Patrick places a hand on my shoulder. “This is my right-hand gal, Hannah Draper. She’ll be working with us this week.”
I try not to openly cringe at theright-hand galcomment because excuse the fuck out of me, Patrick? What is this, 1955? I decide to give him some grace, though, because Patrick is an amazing boss and the farthest thing from a misogynist. He’s a total sports geek who, even after twenty years in the industry, still gets a little flustered when he’s in the company of athletes, especiallyBrookes Devereauxlevel athletes.
“Hannah, this is Brookes Devereaux, and his agent, Cam Davies.”
Brookes and his agent rise from their chairs, and I walk around to greet them.
“Patrick has told us great things, Miss Draper,” Cam says as he shakes my hand.
I nod, my forced smile firmly in place as I look to Brookes, who is suddenly right there, all up in my personal space, his bright, blue eyes dipping from my face down to the neckline of my blouse and openly gawking like it’s socially acceptable to stare at a woman’s breasts.
“Hi, Brookes,” I mutter.
“Wow,” he says under a breath, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine, smiling one of those smiles I’m sure make most women weak at the knees. Don’t get me wrong; Brookes Devereaux is attractive, if not a little too tan, but I suppose days spent out on a golf course will do that to a person. Tall, broad, heavily tattooed muscular arms that cause the sleeves of his polo shirt to pull tight, neatly trimmed stubble, dimples. He’s basically Mr. All American in human form, reeking of confidence, cockiness, and way too much cologne—a triple threat.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, completely insincerely. When he shakes my hand, I make sure to squeeze his a lot harder than necessary, smiling victoriously on the inside when I see him wince.
“Hannah will be assisting you while you’re here this week, Brookes,” Patrick announces.
I quickly make my way back over to Patrick’s side of the table, fully aware of Brookes’ lingering gaze set firmly on me as I take a seat. Of course, I do all I can to ignore him, opening my laptop and going straight to Teams, where a message is waiting for me from Millie.
Millie: What’s he like??
“Assistingme, huh?”
It’s the tone of Brookes’ voice that makes me snap my head up, and when I see him actually waggle his eyebrows like a pervert, I cock my head to the side, gaping at him, because is he fucking serious right now?
“Uh, yeah,” Patrick says, shifting awkwardly in his chair next to mine. He glances at me, and I can tell not only does he know exactly what Brookes is insinuating, but he also knows exactly what I’m thinking and just how close I am to removing my heel and throwing it in the direction at the golf pro’s fat head. Clearing his throat, he turns back to Brookes and his manager.
“Lucky me.” Brookes smirks.
“Brookes,” Cam warns under his breath.
Brookes laughs. “I’m just playing.”
My top lip curls involuntarily as I go back to Teams.
Me: Remember what your brother was like pre-Emily?
Millie: …
Me: Yeah, so basically he’s exactly that, but, like, more piggish.
Millie: I feel like a kid who just found out Santa Claus isn’t real.
The lights in the conference room dim, the shades lowering to shield the glare of the sunlight as Jared brings up the weeks’ itinerary on the projected screen.
“Can you grab me a water, babe?”
My head snaps up from my laptop again, so fast, because I know he did not just call me babe. I meet Brookes’s smiling eyes from across the table as he says, “Flat, not sparkling. And chilled, if possible.”
Is he fucking serious? First of all, there’s a fully stocked refrigerator glowing like a goddamn beacon in the corner of the room. Secondly, I’m still hung up on the wholebabething. I can’t help but search the room for a hidden camera because there’s no way this can be a real situation. My eyes flit to Patrick who, yet again, looks awkward as hell, and I push back from the table, standing with a muttered curse because I seem to have missed the moment that I was demoted from talent and acquisitions associate to a goddamn intern.
I yank open the fridge with a huff, pulling out a bottle of Fiji water and practically slamming it onto the table in front of Brookes. He looks from the bottle to me, his gaze dipping again to my chest before bothering to meet my eyes.
“Do you have Evian?” he asks.
I grit my teeth. This is going to be a long-ass week.
