Grayson hasn’t turned up. It’s 11:00 a.m., and he was supposed to be here a half hour ago. His lawyer is here—George Simpson, a man who works for the best law firm in Miami. No surprise there. Of course Grayson got the best lawyer in town.
At least he bothered to get an attorney. Shame he couldn’t be bothered to show up for his plea bargaining.
Asshole.
“I can try calling my client again,” George says, picking up his cell phone.
“No, it’s fine.”
It’s not fine. I’m really pissed off. I don’t like being stood up for anything. And I don’t like when people make a mockery of me and my career. I get up from my chair.
George Simpson follows suit and stands. “How do you want to proceed?” he asks.
“I’ll be in touch.”
He nods and leaves my office.
I sit back down in my chair, my hands in fists. Who the hell does Grayson Knight think he is? Asshole.
But why am I really so pissed off by this?
Because I’m an assistant state attorney, for God’s sake, and Grayson Knight thinks he can stand me up because he’s what? A stupid football player. Well, guess what? I’m the law. He doesn’t know what he’s got coming.
Furious and unable to let this snub go, I make a quick call to Grayson’s agent. I’m so angry that I let my emotions get the better of me and pretend to be his lawyer so that the agent will tell me where he is.
At a training session where his team practices.
The arrogant asshole went to practice instead of coming to his plea bargaining.
Armed with fury, I grab my bag and cell. I head out and catch a taxi on the street, telling the driver to take me to the Bubble, at Nova Southeastern University. That’s where the agent directed me.
The taxi pulls up and I climb out. I make my way to the reception area, which is manned by a security guard. “Hi,” I say. “My name is Melissa St. James. I’m here to see Grayson Knight. Harris Jones, Grayson’s agent, said he would call ahead to let you know I was coming.” Yes, I had pulled that little trick with Harris as well. Not my most ethical moment, but my anger is clouding my judgment, so I’m rolling with it.
“He did. I just need to see some I.D.”
I pull my wallet from my bag and produce my driver’s license. The security guard checks my I.D., then hands it back to me. I fill out the sign-in sheet and take the visitor’s badge he hands me. I clip it to the lapel of my jacket.
“The team is training outside today on the main field. Take that door there,” the security guard says, pointing. “And walk all the way down the hallway. There’s another door to the field at the end, on your right.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him.
I make my way through the corridor until finally I’m outside. The Miami Dolphins are on the field in the middle of a training session.
Now that I’m here, I’m not really sure what to do. It’s not like I can just walk onto the field and interrupt the training session to demand to know why Grayson didn’t turn up for our appointment this morning.
It takes me a minute to find him on the field, which is filled with big, sweaty men.
“Can I help you?” a male voice asks.
I turn around and see a guy in his midthirties who’s wearing running shorts and a t-shirt. He has cropped blond hair and is attractive. But he’s no Grayson Knight.
“Hi, I’m Melissa St. James. I’m Grayson’s…attorney.” There, I’ve lied again. “I have an appointment with him.”
“Ellis Mitchell. I’m the team’s conditioning coach,” he tells me as he shakes my hand. “Grayson shouldn’t be much longer. They’re almost done here. Why don’t you take a seat while you wait?” He gestures to the bleachers.
“No, I’m good, thanks,” I say, giving him a polite smile.
“I should get back to it,” he says, returning my smile. I have a feeling mine doesn’t look nearly as warm as his. “Nice to meet you, Melissa.”
“You too.”
Ellis leaves and my eyes go to Grayson. In spite of myself, I can’t deny that he looks really hot out there. And I don’t mean hot in a sweaty way, even though he is. He’s hot in the sexiest way imaginable. Grayson looks like the epitome of male out there as he throws the ball to his teammate. His jersey tight over his biceps, showing off the muscles in his arms. And don’t even get me started on his legs. I’m pretty sure he could crack walnuts with those thighs.
Or me.
Jesus, where did that thought come from?
Of course Grayson is undeniably hot. But he’s a criminal, and I’m intent on making a guilty charge stick to him like glue. A criminal who thinks he can ignore a plea bargain appointment with an assistant state attorney.
And he’s a criminal who has just noticed I’m here. I see his head turn toward me, and I watch as he hands the ball off to his teammate before he starts to walk those powerful legs over to me.
And for some strange reason I feel a tremble in my own body.