I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a little nervous about meeting Saint's father. I guess for a lot of reasons. After some further research on his family, I realize now how it makes very little sense that Saint has signed with our fledgling sports division.

His father has a pristine reputation in the sports management world. In fact, it's so good that other professional athletes have inquired about having him represent them, although he doesn't do it often.

It appears as if the first generation of Stevenson brother's (Saints dad and uncle) bread and butter comes from their NFL pensions and their wildly successful summer combine that they run for student athletes.

They've been quoted in a few articles as saying that management is not something that they really want to get into full time, especially because it could be a conflict of interest with the combine if they did.

I feel like I better be on my A game in an effort to convince Saint's father that we have his best interests at heart. People that always want to keep things in-house have trust issues with "the establishment," and while I think we are a unique company with a lot to offer, Carson Financial is definitely establishment. There's no doubt about that, or at least that's the way it will probably look to Mr. Stevenson.

I regret how I've handled this meeting already.

I should have insisted that we meet on neutral ground. In New York. Being confined in a car for two hours with Saint in one of my shorter skirts is definitely not what I had in mind. He's already staring at my thighs.

"You ready?" he asks casually.

"To attend this very unorthodox meeting all the way in Pennsylvania? Not really."

"Think of it as a date then."

"Why would I do that? We aren't dating. Not to mention that it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and this is a work meeting. A meeting which I put on the schedule, so will you take it seriously please?"

"Why would you put today on the schedule? I told you we were going to have a small chat with my father. Maybe some lunch. Not take a damn meeting with Nike. Honestly, you're the most serious woman I've ever met in my life. It's no wonder–"

"No wonder what?!"

"Nothing."

"Being serious is what got me my position in the company at my age."

"That's very important to you isn't it? Reaching a certain level of success within a certain time period."

"I have definite career goals that I want to achieve, but doesn't everyone? Isn't it important for you to get a championship ring sooner rather than later?"

"There are a multitude of outside pressures contributing to whether I meet the goals on my career timeline. Yours are self-imposed. There's a difference."

"Well if you mean that I don't have the pressure of twenty-two million dollars to succeed then you're right. You've got me there."

"I find it absolutely incredible that you are so judgmental about the amount of money I make, yet your entire livelihood depends on the fact that I make it."

"Actually my livelihood depends on the income of musicians and television personalities."

"It depended on them. Past tense. Now it depends on mine as well."

"Not if I get a client like Spin. Then you'll be made somebody else's problem. I know just the person that would love to have you on her roster."

"You think that backyard band's money is better than mine?" he asks, as if I've totally offended him.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to," his voice rises. "You've all but implied it by your words and actions since the day I signed on the dotted line. Would you feel better if I made my money writing songs about clean water and world peace? Is that what you like, or is the real issue here is that's all you know?"

"I'm sorry if I've made you upset, but I think that I've made it clear ad nauseam that I didn't want to work with you, and that I prefer musicians. So don't get all offended about it now."

"I'm not even sure what it is I see in you," he blusters.

"It's baffling to me too."

"Stop talking."

"Fine by me."

"Let's just listen to some music."

"Fine by me."

Saint gives me a cold hard stare and then turns on a sports talk radio station instead of music. I had to listen to it for almost ninety torturous minutes.

Sadist.

* * *

Driving almost two hours to Pennsylvania and meeting Saint's family over lunch is increasingly feeling like not a smart thing to do. But there's something about this guy. I let him get away with murder. None of my other clients could pull these antics. Of course none of my other clients look, smell or smile like Saint Stevenson.

I probably should have cancelled the meeting once I knew that it wasn't in New York. Especially since I can rely on Jason checking in with me like clockwork. This time with a phone call instead of a text. I'm starting to think that Peter is putting him up to these annoying check-ins. Now I'm going to be forced to tell him about this little day trip, which looks kind of unprofessional and suspicious.

"Hey, Sabrina. Just seeing how you're feeling about your meeting. Making sure you don't need a second man on the bench when you talk to Saint's father. I heard he's a tough old bird. What time will you be in the conference room, or are you meeting somewhere else?"

I can feel Saint staring at me using his peripheral vision while he continues to drive, so I decide to pour it on a little thick, since I was bamboozled into going all the way to Pennsylvania for this meeting. Might as well entertain myself.

"Dangit. I really had every intention of having you sit in on the meeting, but Mr. Stevenson didn't tell me until the last minute that we were meeting his father in Pennsylvania."

"What?! You're on your way to Philly right now?"

"Unfortunately."

Saint frowns.

"This is ridiculous, Sabrina." Jason fusses. "He's monopolizing your time. This guy is not your only client and taking a meeting with his father is not only unorthodox, but it was never part of the contractual agreement. You don't have to do this."

"You're right, this is ridiculous, but--"

Saint snatches my cell phone right out of my hand and puts it on speaker.

"Miss White doesn't need any mentoring today, boss man, but thanks for checking in."

"Mr. Stevenson, I need to say that it is highly unusual and frankly unnecessary for your new business manager to meet the old one. Especially when he lives a hundred miles away."

"What's your name again, boss man?"

Ugh, here he goes with that again.

"Will you quit it and give me my phone back, Saint!"

Believe it or not I am actually wrestling with a two hundred and forty-five pound quarterback, in a pick up truck, for my cell phone. Someone needs to be taping this. I could star in my own reality show.

"Oh right, it's Jase. Listen man, this whole mentoring mentee thing you two have going on is honorable, not, but you don't need to have such a tight rein on our girl here. She's proven herself to be fully capable of handling any situation that I may throw in her. Oops, I meant her in."

I'm mortified.

And I want to kill him.

"Hang up that phone," I say through clenched teeth.

"You heard that, Jase? We have to hang up now. You'll see her in the office tomorrow. We may not get home until late. Don't worry. My family's great."

Jason tries to say something, but I have no idea what, because Saint hangs up and hands me back the phone.

"Don't call him back," he orders. Almost as if he's ... jealous of Jason?

"If you pull one more juvenile stunt like that again, I'm going to ask that you be moved to another account manager, and I'll gladly tell anyone who cares to listen why. No one will blame me."

He says nothing in response. Instead he turns up the sports radio station, and we drive like that for another twenty minutes. Since I'm not used to him being so quiet with me, I try to busy myself by texting Marisol.

Me: I'm not trying to sabotage my career, but I'm not sure I can keep working with Saint Stevenson.

Marisol: Has it even been a month?

Me: He's a jackass

Marisol: You already knew that

Me: He's like a big kid

Marisol: According to you all players act like that. So why are you surprised?

Me: Maybe Abby will want him.

Marisol: You can't be serious. What aren't you telling me?

Me: Nothing

Marisol: Lies.

Me: He just gets under my skin

Marisol: Well put on your big girl panties, because if you drop the ball with America's quarterback, you can forget about that five year plan of yours.

I shove my phone violently back in my tote bag. I'm pissed. Saint notices, but still doesn't say a word. His silence is unnerving. I can't take it anymore, so I break first.

"Say something."

"About what."

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean, Freshman?"

"Freshman?"

I know I've heard that before, but I'm not sure where. Is that some sort of football reference? I observe him for a moment as we drive along the final stretch of the turnpike. I mean really watch him. He's grinning, because he thinks I'm checking him out, but that's not it. I want to figure him out. I want to understand why he's targeted me of all people. He's dated underwear models and famous actresses for God's sake. What does this football demigod want with me?

"We're here!"