Page 49 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“Sophie?” Elliot asks, starting to stand.

“Excuse me?” a woman at the other end of the table says, glancing between me and Elliot. “This is a closed meeting.”

“You’reselling the team?”

Elliot shakes his head, his gaze darting between me and the other people at the table. Using his professional voice, he says, “Coach Kendall, I’d be more than happy to discuss this with youafterthe meeting?—”

“Oh,” I laugh, shaking my head and backing toward the door, just as the receptionist appears, apologizing and trying to usher me back down to the lobby

Ignoring everything else, I find Elliot’s gaze, hold it, and say, “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Altman. You and I don’t have a reason to talk, ever again.”

CHAPTER 23

ELLIOT

“Elliot!”

My dad booms my name, his face bright, his smile wide as he slings his arms around me, pulling me in close. I freeze, surprised at the contact. He is not usually a hugging kind of guy, especially not with me.

The restaurant is the kind that serves too little and charges too much, with a wine list that could unfurl across the floor of the place, out the door, and down the street, but Mom chose it, so I try not to hate on it too much.

“Hey, Dad.” I pat him on the back, noticing the familiar scent of his ever-presence cologne. He’s a bit thinner than the last time I saw him, and I realize, with a start, that he’s getting old, his beard gray, more wrinkles on his face than before.

When I move to give my mom a hug, I notice the same about her, a slight hunch in her posture, her frame looking a little smaller than the last time I hugged her. She’s wearing a flowery blouse and mustard orange pants, a bright outfit for her birthday, andsomething that contrasts with my dad, who’s in a simple navy suit.

“Happy birthday, Mom.” When I pull back, I pass her the little box with a ribbon around it. She smiles, but doesn’t have time to open it because the hostess arrives, showing us to our table.

We settle into the chairs, and that smile is still plastered on my dad’s face as he unrolls his napkin, lays it over his lap.

“I was surprised to see you selling that soccer team, son. Glad to see you have some good sense in you.”

I bite my tongue, look down at the table, realize I’ve been copying his movements, unrolling the napkin and putting it in my lap, just like him.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the expression of fury on Sophie’s face when she burst into that meeting room. Hear the angry, shaking tremor of her words.

Don’t worry about it, Mr. Altman. You and I don’t have a reason to talk, ever again.

To my father’s left, my mother sits quietly, her fingers working the edge of her napkin. It’s her birthday — the entire reason I’m in Manhattan — and for some reason, we’re talking about me.

“Right,” I force a laugh.

The last thing I want to do right now is talk about the team. Sophie isn’t answering my calls, and when I tried to find her at the practice facility, the players and Molly ran interference, all glaring at me with the same sour looks.

I wanted to snap at them, tell them all that I hadn’t sold the teamyet— that they were still technically under my employment.

But the only person I really wanted to talk to was Sophie. And so far, she’s shown no interest in hearing what I have to say.

Now, just wanting to get out of my head and away from thoughts of Sophie for a second, I clear my throat, shift in my seat and turn my attention to Mom. “Are you doing anything fun for your birthday? You know, other than lunch with me?”

She brightens up, looking surprised that I asked. “Actually, the girls and I are going to take a trip out to Martha’s Vineyard and stay a few days. Felicity — you remember her? From Friends of the Library? She’s going to be making a trifle with?—”

The server arrives, and my mother pauses so we can place our orders. When the server moves away, I turn my attention to her again, but my father starts to speak.

“Derrick Mowlam, he was thinking about getting into that world. Buying a sports team of his own, but all his advisers warned against it. Especially with the way the economy is looking right now.” Dad blows a puff of air through his lips, shaking his head. “People just don’t have as much disposable income. That means ticket sales go down.”

“Sure, sure.” I nod, wait for him to finish. He didn’t mean to interrupt Mom — he’d just forgotten she was talking when the server arrived.

But when I turn back to Mom, to ask her to go on, she’s looking down at her napkin.