Jocelyn

Like a gentleman, Boxer drops me back off at the agency’s building, waiting until I open the front door before pulling away. As I walk through the lobby and hit the elevator button to bring me to the office, I turn and watch his taillights disappear into the distance.

I’m still thinking about him when I reach the office. I close my door and sit down to work, cramming in one meeting after the next until the agency is technically closed. When a knock on the door alerts me to the darkness outside, the late hour, I’m startled to find he’s still on my mind.

“Diana, that reporter, called.” Lindsay, my assistant, pokes her head in. “Sorry to startle you. I just hadn’t heard from you, and I was wondering what I can do to get you home before midnight.”

“Haven’t I told Diana a hundred times that I’m not open for an interview?” I blink and look at the clock. “Lindsay! It’s eight thirty. Didn’t you say you had a date tonight?”

“I cancelled. And I already told Diana no; I just thought I’d run it by you. It’s never too late, you know. Might not hurt to do one interview.”

“Go! Shoo. If it’s not too late, un-cancel your date!”

“I don’t mind. I wasn’t all that excited about it anyway.” She shrugs. “Plus, I finished up some paperwork.”

“But—”

“How’d it go today?” Instead of evacuating the premises like I’d suggested, Lindsay slides inside the room and grins. “You had a meeting with Boxer?”

“It went...” I pause, sitting back in my chair. “It was interesting.”

“I’ve heard he’s a great guy.”

“From who?”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the next, her long, flowy skirt rippling around her legs. On anyone else, it’d look a bit hippie in style, but she’s paired it with a sharp tank top, a jacket, and a beautiful pair of black heels to make the outfit complete. “Well, Duke used to come by on business sometimes. He always spoke highly of Boxer.”

Boxer’s current agent is turning seventy-five next month. Someone finally convinced Duke to retire—probably the saint of a wife he’s held onto for over fifty years. Whether Boxer wants to or not, he’ll need new representation, and soon.

“Did you eat dinner?” I ask. “Let’s order something.”

“I’ll pick something up on the way home.”

“Look, Lindsay, I appreciate you working so hard, but you don’t have to stick around until the middle of the night every time I do.” I wave a hand across my desk. “You shouldn’t cancel your dates to stay late.”

“Meh, I’m using you as an alibi. My date seemed like a loser. He asked the color of my underwear, and we’ve never met!”

I laugh, which is a refreshing change of pace from my normal workday. When I’d hired Lindsay as an intern, she’d been a cute brunette with bright brown eyes, eager to please. She’d worked round the clock on a measly intern’s stipend.

Four years later, she’s still with me. We’ve upgraded her salary, her job title, and her responsibilities. I live in mortal fear that one day, she’ll up and decide there are better career paths for her elsewhere.

I’d die before I let that happen. She runs my life, so I make sure to pay enough that it’s worth her while. People like Lindsay are hard to come by. Media may call me the Ice Queen, a cold and ruthless bitch, but they’ve never called me stupid. I know when I have a good thing, and Lindsay is a great thing. So is Boxer.

“At least let me buy you dinner,” I insist. “I’m happy to be your alibi anytime.”

“I’ll put in an order of lasagna from Peretti’s Pizza.”

She bounces out of the room, and I wonder, not for the first time, how she’s managed to keep her pleasant, rose-tinted view of the world firmly in place. She’s a few years younger than me—she’s pushing twenty-five, and I can’t help but think that when I hit twenty-five, I’d been scrambling my way up the corporate ladder. I’m now twenty-eight, and I’m still not sure where that ladder is leading.

Though I’m proud of my career, a tiny part of me wonders what it’s like to live life like Lindsay. She leaves the job at the office, has fun with her friends, texts boys about her underwear color... It’s all so curious to me, but it makes her happy.

I’m in the middle of jotting a note down about needing to call Duke—maybe pick his brain about this whole situation—when my phone rings. It’s the direct line to Lindsay, so I hit speaker.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

I pick up the phone and put it to my ear, confused. “Who is it?”

“Andy Rumpert.”

“Andy?” I groan. “What does he want?”

“Business. But if you have dinner plans, I can send him away.”

