . . up.”

Yep, this is the perfect time to go find a ditch. I’ll stay there, maybe make it feel quite homey by choosing a spot near an oceanfront view. With some pretty flowers and a fairy garden, because why the hell not?

I throw up a hand to cover my eyes. “Can we not go down that road again?”

His laugh is throaty and too temptingly masculine for my liking. “You brought it up.”

I point at him with my free hand, even as the other remains clamped over my eyes. “You cornered me.”

“You want me to do this interview? Then you’re going to be at my side the entire time.” His fingers tug at mine, one by one until his face is there, his dark eyes glittering. “Unless you want me to pay a visit to Walter on my way out of here today . . . ”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

His head cocks to the side. “Maybe I just want your company.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

Abruptly he pushes away from me, and the space gives me the first opportunity to breathe since he decided to play dirty.

The relief is short-lived.

As his long legs eat up the distance toward my office door, he tosses over his shoulder, “Your schedule from hell has the interview set for this Thursday. Text me your address. We’ll take my car.”

The thought of Andre running into my family sends me surging toward him. “No! You can’t—I mean, we’ll meet here. At Golden Lights.”

Black eyes land on my face. “Your house, Zoe. Let me pick you up.”

As if we’re going on a date and not a road trip from hell.

Words flee my brain, and all I can do is watch him as he pauses in the doorframe, one big hand planted on the wood. Thanks to his size, he has to duck a little, probably in worry that he might scrape the top of his head and lose some much-needed brain cells.

“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he says. With a closed fist, he knocks on the frame and then offers me a brief smile. “Nice flip-flops, by the way. Very chic.”

And with that parting comment, Andre leaves me to stand there, my feet stuck in a pair of one-dollar sandals and a coffee stain over my left nipple.