I'm a rule player, not a rule breaker. It makes life simpler when everyone's clear on what the rules are, what people's expectations are of you, and then you just follow that blueprint. But today I'm not going to follow the unwritten rule of working through lunch, like I usually do. In fact, today I'm going to go to an actual restaurant for an entire hour and make sure to order an alcoholic beverage while I'm there. Like a total rebel!

I've got a meeting this afternoon with a man I had no intentions of ever seeing again. A man I verbally sparred with. Flirted with at the end. A man I'm obviously and inexplicably attracted to. A man that knows I'm attracted to him.

Oh my God, how on earth am I going to be able to work for this guy? How will he even be able to take me seriously?

Now my head is spinning. I understand so much more. Him wearing the ridiculous sunglasses at night. His spectacular body. The security guards. His complete arrogance.

He's a professional athlete.

A good one.

And now I've got to try and come up with some plausible reason why I can't take him on. A reason that won't get me stuck at junior management for the next ten years of my life or worse fired. And on top of all of that the only thing that could make this day worse has happened. Abby just walked in.

"Hi, Sabrina."

"Hey, Abby," I say with little enthusiasm hoping she'll get the hint to move on.

"What are you doing here? You usually work at your desk through lunch," she inquires as she judgmentally inspects everything on the table.

My phone (which is off). My choice of meal (I ordered a shit load of carbs). My frozen alcoholic beverage (served in an obvious daiquiri glass).

"Just felt like taking myself out for lunch."

"Well congratulations. I read about you getting the football player."

She's so disingenuous. She's practically spitting nails.

"Have you heard of him?" I ask with a saccharin smile.

Abby gives me an incredulous look then sighs heavily as if she's about to teach the dumb girl a lesson.

"Of course I have. He's a huge star, Sabrina. He's like the second coming to the league. Everyone is looking for him to bring the city our first championship in over twenty-one years."

She places one of her pointy-nailed hands on her hip.

"Huh, I'm surprised Peter even gave you Saint Stevenson considering you know nothing about football. It's not like you've ever tried to hide the fact that you don't follow sports. It's just so odd."

Good grief. Is it that obvious to everybody who I work with that I don't like sports? Just because I don't participate in the various betting pools they always have going?

"It's not odd to me. I won't be teaching him how to catch a ball. I'll be managing his money."

I throw a few of Marisol's words back at Abby, but instead of what I'm saying making some sort of poignant point and shutting her up, Abby bursts out into laughter instead.

"He doesn't catch anything, silly. He's paid to throw the ball. That's what quarterbacks do. Throw the ball."

"Catch. Throw. It doesn't matter," I say slightly embarrassed. "My only job is to keep him out of bankruptcy court."

"Wow. You don't hold much regard for professional athletes do you? I think that you should perhaps have higher aspirations for your client's financial well-being other than keeping him out of trouble."

I didn't mean it like that. Dammit, this girl has the extraordinary ability to push all of my buttons.

"Thanks for your concern, Abby, but I've got it under control. I know what I'm doing or they wouldn't have given him to me."

"Okaaay," she says with exaggerated uncertainty in her irritating singsong voice.

I should have known she'd be pissed. Everything with her is a competition.

"Have you heard any news about Spin?" I ask trying to change the subject.

"May I sit?"

I rather you didn't.

"I'm almost finished with my lunch so–"

"That's okay. I'll just wait while you finish. I'm not ordering food or anything. Some of us have to watch what we eat."

I suppose she's referring to the alcohol and carbs on the table, and the fact that Abby is at least three sizes smaller than me.

"Some of us are happy with a little cushion," I say defending my broad childbearing hips and ample bottom.

"I guess some of us are."

I wonder if I'd get arrested for tossing this frozen strawberry daiquiri in her face. I'd be really tempted to do it if it didn't taste so damn good.

"So do you have any information on Spin or not?"

She smirks before speaking.

"Well I overheard a conversation Peter was having on the phone. He's still trying to convince them into staying. So I guess he's not going to assign them a manager yet, since he isn't even sure that they're still clients. He's still got some sweet-talking to do I suppose. Especially to Marley. From what I heard, he's the main one who wants to leave."

That's not good news.

"So when do you meet Saint Stevenson?" she asks.

Now we're getting to the real point of her inserting herself into my peaceful lunch today. She wants information. She always wants something.

