Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Good to see you both,” I say as I sit.
“I had the night free, so I decided to join,” Clementine says cooly.
Translation: this meeting was too important to miss.
And my job is too important to lose my head over because of a guy. “Glad everyone is here, except for the man of honor,” I say, and maybe I couldn’t resist taking a dig at Max for being late. But he deserves it.
A few minutes later, the troublemaking goalie breezes in, looking stylish and sexy in tailored charcoal pants that hug his strong legs and a royal blue shirt that does unfair things to his strong chest and thick arms. He’s wearing team colors. Smart move.
At the bar he was wearing jeans and a polo. He cleaned up even more for dinner with all the stakeholders, and I’m annoyingly impressed. He’s striding to the table like he owns the place, all cool confidence and with barely a smile—just his trademark intensity, wild hair, and icy eyes. That’s the way he walks through the corridor in the arena before a game, wearing his game-day suit, looking like sex and strength.
My pulse beats faster. My body is such a traitor.
When he reaches us, he says, “Thanks for waiting. I had to drop my sister at her son’s friend’s house.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. Of course he’s angling for I-help-with-my-cute-nephew empathy points.
“That’s always lovely to hear,” Clementine says.
“Good to see you, my man,” Garrett puts in, standing and clapping his client’s back.
Max sits, snagging the empty seat across from me. The seven of us make small talk about the restaurant, the weather, and the menu until it’s time to order.
I refuse to look at Max. I can’t. I can’t afford the brand of trouble he brings to my heart and body. Once the server has left Garrett clears his throat, then looks my way. “Everly, before you arrived, we were all chatting. The social looks great. You’ve done a fantastic job in just a few weeks building it out.”
“Yes. It even looks like you’re having fun, Max,” Zaire remarks with a pleased grin. In addition to the circus, bike ride, and post-game shots, I instructed him to take a picture of the football field when he went to a Renegades game on the weekend, as well as the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from his home. He sent me both and I posted them too. They don’t show his face, but that’s fine.
Rosario sits straighter, shifting toward her client. “And we’ve run some tests and already your likability quotient is ticking up a notch or two.”
“Great,” Max says dryly. “Gotta keep that thermometer at the bank rising higher.”
John smiles. “This is a promising start.”
“It is. We adore The Real Max Lambert,” Clementine says to Max. “You’ve done a great job.”
He’s done a great job? Are you kidding me? I did all that. But as a publicist, my role is to stay in the background, to let others shine, so I do my part to praise the star too. “Max has really been helpful at being open and available. He’s made it easy.”
Lies, tell me sweet little lies.
But rather than finding a way to subtly zing me, the man getting the makeover offers me a thoughtful smile, then turns to the others. “Actually, Everly’s the one who’s done a great job. I have to give her all the credit,” he says earnestly. “She’s a delight to work with. She’s come up with every single idea. She arranges the events. She plans the photos. She writes the posts. Any increase in the LQ is entirely her doing.”
What???
Am I in a time warp? Did he just compliment me in front of the GM and my boss? I stare at him like an alien has taken over his body. “Thank you,” I say, thrown off but delighted all the same.
Zaire smiles proudly. “Everly is terrific at what she does. I’m so glad you’re working well together.”
“She’s the one who makes it easy,” Max says, then sighs, a little apologetically. “I know I’ve made a lot of this hard for all of you, but putting Everly on this project is what’s bringing it all together. She deserves all the credit.” He rubs his palms together. “So what’s next?”
Holy shit.
I want to hate him, but I want to kiss him too. What is wrong with me?
We spend the next hour of the dinner talking about the community outreach that I’ll be overseeing for him for the next month—the meat of the makeover. I’ve already planned the first event with a local animal rescue I love working with, and it’s coming up in another week, after a stretch of away games. I’m calling it Dogs on Ice because I couldn’t resist that name. I tell Max the details of the event—we’re hosting the rescue’s dogs up for adoption—and even though it’ll be fun, it’ll also be harder, busier, and more challenging for him than usual since it’s so, obviously, public.