Page 20 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

But, of course, I’m just not fast enough.

“Sophie.”

Stopping, I turn and level him with a glare that I hope holds the full weight of my feelings toward him. He stops, raises one infuriating eyebrow, and waits for me to speak.

“What?” I ask, and cross my arms, but when I do, my duffel bounces against my hip, which makes pain streak down my leg. I bite my tongue to keep from wincing, but Elliot’s eyes still flash to my hip, telling me I’m not hiding it as well as I think.

I wish he wasn’t so goddam perceptive.

Pushing forward, I say, “The advertising thing wasn’t bad enough? You had to mess with the travel plans, too?”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” he says, tilting his head. “Less time traveling, more time to prep for the game.”

“We can prep for the game on the bus.” I frown at him. “Which you would know, if you bothered to consult me on this. It’s exactly what happened with the Uniquest people?—”

When Elliot interrupts me, I think I might lose it, but then he does something unexpected — holding his hands up, palms out, like he’s surrendering to me.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs.

“Okay?” I blink at him, confused. I’m already prepared for this argument, have my points saved up in my head to recite to him — all the reasons why air travel is horrible. Not enough room for the players to stretch out, for one. Screaming kids, the disorganization, the pressure of having our documents ready, worrying about the luggage, the gear. The list goes on, and I’mprepared to tick each item off on my fingers, but the look on Elliot’s face tells me he’s not fighting.

He’s… agreeing with me?

“You’re right,” he says, laughing again, covering the bottom part of his face with his hand. He laughs into his palm, then drags his hand down his chin.

I track the movement, wonder what it would be like to feel that scruff against my own skin, imagine the scrape of it.

Stop,I admonish myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Five minutes just being near him and I can’t stop staring at him? Straightening up, I remind myself that I’m angry with him — not staring at his mouth as he forms words.

“I’m right?” I ask, squinting at him, trying to find the trick here. “So… what does that mean?”

“It means…” He frowns, looks around at the seats and luggage, then finds my eyes. The early morning sun filters in through the large airport windows, washing him in oozing gilded light. It plays over his face, highlighting his bone structure. For a devastating moment, I’m held captive by his stare, his brown eyes glinting gold in the sunlight.

Finally, he finishes, “It means I’m sorry, Sophie. And I think it would be beneficial if we worked together from now on. Finding sponsors, and everything else. I didn’t realize you’d care about the travel plans so much, but we can work together on that too. Does that sound like a good compromise?”

My arms are still crossed, but the scowl has dropped right off my face. I’d had an entire speech built up in my head — starting with the change to flying, and ending with how a makeupsponsor might have been offensive to the players. How it’s not focusing on the sport. Every reason, piled up inside me, all the arguments, rushing out like I’m a deflating balloon.

Elliot has apologized. Looking slightly uncomfortable, sure, but he did. It makes me feel instantly off-balance, unsure what to expect next. A single glance at him makes you think he’s not the kind of man to apologize, and yet, here he is. Having said he was sorry. To me.

“Sophie?” he prompts, a quirk to the side of his mouth telling me he knows exactly the mental path I’m running right now. I blink, try to gather myself, to remember what came out of his mouth afterI’m sorry.

“Work together on finding sponsors,” I say, repeating him, trying to give myself time to catch up. Elliot smirks at me like this is what he’s used to — people fumbling with their words around him.

“And travel plans. And everything else. That’s right,” he says, putting out a hand and leaning casually on the handle of his suitcase. He looks so good doing it that I force myself to look away.

If it was up to me, I’d say that we don’t need bigger, flashier sponsors. That I want things to stay exactly the same way they are now. That we can bus to the games like we also do.

As if it can hear what I’m thinking, the strap on my duffel bag finally gives out, ripping clean through. I catch it, suck in a breath of air, and look up to find Elliot looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as if saying the state of my bag is proof enough that we need more money.

I hold my bag, and hold his gaze.

Gophers on the practice field. Mold in the showers. Broken ice baths. Molly, running herself ragged trying to care for all the players at once. Maybe she deserves a bigger team of trainers — maybe that’s something I can concede, even if I don’t want anything to change.

I bite my tongue against the swell of fear that forms in my chest, suck in a breath, and say, “Fine. Yes, Elliot.”

“Yes, what?” he asks, and I know he knows what I’m saying, but I grit it out through my teeth anyway, having the terrible, sinking feeling that I’m going to regret this.

“Yes, we can work together.”