And Brent actually fucking winked at him, like they were in cahoots to get Armi in his bed.
Not fucking likely, champ.
Armi watched Brent walk away, and Hayden’s jaw ground tight. Yeah, the guy had a nice ass in that thousand-dollar suit. He’d give him that.
“Hayden?” Armi waited by his side.
“Sorry.” He grabbed his iPad. “I’m ready.” Once he was seated across from Armi, he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “How was lunch?”
Armi shrugged. “It was nice.”
“Nice? Is that it? Your date looks like he’s in love.” Armi blushed. “When did you two meet?”
Did he sound accusatory? Screw it.
“Last night. He works with Marianne, Trevor’s wife.” Armi fiddled with the papers on his desk. The roses had fully opened, their fluffy petals huge, the sweet and spicy fragrance perfuming the air.
“Last night? Damn, he works fast.”
“He seems nice. We talked, and he was interested in what I had to say when I talked about my roses.”
“Why wouldn’t he be? You’re a great guy.”
Armi’s dark lashes fanned down over his cheeks, hiding his eyes. “I know you’ve said so, but it was good to have someone I don’t know pay attention and not fake interest. That doesn’t happen often. Ever, really.”
The implication being that Hayden acted the way he did because Armi was his boss and he had to. Hayden didn’t know whether to be angry or hurt.
“Do you think I was faking it?”
Turning red, Armi ducked his head. “No, of course not,” he whispered. He finally met Hayden’s eyes. “But since we can’t be together, there’s no reason for me not to see people.”
His gaze was surprisingly challenging and momentarily left Hayden speechless. Armi was right—Hayden had told him no, and that should be the end of it. It wasn’t fair to Armi.
“You’re right,” he clipped out. “How did the morning meeting go?”
“It was okay. The scouts have found some good talent to concentrate on, and we’re also close to signing Milo Masterson, the All-Pro receiver. There’s a meeting tomorrow with him and his agent that we hope will wrap it up.”
“Oh, wow. Even I’ve heard of him.”
Masterson’s face had been plastered everywhere after last year’s Super Bowl win—you couldn’t turn on the television without seeing him hawking a product, or pick up a magazine that didn’t have his face on the cover.
“Yeah. I think we’ve reached a good compromise—they got their heavy hitters with these last two signings, and I get to shine the light on some names who might never have gotten noticed.”
“A win-win. Good for you. I knew you could do it. Now about the conference call later on, don’t mention Masterson until you have it all signed, sealed, and delivered. You can talk about Hopkins.”
“Yes, I know. Russell made sure to give me the script.”
Of course.
“Did anyone mention your response to Price’s article?”
“Yeah. Whitmore asked who wrote it. Obviously, no one thought it came from me because…well, you know.” He shrugged, a lifetime of hurts in that gesture. “My father and Russell always worked on statements to the press together.” Armi eyed him. “Did anyone say something about it?”
“Mr. Anders came by, and we chatted briefly. I told him you wanted to make sure that your response would be in the papers first thing on Monday, so that’s why we worked on it over the weekend. Together.”
Armi’s cheeks grew pink, just as his personal phone rang. “Excuse me a sec. Oh, hi.” His eyes grew soft. “Yeah, I really enjoyed it too. The food was delicious.”
Hayden pretended to be engrossed in his iPad and not listening.
