“Hm.” Hazel tilted her head as she looked at what the machine spat out. “We’re not very photogenic, are we?”
Gareth chuckled softly and held the strip of photos up between them. “They look awful!”
“I still like them. I’ll show them to your dad when he comes to visit this weekend.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Groaning, he shook his head. “Why did you have to remind me that he’s coming? I’m throwing the photos away.”
“No! Are you crazy?” Incredulous, she pulled the pictures from his hands. “They’re…real.”
“And your poor grasp of language strikes again. Real and awful aren’t synonymous, Hazel.”
She pinched his side. “I’ll keep them until I want to forget you.”
Sighing, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulled her against him, and kissed her temple. “Then I hope for your sake that you never throw them away.”
She didn’t intend to.
Chapter One
Social conduct for hate-free inter-colleague teamwork
For short: SCHIT
Paragraph 1:
Professionalism must be maintained on the telephone – and Mr. Clark must not be addressed as Mr. Snark.
Seven years later...
Gareth Clark was used to people not liking him. He never aimed to be unpleasant — but he also didn’t go to any great lengths to convince people otherwise.
He had too much money for that. His patience was too short. He was too attractive and lacked compassion. Besides, he didn’t see the point in smiling when he didn’t feel like it, or in holding back his opinions to spare someone’s feelings. His ambition, his obsession with control, and his Harvard law degree had made him too rational, arrogant, complacent, ruthless, cold, and hard.
If you searched long enough, Google could spit out more lists of unflattering adjectives, each more flowery than the last. But Gareth didn’t search, and certainly not for long. He didn’t give a damn what people thought of him.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t avoid picking up some assessments of his character.
…I’ll tell you! There are three types of assholes. First: The heartless, cold-blooded, calculating version who never loses control. Outwardly friendly and polite, but can deliberately flip the switch to jerk to get what they want. Second: The bossy, loud version who doesn’t give a damn about the world’s opinion or the world itself. They are just an asshole because they enjoy being that way. Third: Gareth Clark. Who combines both.”
Chuckling softly, Gareth leaned back in his office chair and opened the paper to finish reading the interview. It had been sitting on his desk with the note:Exciting read! Thought it’d entertain you. Probably a gift from his sister, who’d told him better bedtime stories before — but nowhere near as humorous.
I swear the owner of the L.A. Hawks has no love for anything but his money! He didn’t sell me because of my competence on the ice. He was just pissed off because I told him his tie was ugly! The whole thing is a personal vendetta. There's a room in hell with his name on it.
Gareth snorted in amusement and put the paper down. He had no problem with that prick’s drivel. At least there was a grain of truth to it. But winger Malcolm Smith shouldn’t be telling blatant lies simply because he was angry that Gareth had traded him. Sure, he’d be pissed off if he had to endure the Canadian frost instead of the Californian sun, but that wasn’t a reason to take it personally.
None of Smith’s five statements was true. First, Gareth was only a part-owner, since he managed the hockey team with his sister. Second, he didn’t pick out his own ties. He wore whateverhis personal shopper hung in his closet. Why should he be bothered by a comment about his fashion inadequacies when he literally bought his sense of style? He’d realized long ago he didn’t have one of his own. Third: There was a damn suite waiting for him in hell, not a crappy room. Fourth: He loved things more than money. Lots of things, actually. Okay, a few things. For example: clear, color-coded appointment calendars and Excel spreadsheets. His sister Penny. Rock-hard mattresses and Froot Loops. His best friends and his goddaughter. Ice hockey. Milky Ways. Sudoku. Fifth: Gareth had no personal vendettas. He’d sold Smith because the guy had barely seen the ice the previous season, had a terrible work ethic — and apparently had a problem with having a female boss. That Gareth couldn’t stand the guy was beside the point. Gareth didn’t make business decisions based solely on grudges. He remained objective and rational when it came to the team. Well, with one exception. But exceptions proved the rule.
His gaze slid to the last line on the page at the end of the interview – he didn’t do things half-assed, he had to finish things once he started them – and his jaw hardened.
Hazel Barrow, CEO of Barrow Sports Agency, would not comment on the sale or her client’s statement.
He’d almost forgotten that Smith was Hazel’s client. But shit, he wasn’t surprised. Maybe she’d even put the words in his mouth.
He rubbed his face, suppressing the sweet-sharp feeling in his chest. It happened every time he read, heard, or said Hazel’s name. Probably just heartburn. He preferred to focus on Smith’s words, which honestly made him chuckle. The guy had leaked to the press that a necktie had meant his end with the Hawks, and no one questioned it?
“Everything okay?”
Gareth looked up and saw Freddie Cravitz standing in the open office doorway. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t smiling enough lately; his assistant doubted his sanity whenever he saw the corners of his mouth turned up.
