I stop in front of the coffee and pastry station my assistant—who just so happens to be my cousin and only employee—put together, reaching to refill my coffee cup—
“You should have some water.”
I snort, then toss my empty coffee cup in the trashcan and grab a bottle of water. Anderson’s right; I don’t need more caffeine. I’m wound tightly enough as it is.
Laughter echoes down the corridor and I freeze.
My heart stops.
Time stalls.
Bracing myself, I turn slowly toward the floor to ceiling windows that encase this meeting room. I know that laugh. Honestly, in a different world, I might love that laugh.
But this can’t be happening.
Please no.
With a deep inhale, I lift my gaze—
My competition strides toward me with his arm around my star player, the young man who was going to secure my agency’s success. The football star I haveeverythingriding on.
Beside me, Anderson gasps, then unsuccessfully tries to cover the sound with a cough.
“You’re seeing this, too?” I whisper under my breath.
“Yes,” Anderson squeaks.
So, I’m not hallucinating then.
My biggest fear has come to fruition.
And that fear is dressed in a delectable three-piece suit that probably cost a small fortune and was made to fit him so perfectly that if I wasn’t so consumed by dread right now, I’d be drooling over the way it hugs his frame—from his broad shoulders to those thick, footballer’s thighs…
Maxwell Cruz, the most beautiful man to ever step foot on the field.
The one-night stand I cannot get away from.
And the best sports agent in the business.
My jaw clenches so hard that if the deafening thunder of my pulse in my ears wasn’t so damn loud, I might be able to hear the sound of my teeth cracking.
“How?” The word slips out just above a whisper as my world crashes down around me.
Anderson’s fingers glide over his phone screen in rapid succession, typing who knows what to who knows who about the destruction heading our way.
I’m standing directly in the line of the eye of the storm, and I can’t seem to move. Can’t seem to do much of anything but gape as my future—and the future of my company—hangs in the balance.
Maxwell Cruz isHollywood Heartthrobpersonified. He’s arrogance, beauty, and charm rolled into a delectable package that makes women fall at his feet and men turn green with envy.He’s managed to master that City of Angels air of nonchalance while dressed in a three-piece suit that screams Wallstreet, with a build that can only be attributed to an athlete at the top of their game—even though he’s beenoutof the game for well over a decade.
While his hair is usually a perfectly tousled mess of near-black waves, today he’s wearing a cowboy hat and, much as I hate to admit it, he wears it well.
He’s upped the ante. Becauseof coursehe has. This is Max Cruz, after all.
His well-worn cowboy hat reminds anyone looking at him that he’s a southern boy through-and-through, regardless of the bespoke suit or shiny black loafers. It’s a calculated decision, that hat, and I can admit that he has one-upped me in just that simple decision alone.
Because helookslike the young man he’s courting. He would fit right in with those red dirt roads and Friday night lights.
And before he even enters this conference room, I can bet he’s going to turn that southern charm on full blast. His dimpled cheeks and that sexy drawl are his secret weapons.
