WHAT I LEARNED about Connor Ryan while being shopped for and styled could fill an old-school encyclopedia.

Beyond all the tabloid and Nighthawks’ stuff I already knew, there was one final piece I’d missed because I’d been on deadline at the end of the baseball season.

It wasn’t his typical shenanigans this time. Connor Ryan was caught in an elevator with a very hot Harbor Island Beer girl wrapped around him who just happened to be his new captain, Ackerman’s, girlfriend.

He and Ackerman had come to blows in the dugout at the end of their last game of the season, which managed to piss off people in sports, advertising, and fans of his personal life in one swoop. Fines normal people would use for a down payment on their house were involved.

Leverage. It’s a nice thing.

* * *

Or not.

I’d dressed exactly like Personal Shopper Becca had instructed. A professional skirt that was short enough to show off what she called toned legs with a loosely fitted pink top to “frame me.” She claimed I looked pretty, professional, and feminine.

I sashayed—or at least, my version of a sashay—my way into the posh offices downtown a mere four minutes late. Which was a personal record for me this week. Especially considering I had on makeup and something other than a messy bun going on. I felt more confident. More in control of the situation. But, no sooner had the mirrored elevator doors closed behind me than I realized just how out of my league I was.

The office was gorgeous and screamed successful money-making rich people. These guys had image down to a science. If I was here to assist in their PR, we were all in trouble. I started toward the high mahogany and glass receptionist desk and waited while the woman with a throaty voice finished redirecting a call.

“Can I help you?” Her tone had shifted, making, Can I help you? sound more like Are you lost, because you sure don't belong here?

“Yes. I'm Hailey Tate. I have an appointment.”

“With who?” This seemed more of a challenge than a question.

But, I was up for the challenge. Or, at least, I actually did have an appointment and so I really did have an answer.

Thank goodness.

“Dex Falco.”

She ran her finger down the third column over in her schedule until she reached the eleven a.m. time slot and tapped it with a hot-pink manicured nail. I glanced at my own nails, one of which I’d already managed to chip, and hid them in my pockets.

“I'm sorry. Mr. Falco already has an appointment. I'm sure if you want to call his assistant later in the day she might be able to...”

Receptionist Girl shrugged, as if to say, even if I called the assistant, there wasn't anything anyone could do for me.

I got it. She worked with super famous people. I had to assume the rudeness was a defense system to keep the press and non-clients—as well as all Connor Ryan’s ex-girlfriends—from sneaking into the land of hot ball throwers.

“I assume Dex is meeting with Connor?” I gave her my best I belong here smile. “Could you let them know I'm here?”

“Sweetheart.” Gone was the cultured, throaty accent. “If I let every girl who was looking to get next to an athlete—especially Connor Ryan—by, I would have lost this job thirty minutes in. Now, if you don't mind, I'll have to call security if you keep this up.”

“I completely understand.” I tried to stay nice. This was her job. “But they're expecting me.”

She looked at me as if I'd just claimed I lived on the moon.

I was beginning to doubt my makeover. I ran a hand over my hair hoping it wasn’t doing something weird.

Receptionist Girl finally broke and gave me a smile that most likely cost her more than I made last year.

“I'm sure they are. If you'll just have a seat...” She motioned to the waiting area in a windowed alcove. “As soon as they’re ready for you, I'll let you know.”

“Oh, great. Thanks.” Well, that was draining.

I wandered over to the waiting area and slid onto a butter-soft, oversized leather couch made for giants where my feet just brushed the floor. The glass and chrome coffee table was covered with a smattering of sports magazines and business journals.

There was nothing remotely feminine about the waiting area. Except for Throaty Receptionist, Guardian of the Agents. She more than made up for the testosterone-soaked domain.

I pulled out my Kindle and started a read I was doing to give feedback on a friend’s manuscript. Luckily, it was fascinating and the next twenty minutes flew by...until I realized it had been twenty minutes.

Maybe they'd changed their minds and I was off the hook and Catherine had forgotten to tell me. Or she was fighting to try to keep the deal alive since she'd convinced herself it was an Epic Win of PR.

Or maybe, I'd forgotten to charge my cell phone.

That happened about three times a month and sometimes took days for me to realize. I'd grasp that no one had called me and BAM. Dead battery.

I dug to the bottom of my new Becca-approved leather tote, looking for the cell. Pens. Post-its. Gum. All the essentials

When I found the phone, it was…yup. Dead. I must have run it down yesterday doing the catch-up thing with my girls after the shopping death march of makeovers.

Before I could work up the courage to approach the receptionist again, a door opened down the long, polished hall, voices mumble-spilled into the lobby before Dex, Catherine, and Connor came around the corner. I stood, dead phone in hand, the Post-its, pens, and gum falling from my lap onto the floor.

They all came to a halt, looking past the reception desk to the waiting area I'd all but converted into an office in the last twenty-seven minutes.