I think on it for a minute. Lindsay’s sharp. She’s given me an easy loophole if I want to send him away. However, Andy’s like an annoying wart that won’t go away, and I decide it’s better to deal with him now. Otherwise, he’ll just pop back up, more annoying the next time.

“Miss Jones?”

“Send him in.” I sigh. “I’m in a good mood tonight. Let’s see if he can ruin it.”

“Aww.”

“You can head home, Linds. I have a feeling I know what this is about.”

“You’re brave,” she whispers into the phone. Then louder, she speaks to Andy. “She’ll see you now.”

Footsteps approach my door. I’m about to hang up the phone when Lindsay comes back on the line.

“Miss Jones?” she says in a hushed voice. “Last week, I heard one of the PR girls blabbing on her phone in the lobby that Andy’s going through a divorce and is extra mean. I’m sending in lasagna in twenty minutes, and you can make me kick him out if things go south.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Jocelyn.” Andy appears, giving a useless knock on the door, seeing as he’s already halfway inside the room. A smile tilts his mouth upward. “Just the beautiful woman I wanted to see.”

“Your wife won’t be happy to hear that,” I say, trying to remain calm. Andy is pond scum, and I don’t say that lightly. He’s been known to lie, cheat, and steal clients from various agents in a very public way. “What do you need, Andy?”

“Nice to see you, too,” he says, a flash of anger shooting across his face.

“What are you here for?

“Boxer’s mine,” he says, sitting himself in the chair across from me without an invitation. He’s wearing an expensive suit and he’s shiny, I’ll give him that. Shiny hair, shiny shoes, shiny glint in his eyes, but it’s all fake. “I just wanted to give you the chance to back out of the race for his business with grace.”

People might not like me or my boldness, but nobody has ever called me a liar, a cheat, or a fake. That’s the difference between Andy and me—we both work hard, we can both be ruthless, but I won’t cross certain lines. Andy doesn’t have the same scruples. He calls it a weakness. I call it morals.

“Back out of what?” I ask, trying for polite. “You’re free to try and recruit Boxer. So am I. When did this become a race?”

“Of course it’s a fucking race,” he snarls, temper flaring up. “Duke’s retiring, we both know that. The old ball and chain is making him hang up his skates.”

“Mrs. Landingham is a nice woman. I’m glad they’ll be able to spend some time together.

“What the hell are they supposed to do at that age anyway?” Andy shakes his head. “Sit around and wrinkle? I want to be working or dead at that age, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“I’m going to take Boxer on as my client,” Andy says. “So why don’t you give up now and make things easier—and less embarrassing—for both of us?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Not clever enough to come up with your own retort?”

“Not bothering to waste my breath on it.” I stand, fold my hands in front of my body, and give him a smile. “Did you walk into my office tonight to intimidate me, Mr. Rumpert? If so, it’s not working.”

“You going to run crying to the press? Feed them a story about me?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m sure there’s some law you could bend to make this about harassment.” His eyes challenge me. “Go ahead, give it a try.”

I’ve never once run crying to my boss, screaming to any authorities, or whatever else he’s suggesting. The man’s got some sort of complex about being challenged by women in the workforce, and I don’t intend to fuel his fire. I intend to beat him. Fair and square.

“Good night, Andy. Please see yourself out.”

“Is this defeat?” His eyes glint. “Let me buy you dinner as a truce. Come on, my treat.”

My stomach roils at the thought. I’d rather stick the Peretti’s lasagna into my eyes and starve than have dinner with him.

“No, thank you,” I say, resting one hand on the door. “But if you think you can walk into my office and try to intimidate me away from the biggest deal of the year, you’ve gone about this all wrong.”

“Is that right?” He leans extra close on his way out, breath reeking of smoke. “What’s the right way?”

“Give up on Boxer now,” I tell him. “You don’t deserve him.”

“And you do?”

“He’s mine.”

“Feisty,” he says. “I like it.”

“Not feisty, let’s call it focused. I’m the best in the business, Rumpert. He’ll sign with me.”

Andy takes a long look at my chest, and it’s everything I can do not to punch the smirk right off of his face. I practice that stupid meditation breathing again, though I’m pretty sure the only thing I need is a kickboxing class and a pack of Tums.

“You going to make this deal go as smoothly as the one with Ryan Pierce?” He raises an eyebrow on the way out. “Good luck, sweetheart. We all know how that went. You’ll need the luck.”

