Client: Saint Stevenson a.k.a. The Gunslinger
Height: 6' 5"
Weight: 245 lbs
Position: Quarterback
Team: New York Nighthawks
Current Season: Fourth
Contract Terms: Four years; 22.5 million.
Endorsements: Lucky Sports
It's him.
Those titanium eyes.
That strong jaw.
The man who touched me and damn near set me on fire.
The man I made kind of a fool of myself in front of, because I didn't think I'd ever see him again.
The man I'm going to see and sign to a contract in less than seven hours.
Oh my hell.
Chapter Seven
SABRINA
I'm a rule player, not a rule breaker. It makes life simpler when everyone's clear on what the rules are, what people's expectations are of you, and then you just follow that blueprint. But today I'm not going to follow the unwritten rule of working through lunch, like I usually do. In fact, today I'm going to go to an actual restaurant for an entire hour and make sure to order an alcoholic beverage while I'm there. Like a total rebel!
I've got a meeting this afternoon with a man I had no intentions of ever seeing again. A man I verbally sparred with. Flirted with at the end. A man I'm obviously and inexplicably attracted to. A man that knows I'm attracted to him.
Oh my God, how on earth am I going to be able to work for this guy? How will he even be able to take me seriously?
Now my head is spinning. I understand so much more. Him wearing the ridiculous sunglasses at night. His spectacular body. The security guards. His complete arrogance.
He's a professional athlete.
A good one.
And now I've got to try and come up with some plausible reason why I can't take him on. A reason that won't get me stuck at junior management for the next ten years of my life or worse fired. And on top of all of that the only thing that could make this day worse has happened. Abby just walked in.
"Hi, Sabrina."
"Hey, Abby," I say with little enthusiasm hoping she'll get the hint to move on.
"What are you doing here? You usually work at your desk through lunch," she inquires as she judgmentally inspects everything on the table.
My phone (which is off). My choice of meal (I ordered a shit load of carbs). My frozen alcoholic beverage (served in an obvious daiquiri glass).
"Just felt like taking myself out for lunch."
"Well congratulations. I read about you getting the football player."