"Today."

"You need any help? I can help you prepare. Maybe sit in on the meeting with you, so you don't make a complete fool of yourself when he starts talking football. I grew up with two brothers who played since pee wee league. I know a lot about the game."

She must have been drinking daiquiris too, because if she were in her right mind, she'd know that I'd never agree to that ridiculous offer. Her in the room at my first meeting? In any client meeting? So she can try to sabotage it. Hell to the no.

"I have Jason for that," I brag.

"Oh?"

"He's worked with pro athletes before. So he's advising me."

"Oh right, I do remember him telling me that the other night."

Abby is on my last nerve. She wants everything I want for no real reason other than because I want it. She wants the senior management position, but doesn't work nearly as hard as I do. She wants Spin, but doesn't even own any of their music. And then one day she must have bumped her head, woke up, and decided that she wanted Jason. She flirts with practically every man in the office, but with him it's so obvious that it's nauseating. Evidently the male ego feeds off of obvious though, because Jason seems to lap it right up.

"So ... I need to finish up my lunch and get ready for my meeting."

My subtle way of telling her to go the hell away.

"Good luck with that," she says with zero sincerity.

"Yep. Bye."

* * *

The frozen daiquiri I drank at lunch is doing wonders for my nerves. Must have been the top shelf rum I requested or the fact that I never drink. That's why one drink always does the job for me. It's settled me down enough to take a longer look at my file and do a little further Google research on one Mr. Saint Stevenson.

I knew there was something familiar about this guy. Seems like Saint Stevenson was a football prodigy. I must have heard of him over the years at some point. A talented kid from a famous football family who went on to become a star in college but apparently is flailing in the pros.

Explains a lot about the vibe he gives off. A sense of entitlement, with a touch of arrogance, and something to prove. I've seen it a million times with so many of our celebrity clients. Young, rich, bored and reckless.

The stage has been carefully set for my first meeting with the man they call The Gunslinger. Peter's assistant ordered a mixed hoagie tray and another tray of assorted fresh fruit, which are set up in the small conference room. Apparently this guy likes to eat.

The whiteboard and my laptop are ready for me to give a slide show presentation, and several printed materials on Carson Financial are on the table.

I've done my best to freshen up. Other than smoothing out my slightly wrinkled skirt with my hands, I've brushed my teeth in the bathroom, applied a fresh layer of blush and lipstick, and popped a mint in my mouth for good measure.

Kate, our bubbly receptionist, pops her head in with a wide grin spread across her face. "Sabrina, he's here! Should I send him back here? Are you ready for him?!"

Kate looks around the room as if she's double checking on its cleanliness or something. She's quite excited.

"I'm ready. Send him in."

"Oh hi, Jason." Kate turns her head.

"Hey, Jason," I say with surprise and a little too much brightness in my voice. I need to remember to turn it down a notch, if I don't want to appear desperate and obvious to him. I work really hard to appear as if I'm not plotting on him every single second of the day.

"I thought I'd sit in on your first meeting just in case you run into any snags." He smiles.

"Let me guess." I smile back. "Did Peter or Marisol send you in here?"

"They may have mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to drop by."

"The Carson tag team strikes again. So I take it that you've been debriefed on the fact that I'm sports illiterate and football dumb."

"Yes, I have been, but I have plans to change all of that."

"Really?"

I like the sound of that.

"Absolutely. That's what mentors do right? Instead of working dinners, I'm thinking we should have a few working game days instead. We catch a game, I explain what's going on, and then you will learn the landscape and who the major players are in no time."

"Sounds perfect!" I say, yet again too brightly.

I can't help it though. I'm excited about the possibility of us spending all that quality time together.

Kate returns to the door with my new client in tow.

"This way, Mr. Stevenson," she says as she directs him inside of the conference room. Her lips covered in a fresh coat of iridescent lip gloss, which has me wondering how she found time over the last sixty seconds to put it on. I'm seeing already how this man has an effect on women, and giving him a once over as he crosses the threshold reminds me why.

Good Lord.

Let's just say his stats don't do him justice.

I already knew that Saint Stevenson towers over most human beings on the planet, but he's also wider and even more muscular than I remembered. I think I read somewhere online that he's unusually big for a quarterback, which apparently adds to his value as a player.