With that, he’s gone before I can throat punch him for calling me sweetheart. I know, I know, I should be meditating the crap out of this moment, but he brings the violence out in full force. I slam the door shut and return to my desk, dropping my head in my hands.

I’m shaking, trembling from head to foot. There’s a knock on the door, and I assume it’s Lindsay with the lasagna, so I tell her I need a minute. I take one deep breath, then another, wishing my heart to stop racing and my body to steady.

When I trust my voice not to crack, I call Lindsay in, mumbling some excuse about needing a second to jot down notes. She doesn’t believe me for a second, wrinkling her nose in disbelief.

“Don’t worry about him, Miss Jones,” she says, putting the food on the corner of my desk. “He’s slime. Everyone knows it. Even his clients know it—I overhear things working the front desk, remember, and I’ve never heard a single good word about that man.”

“I know. It just pisses me off that I let him get under my skin.” I stand and pace back and forth before the floor-to-ceiling window that gives a stunning view of Los Angeles by night. “Can you see if there are more of those yoga-whatever-stupid classes down the street? I can’t seem to keep my temper around him.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m going to need my temper in check,” I tell her, “because he came to say it’s a war.”

“A war? Over Boxer?”

“Boxer would make for a great client—easy to manage, lots of endorsement potential, a strong player focused on the game. I want him.”

“He’s also a really nice guy,” Lindsay says. “What if you just talked to him? I don’t think he’d like Andy much, but if he got to know you...” She shrugs. “It’d be an easy choice. He’d love you.”

I bark laughter. “Love? No. I’m not sure there’s anybody who could say that about me.”

Lindsay stills, her shoulders rigid. “Miss Jones—”

“I’m not asking for pity,” I say, waving a hand. “I was kidding.”

“Of course you are,” Lindsay says, sensing it’s time to back out of the room. When she reaches the door, she turns back and gives me a look, a bit of sadness in her eyes, though no sign of pity. “You’re a strong woman, Miss Jones, but sometimes it’s not about fighting with your fists.”

“What other way is there? Andy leaves me no choice.”

“Maybe Andy doesn’t,” she says, her voice a soft tinkle of bright cutting through the silent room. “But Boxer does. Get to know him, and I’ll bet you there’ll be opportunities you never knew existed.”

“I’m not sure I’m the world’s most likeable person. Maybe you should have lunch with him and win him over.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Lindsay offers me a bright smile. “You don’t let many people in, but when you do, they like what they see.”

“Now you’re just asking for a raise.”

“I don’t work for you because I love the hours,” Lindsay says with a wink. “I happen to have a great boss. Don’t be afraid to let Boxer see the real you. He’ll like it, I promise.”

Lindsay leaves then, and the smell of lasagna draws me back to my desk. Even though my stomach growls, I can’t bring myself to eat. I wait, listen as Lindsay lets herself out of the building and does the locking up, and then I rise to my feet once more.

Looking out over the buildings, I wonder what Boxer’s doing right now. Is he with his daughter?

An absolutely crazy notion crosses my mind.

What if I called him?

For no reason at all except... to check in with him.

I dismiss the idea just as quickly because that’s ridiculous. What would we talk about? I don’t have anything in common with the man. He’s sweet, calm, patient. I’m uptight, skittish after my meeting, and staring at a now-cooling plate of lasagna.

No, we are no match for one another in any world except business. I package up the takeout, catching a glimpse of my black suit in the windows on the way out, my blonde hair wound tightly in a bun, skirt neatly pressed and standard. Practical. In Boxer’s eyes, I’m nothing but business; I’m sure of it. I haven’t made it this far by making friends. I’ve made it this far by making deals.

Two hours later, I’m reheating the lasagna in the microwave and loading up my TiVo’d episode of The Bachelor. Ten minutes into it, and I know I’m going crazy because an advertisement for cat food makes me tear up.

There’s an old couple holding hands, and I can’t help but think of Duke and his wife taking time to be together and retire. When I’m that age, will I be alone with the cat, or will I have a hand to hold?

To combat the tears, I find a Spinning class online and sign up for it at once. Probably, I’m low on endorphins. Endorphins help everything. So does lasagna, and so does deep breathing.

I think.