Jocelyn

“I want you, Boxer.”

The silence in the room is palpable, edgy even, as I wait for the man seated across from me to respond. I’m the one who called this meeting, and now—in the wake of my brutal honesty—I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far.

Sucking in a breath, I survey Landon “Danny” Boxer’s every twitch, every flicker of movement around his lips, every glint in those blue gemstone eyes—but it’s impossible to read him.

I’ve finally met a man whose thoughts are a mystery to me, and I don’t like it.

I clear my throat and try again, slower this time, a hint of gentle. “Did you hear me?”

“You want me?” Eyes the color of worn blue jeans rove across my face. Leaning back in his seat, Boxer stretches his huge form across the chair, dwarfing it with his size. “That’s forward of you, Miss Jones.”

“I want to work with you.” I fight off the heat inching onto my cheeks. “Sign with me, and we can do great things together.”

To my chagrin, he gives an unimpressed shrug. “I’m doing plenty of things already, and they all feel great.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding, and then attempt a few of the moves they teach us in my overpriced yoga class. I’m not cut out for this deep breathing crap, mostly because it makes me hyperventilate. “We have a great agency here, and I have a number of clients who’ve—”

“I know who you are.” Landon Boxer flashes a big, toothy grin. One of his front teeth is significantly chipped—from a distance, it looks like he’s missing it completely. His nose is a little crooked. His mouth a little too wide. His eyes a little too shiny. Yet despite all of this, he’s attractive in an odd, quirky way. “Thanks for your offer, but I’m not interested, Miss Jones.”

“Just Jocelyn. We’re friends.”

“Friends? I hardly know you.”

“Well, we can definitely fix that,” I tell him. “What do you want to know?”

“That’s not how you become friends.”

“Okay, then.” I try for patience, but this deep breathing business is driving my blood pressure through the roof. “What should I be doing differently?”

He shakes his head. With the toothy smile gone, the pale blue of his eyes more serious, he’s almost handsome in a gruff, Neanderthal sort of way. He’s not my type, but I can appreciate the raw maleness about him.

I can also appreciate his career, which is why we’re here. Boxer may never know the difference between cufflinks and paperclips, but he has one of the most promising careers with the LA Lightning before him. With any luck, he’ll be my next client.

As a bonus, Boxer has the potential to score endorsement deals out of the wazoo if the Lightning does well this year—and I suspect they will blow through regular season at the top of their league.

With the right guiding hand—a bit of a haircut, a trim of the nails, maybe the waxing of a few stray hairs—Boxer will be raking in the advertising dough by letting huge corporations slap his face on the side of cereal boxes.

As for the guiding hand? That’s where I come in. I’m the best woman for the job. I just have to convince him to let me take control. Together, we can do great things. I’m sure of it.

See, I haven’t become the best agent in the business by slacking off. I work my ass into the ground. It’s earned me a few nicknames along the way, many of them unpleasant, but I look past all that—keep my eye on the prize.

This is a male dominated industry, and if I show any sign of weakness, it’s the end of the game for me. The respect I’ve worked years to achieve will be gone. So unfortunately, if that means people call me the Ice Queen—or worse—behind my back, I have to deal with it.

The only thing worse than being called the Blonde Bitch would be to have earned the nickname for nothing.

Boxer, however... he’s different. He talks to me like a normal person and, I must admit, it’s refreshing. I can’t help but wonder if this is part of the reason I’m attracted to him. As a client. A potential client.

“Duke’s retiring, Boxer. I know you’re loyal to your current agent, but he won’t be sticking around another year.” I hand him a sheet of paper with a list of endorsements for which he’d be perfect. “Let’s work together.”

Boxer scans the list, an eyebrow raising. “This is a lot of endorsements.”

“I have contacts at all of them. These are warm leads, and I’ve already pitched you to a few. This one, I think, is perfect.” I point to a company that sells men’s undergarments. “They love you. Big payday, here.”

He frowns, thinking on it for a long moment.

“Look, I’m not trying to steal you away from Duke,” I tell him. “I just want you to consider a deal with me. Will you think about it?”

“I still don’t know anything about you, Miss Jones, and you don’t know me. Duke isn’t just an agent, he’s been a friend to me. I need to know that the person I sign with is looking out for my best interest, not just the bottom line.”

“Okay, well, we can fix that.” I take a deep breath and exhale. I’ve been known to do a lot of things to secure a client for my roster... but becoming BFFs is a new one. If this were anyone else, I would’ve sent them packing by now because I don’t have time for friendships. However, something in his eyes, the way he speaks so earnestly, as if every word comes from his very core, holds me attentive. “Tell me what to do.”

“You want to get to know me?” Boxer stands and extends one massive hand. He’s got tattoos winding up both arms, adding to his brawny appearance. “Let me buy you an ice cream cone.”

“An ice cream cone? How about I buy you a drink? There’s a bar just downstairs.”

“I don’t drink,” he says. “But I do love sprinkles.”

“Sprinkles,” I say, mystified. “Well, then, let’s get ourselves an ice cream.”

“Great.” To my surprise, he covers my hand with his, pulling me toward the door with a grin. “I know just the place.”