He's dressed very casually in a dark gray sweat suit, white sneakers, and a New York Nighthawks baseball cap. The soft cotton fabric of his hoodie basically caressing every peak and valley of his rock hard upper body. His loose sweatpants not quite baggy enough to hide the large package between his legs.

Avert your eyes, Sabrina.

He's not wearing any ridiculous sunglasses this time (thank God), but the brim of his hat has been purposely bent and shaped into a curve that hides his eyes. Maybe they're bloodshot. From what I've heard about him, bloodshot eyes would confirm Marisol's description of him as a big partier.

I run my hands down the sides of my skirt hoping to dry my clammy palms. I'm starting to wish I had worn my oversized gray power pantsuit which hides my curves a lot better than this skirt because after our first encounter, I need him to take me seriously, and not just look at me as a piece of meat.

Hell–let me just rip off the Band-Aid and get to it.

"Hello, Mr. Stevenson." I say in my brightest professional voice. "It's a pleasure to have you on board at Carson Financial. You've made a wise decision for your career."

"Why are you talking like that?" he asks while taking a seat at the table.

"I'm sorry what did you say, Mr. Stevenson?"

His sentences are being muffled beneath the brim of his hat.

"I asked," he takes off his cap and stares me straight on, "Why are you talking to me like some corporate hack, and call me Saint please, Mr. Stevenson is my father."

I am almost too dumbfounded to respond. This is my first time seeing his complete face, uncovered and close up. He is the epitome of perfect imperfection.

A close shaved beard which compliments his hard angles.

A very crooked nose.

Wide bloodshot eyes with pools of steel in the center.

A slight cleft chin.

And a permanent scar across his upper lip.

It's a crime for someone to look this good without even trying, or it really should be one.

"Okay, Saint then." I almost exhale the words without breathing.

"And who's this?" Saint turns his head and stares directly at Jason, but I can tell by his tone that he remembers exactly who Jason is, and now the realization of all the things I said that night hits me like a ton of bricks.

I told him Jason was my date.

I told him a lot of things.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stevenson." Jason extends his hand to shake Saint's. "I'm Jason Humphrey, senior account manager here at Carson Financial. I'm sitting in on this meeting as Ms. White's point person."

He doesn't say anything in response to Jason's introduction, but rather turns his head back to me, slightly tilted, with a curious glint in his eye.

"You date coworkers, Miss White? Do you think that's wise?"

I tap my foot nervously as I quickly try to think of a way to clean this up.

Jason clears his throat. "I think you have it wrong, Mr. Stevenson. Sabrina and I are coworkers. Our relationship is purely professional."

"Oh?" He looks down at me with a huge grin. "Maybe I did have it wrong. Sorry about that."

He grabs one of the bottled waters on the table, twists it open, and takes a long swig. "But you know what, Jase?"

Oh God, who on earth calls people by a nickname without having some sort of relationship with them first? Condescending jerks do that's who.

"I think that Miss White and I will be fine on our own today. You don't mind do you? I want to get to know my new business manager without any distractions. Without any barriers."

That last statement sounded pretty dirty, but I suppose he can't help it. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like sex. At least if feels that way to me.

And Jason looks a bit taken aback by the sex god's blunt words. In fact, as long as I've known him, I think this is the first time that I've ever seen Jason look a little intimidated by another man. But it's understandable. Everything about Saint Stevenson is intimidating.

"It was requested that I sit in–"

"Should we call the head of this division in then? Uh, what's his name?" Saint snaps his fingers obnoxiously as if he's trying to remember Peter's name.

Boy this guy is a terrible actor and a bully.

"Peter," I say in a huff to end his shenanigans.

"Oh that's right–Peter."

"Uh no, Mr. Stevenson. That won't be necessary. Sabrina is one of the best account managers in this office. She can absolutely handle this meeting on her own. I was just trying to be helpful."

"Well if we need your help, I'll make sure she calls you back in."

Jason leans into me. Our shoulders touching. His mouth very close to my ear.

"You all right with this, Sabrina?" he whispers. Still sounding unsure about leaving me to deal with this rude new client of mine.

"I've totally got this. I promise," I assure him.

He smiles in return.

"Of course you do. Call me when you're done okay?"

"Will do."

"Pleasure, Mr. Stevenson."

"Likewise."