"Really?"
I like the sound of that.
"Absolutely. That's what mentors do right? Instead of working dinners, I'm thinking we should have a few working game days instead. We catch a game, I explain what's going on, and then you will learn the landscape and who the major players are in no time."
"Sounds perfect!" I say, yet again too brightly.
I can't help it though. I'm excited about the possibility of us spending all that quality time together.
Kate returns to the door with my new client in tow.
"This way, Mr. Stevenson," she says as she directs him inside of the conference room. Her lips covered in a fresh coat of iridescent lip gloss, which has me wondering how she found time over the last sixty seconds to put it on. I'm seeing already how this man has an effect on women, and giving him a once over as he crosses the threshold reminds me why.
Good Lord.
Let's just say his stats don't do him justice.
I already knew that Saint Stevenson towers over most human beings on the planet, but he's also wider and even more muscular than I remembered. I think I read somewhere online that he's unusually big for a quarterback, which apparently adds to his value as a player.
He's dressed very casually in a dark gray sweat suit, white sneakers, and a New York Nighthawks baseball cap. The soft cotton fabric of his hoodie basically caressing every peak and valley of his rock hard upper body. His loose sweatpants not quite baggy enough to hide the large package between his legs.
Avert your eyes, Sabrina.
He's not wearing any ridiculous sunglasses this time (thank God), but the brim of his hat has been purposely bent and shaped into a curve that hides his eyes. Maybe they're bloodshot. From what I've heard about him, bloodshot eyes would confirm Marisol's description of him as a big partier.
I run my hands down the sides of my skirt hoping to dry my clammy palms. I'm starting to wish I had worn my oversized gray power pantsuit which hides my curves a lot better than this skirt because after our first encounter, I need him to take me seriously, and not just look at me as a piece of meat.
Hell–let me just rip off the Band-Aid and get to it.
"Hello, Mr. Stevenson." I say in my brightest professional voice. "It's a pleasure to have you on board at Carson Financial. You've made a wise decision for your career."
"Why are you talking like that?" he asks while taking a seat at the table.
"I'm sorry what did you say, Mr. Stevenson?"
His sentences are being muffled beneath the brim of his hat.
"I asked," he takes off his cap and stares me straight on, "Why are you talking to me like some corporate hack, and call me Saint please, Mr. Stevenson is my father."
I am almost too dumbfounded to respond. This is my first time seeing his complete face, uncovered and close up. He is the epitome of perfect imperfection.
A close shaved beard which compliments his hard angles.
A very crooked nose.
Wide bloodshot eyes with pools of steel in the center.
A slight cleft chin.
And a permanent scar across his upper lip.
It's a crime for someone to look this good without even trying, or it really should be one.
"Okay, Saint then." I almost exhale the words without breathing.
"And who's this?" Saint turns his head and stares directly at Jason, but I can tell by his tone that he remembers exactly who Jason is, and now the realization of all the things I said that night hits me like a ton of bricks.
I told him Jason was my date.