“Hailey, what are you doing out here?” Catherine moved across the lobby in the strong, sleek way she walked that managed to convey power, yet still be completely feminine. It was halfway between a storm and a swagger. “We were waiting for you.”

I brushed my hand down the sides of the burgundy skirt Becca assigned for today.

“I...” I didn't know what to say. “I was told Dex was still in a meeting.”

I glanced at Receptionist Girl waiting for her to clarify. But, she looked somewhere between annoyed and panicked.

“Ava," Dex's voice was smooth. Nice. But there was an undertone that made me nervous. “Is there a reason you didn't let me know Ms. Tate was here?”

She glanced between us all and sent me a look that was pleading. I'm not sure what she thought I could—or would—do.

“Well, she wasn’t in your planner.” She sounded so nervous, I almost felt bad for her. “And, your hour is blocked out as Cross-Promo Meeting.” Now she sounded defensive. As if she hadn't been given the correct information.

“That's right. And Ms. Tate is a bestselling author who had been invited to the meeting to discuss a charity event opportunity with Mr. Ryan.” Dex leaned against the receptionist counter and laid his portfolio on it.

Receptionist Girl—I mean, Ava—glanced at me. Another accusatory look. I must not have appeared Bestselling Author enough for her. It was obviously my fault. “I'm sorry, Mr. Falco.”

While she groveled, Connor moved around Dex to come to my side. Ignoring the scattered office supplies, he held out his hand.

“Connor Ryan.” His gazed ran over me in a sterile, calculating way, even as he pasted a charming smile on his face. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

I was so far out of my depth. This must be part of the game, although the drama going on about the missed meeting was beyond me.

But, I'd read too many Rom Coms to not play along.

“Hailey Tate.”

“I hear there's a chance we might be hosting an event together.” He held onto my hand, even as I gave it a gentle tug. “While these two high-powered types sort out details, why don't we hop down to The Purple Lemon and I'll fill you in on everything.”

He gave my hand a quick squeeze. I had no idea what it was supposed to say. Go along with this? Pay attention? Or, was he annoyed? Was the squeeze echoing his thoughts about the two high-powered types running our lives?

I'd have to agree with him on that, but I was in. I even had a new wardrobe to prove I'd sold my soul to the devil.

“I'd love to.” I tried to bat my lashes, but he just looked at me funny. Oh, well. “Let me get my things together.”

It took more than the moment I think he expected. In the meantime, Connor wandered back over to the receptionist desk where Ava was batting her lashes at him. Why did it look coy when she did it?

I headed back toward the receptionist’s desk, afraid I’d have a hard time pulling him away from the woman throwing herself in his direction. But, before I reached them, Connor had already taken a step back and half-shifted his body toward me.

“Great to see you again, Ava.” Connor's hand fell to the small of my back, giving me a light shove toward the door.

We waited at the elevator, which seemed to be where we'd spent ninety percent of our time together since we'd met. Both of us quiet until I realized how odd that was.

“You need to chat me up," I said under my breath, hoping he was as quick on his feet off the field as on.

He knew exactly what I was talking about. First, he glanced toward Ava—who was still watching us with an annoyed look—and then toward Dex and Catherine—who appeared to be quietly banging out a plan for world domination—and nodded just a bit. And then, The Smile.

Dear stars, what did these people do to their mouths to make them look so shiny?

“Italian? I know this great trendy little bar around the corner.”

Of course he did. It was probably five-figures out of my pay grade.

“How about somewhere we can talk without being watched?”

He turned to face me, giving his back to the rest of the room which I realized wasn't typical of him. He seemed to like seeing everything going on...or have everyone see him.

“That makes sense. Somewhere we don't have to worry about being overheard. Somewhere a fan or two might snap a picture and post it, but not where we'd have to deal with any craziness.”

My stomached dropped at the idea of someone taking my picture, but I gave him a smile and a nod, knowing this was my life for the next month. If this worked, if it gave me enough exposure to get my books traction to sell wide, then I wouldn’t have to worry about pictures that often.

The ding sounded and we stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, a subtle tension attacked him, tensing his shoulders, drawing him in on himself just enough to notice in that tiny, enclosed, mirrored area.

I almost didn’t say anything, but in the end, I was worried it was something I should know. That the meeting had been worse than expected.

Doubting I wanted the answer, I asked, "What?”

He looked at me as if he'd already forgotten I was there. “What, what?”

“What's all that weird tension about?” When he didn’t answer, I tried to break through it with a joke. “I'm sure it has nothing to do with finally getting me alone.”

A flash of alarm slipped over his eyes as he glanced up at the slow decent of numbers on the elevator panel and shifted a step away from me.

“Seriously?” My own nerves seemed to disappear as my temper kicked in. “You think I'm Crazy Stalker Girl.”

It figured. Every guy with any type of ego thought every girl was hitting on him. What was I supposed to expect from a guy who almost every girl actually was hitting on him?

