“It’s a scientifically validated method.”
“It’s a guaranteed disaster.”
Her eyes snap to mine—sharp, bright, unflinching.
“Becker, you get paid to chase a ball, not to redesign my program.”
Translation: prepare yourself for five rounds of women asking your zodiac sign and whether you like dogs.
An absolute nightmare.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“It’s not optional.”
She exhales—this time without irritation.
Just that calm, sadistic satisfaction she gets when she knows she’s won.
She rolls her eyes, and a honey-blonde strand falls against her cheek.
She tucks it back with two fingers, focused on her screen.
I’m focused on her.
On her legs crossing under the desk.
On her lip caught between her teeth.
Christ, the urge to bend her over that desk and destroy her zen is almost physical.
“You’ll enjoy it,” she says.
“Right. Because nothing says fun like pretending to care about a stranger named Brittany or Madison who loves sunsets on Instagram.”
“You know nothing about emotional connection.”
“And you know nothing about soccer players forced into speed dating by a dangerously sexy woman who just kissed them.”
Okay.
That one slipped out.
A little louder than it should have.
Silence.
She stops typing, slowly lifting her gaze.
Her blue eyes lock on mine—shimmering, sharp.
The kind of look that pins you in place even when your rational brain screams to shut up.
“That wasn’t a kiss. It was a mistake,” she whispers.
