“Still here?” he says, sounding entirely unimpressed.
Naomi blinks. “This is a workplace. That’s what people do in them.”
He ignores her. “Glen called. We need someone in Hartford in two days. They’re shooting the next round of TV spots for the end-of-season packages. Mila can’t go. She’s double-booked with the pet food people.”
Naomi sits up straighter. “So…you’re going?”
“I’m not on that account anymore,” he replies, barely looking up from his phone, his thumb flicking across the screen like this conversation is already stealing too much of his time. “Mila’s handling it on her own.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?” she asks, watching his face.
Richard doesn’t flinch, but the way he keeps his eyes locked on his phone tells her everything. “There’s not,” he says blandly. “It’s a logistics issue, that’s all.”
“Then maybe they should reschedule for when Mila’s free.”
At that, he finally looks at her. Really looks. “They specifically asked for you.”
Naomi blinks. “What?”
“Glen asked for you. Said you’re good with the players. That you got the best footage last time and kept things running smoothly.” He shrugs. “He wants you. Not Mila.”
Her throat goes dry. Panic skitters up her spine. She is absolutely not prepared to return to Hartford and face Tall. Not alone. Not after everything that happened. She needs backup. A buffer. Maybe a five-step emotional containment plan and a really big pair of sunglasses.
She sits forward. “I really think it would make more sense if Mila?—”
“Naomi.” His voice cuts in, firm but not unkind. “Suck it up. You say you want to grow here? You want more opportunities? This is one. Take it.”
She swallows, throat tight. “It’s just...I don’t know if I’m the right person to?—”
“You are,” he says, folding his arms, gaze unflinching. “You’re the one Glen trusts. You’re the one the players respond to. And I don’t say that because I enjoy feeding your ego.”
Naomi forces a laugh, but her stomach keeps turning slow, anxious somersaults. She’s not ready to face Tall. Not even close. Still, warmth unfurls in her chest at Richard's reluctant praise—at being believed in by someone whose enthusiasm for her usually ranks just above a man being dragged to a root canal.
Richard sighs. Then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “I know you and Mila think I’m the bad guy. Mila’s got her reasons, and she’s earned them. But I do what’s best for the company. And right now, that’s sending you.”
Naomi blinks, momentarily stunned.
He gives her a final, pointed look—one that clearly meansdon’t fuck it up—then turns and walks away.
Naomi sinks back into her chair, suddenly very aware of the knots in her stomach and the adrenaline spiking through her veins.
Glen asked for her. Not Mila.
She’s going to Hartford.
CHAPTER 21
NAOMI
The Hartford arena is exactly as she remembers it. Cold. Brown. Deeply unsexy.
The exterior is all concrete and utilitarian siding, like someone asked, what if a DMV was also a hockey arena? There’s a faint scent of popcorn in the air as she steps out of the taxi and exhales, her breath fogging in front of her.
Naomi clutches her coat tighter around her ribs, like that might hold her together.
Okay.
She can do this.