“No.” He drew his brow down and shook his head, a complete look of forced denial if I’d ever seen one. “No, of course not.”

“I should remind you. I don’t want to be here. It isn't my career that was torpedoed by the press...or my own stupidity.” I felt bad as soon as the words left my mouth.

I started to apologize, to backtrack, but before I did, he sighed and nodded.

“I know.” He said the right words, but he stared at the lit up number on the floor panel. It was humor the girl tone that got me. “I get it. This is a job to you and you’ve already done a lot to move it forward.”

He gave me a once-over that demonstrated he was obviously referring to my makeover.

“So, I meet your standards now?” I asked.

He must have missed the sarcasm, because he shrugged and said, “You’ll do.”

I…Well, I don’t know what I thought I was going to say. You’ll do had to be one of the most passively insulting things anyone had ever said to me. I tried to come up with a witty comeback, but I was maxing out my together time with Connor after less than five minutes.

“I mean,” he backtracked into the silence. “You’re invested. I appreciate that. I get that you’re not here just to date me.”

Or to date him at all.

I sucked in a breath, knowing I had to do this now before we went any further. If there was ever a time to stand up for myself, it was now.

“Oh.” I turned to face him, forcing him to meet me head on or be even ruder. I couldn’t believe how mad I was…at him, at the situation. I wasn’t someone who got angry. But, the words just rushed out, fast and uncontrolled. “Let me put you at ease. You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to date you at all. I don't like to be the center of attention. I like smart, funny, laid-back guys who are easy to be around. Someone who has similar interests. I don't like other women looking at me like a human-sized road bump. And I don't like to worry that my guy is cheating.”

He had faced me, watching me list the reasons why I wouldn't go after him. I hadn't even pulled out the how-many-owners-has-this-used-car-had example yet.

His head cocked to the side and a slight smiled pushed up the left side of his mouth. “I actually believe you mean that.”

Wow. I'd known about the ego. I mean, it had been apparent since the beginning, but this was getting ridiculous.

“We're almost to the lobby,” I pushed. “You better decide now. Once we step out there and head to lunch, this is pretty much a ball in motion.”

He looked me over, starting at the top of my head and slowly working his way down. It was the most insulting perusal I'd ever been subjected to.

“You look different.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe in his world that was a compliment. “Wow, hold off the sweet talk ‘til there's someone around who matters to hear it.”

I had a launch coming up this month with tons of things to do to get ready. I also needed to outline my new series. I just wanted to hunker down and get it done. The elevator lurched to a halt and I stepped out, ready to make my way home. I had a bunch of pre-release stuff to do and a new book to get on paper. I really did not need this.

“Well, it was nice meeting you.” Kind of. I couldn’t even look his way again, afraid I’d get too mad to leave it at that. “Good luck with the ad contract.”

I pulled my bag up higher on my shoulder and headed toward the door. It wasn't a bluff, although, I'm betting he thought it was. I had no interest in stepping into his sphere of scandal.

I gave a little wave to the nice security guard who had taken my ID on the way in, and hit the sidewalk. The morning wasn't a total loss. I'd have to send Ava flowers for not forcing me to sit through that meeting. I'd even gotten a good jump on my reading.

“Hailey!"

The street was busy enough to allow me to ignore that.

“Hailey, wait.”

Connor jogged up next to me and slowed to match my gait.

I kept walking. If he felt there was something that needed to be said, he should get on with it. But as for me? I'd said everything I needed to.

“Listen,” he started with a lovely command. “I'm sorry. I meant you look nice.”

“No. You didn't. You meant I looked nice for a plain girl. And that's your problem. No one is going to believe you're interested in me.”

“Come on.” He put on the charming smile. The one I'd seen him aim at the model yesterday. “You're selling yourself short.”

That ticked me off. I had reached my limit. I don’t think anyone had ever found my limit before. I stopped—right there on the sidewalk—forcing people to go around us.

“No. I'm not. I'm selling you short. You'd never be interested in anyone other than for how she looks on your arm. I'm five-five and girl-next-door cute. I've been in enough situations where I had to sell me instead of my books to know my assets. And I know no matter how nice my wardrobe and no matter how early I get up to do something besides a ponytail, you'd look right over my head. And, because your fabulous life is splashed all over the front page of US Weekly, so does the rest of the world.”

I moved on, leaving him standing—hopefully gaping at my back—as I walked—no, make that strode—away glad I'd said all that. Seriously wondering just how hard self-publishing would be once Catherine found out I'd tossed her bet out the window.

I'd have to return the clothes. That was the real shame here.

And, I was just beginning to break these shoes in.

Come to think of it, Catherine owed me at least what I was wearing today. Even the coat.

Also, that pretty computer bag.

Everything else would go back. I'd box it up and she could have someone come get it. Because there was no way I was facing down more than one ego today.

Even my line in the sand was only so thin.