My phone buzzed again.
In the tunnel after the game, Zaila and the rest of the staff cheered. Cormac handed her the game puck with a big grin. “Keelie said you were smart and capable,” he told her. “You’ve helped us reconnect as things were sinking. Man, oh man, I thought frisbee golf was gonna just be a time suck, but it was hilarious when Cruz got all competitive. It made us remember what it felt like to be a team. That’s the stuff of legends right there, Z.”
I smiled. That’s where I’d picked up the name. The guys all called Zaila Z.
I came up beside her, beaming, wanting her to know I supported her. “Zaila’s one of a kind,” I said.
Cormac smiled as he and the rest of the team fist-bumped Zaila and me on the way past. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She is.”
Zaila arrived at the gala five minutes after I’d expected, though I’d been checking my watch for the past hour. She entered into the room in delicate silver sandals that showcased her cute toes, painted the same dark blue as her dress—the beautiful, rich blue of a midnight sky. Immediately I liked how it showed off her brown skin. It had thin straps and a corseted top that nipped tight at her waist, and a shiny, shimmering skirt draped down to just above her feet.
Her gaze swept the room, her red lips parted slightly, her smoky eye makeup highlighting her brown eyes. Half of her thick, dark waves were tamed into a twisted knot on the top of her head, while the rest cascaded down her back.
She was gorgeous, and I wanted to devour her. Glancing around, I realized others had noted my Cinderella’s arrival and were checking her out. Possessiveness wasn’t my style, but with Zaila, I wanted to stake my claim. Yet before I could move away from the droning conversation I’d stood through for the last ten minutes, Jay bounced over and spoke to Zaila. She responded with several nods before veering off to the left with him.
You built this team for Karl. For Cormac. For the culture, I reminded myself. And here you are, staring at your social media strategist like a lovesick puppy. Get your shit together and focus on the task at hand…after you check out that perky little ass.
I frowned as she beelined toward Jorge Salvados, a well-known sports journalist who wrote the most popular column in the city. He was about ten years older than Zaila, respected, established, and charming.
“You’re not interested in the area’s restructuring?” the mayor asked.
I refocused on the conversation. “My apologies. I was…considering something.”
Chad Brennan, a local oilman who went through wives faster than most people worked through their cowboy boots, leaned in. “That pretty little thing in blue? I saw her too. That’s a feast for the eyes.”
We were about the same age, and Chad’s date was younger than Zaila, wide-eyed and dewy, staring up at him with the adoration he seemed to require. Disgust rolled through me. I’d just read an article about a football owner who firmly believed his twenty-something girlfriend did not know he was a billionaire, that she was with him for his looks. I wasn’t particularly interested in rating men’s attractiveness, but I doubted that guy was considered a catch for his appearance.
I pursed my lips. There had been considerable chatter about Zaila and me after the staff retreat, even before there was a real reason for any chatter. Yet still, she remained interested. As did I, so we’d weather the storm, prove our relationship was nothing like that football team owner’s or Chad’s.
I turned toward the mayor, without responding to Chad. “Please excuse me. But know I’m committed to the rejuvenation of the locks surrounding the arena, and you’re right; Frisco’s an excellent model for how to brand the area and bring in more foot traffic.”
I spent another hour and a half circulating the room before I made my way to Zaila. The ballroom had filled with the chatter of Houston’s elite, but Zaila was engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation with one of the team’s sponsors.
“—but Hemingway’s style, while groundbreaking, often lacks the emotional depth found in Fitzgerald’s work,” Zaila noted, her eyes alight with passion.
The sponsor nodded, looking a bit overwhelmed, so I interjected, “Ah, the eternal debate of the Lost Generation. Mind if I cut in?”
Zaila turned, a smile playing on her red lips. “Only if you’re prepared to defend your position, Mr. Evaldson.”
My cock twitched, as it always did when Zaila used my last name. “I’m always prepared.” I took a sip of my drink and enjoyed the faint flush that crept up her neck.
Despite what I should do, I would take Zaila home with me tonight. I would love her body as I already did her mind and soul. Fuck the critics—she and I deserved happiness. And we were going to get it.
The sponsor excused himself, leaving me alone with this amazing woman. We might be in a sea of bodies, but I couldn’t care less. “So,” I said, handing her a glass of Champagne from a passing tray, “you’re Team Fitzgerald, I take it?”
Zaila accepted the glass, even as she protested. “I shouldn’t. I’m working.”
“I gave it to you. I want you to enjoy yourself. Plus, the next time you attend one of these, it’ll be as my date, not just my employee.” I stopped there, as I didn’t want to spook her. I had plans for the evening after all. “So, it’s best to take part in the niceties.”
“Always prepared,” Zaila murmured before she took a tiny sip.
“Fill me in on your thoughts about Fitzgerald,” I encouraged.
Her smile widened. “The way he captures the disillusionment of the Jazz Age is a marvel. Top-notch lyricism. Let me guess, you’re about to make a case for Hemingway’s manly prose?”
I chuckled. “I’ve always been partial to Steinbeck. The humanity in his writing works for me.”
“Steinbeck?” Zaila’s eyebrows shot up. “How did I not know that? Gunnar, that’s a plot twist I never expected. How fabulous! The Grapes of Wrath or East of Eden?”
