When she’s stopped coughing, I wait for her to say something, but not only does she not speak, she won’t even look at me.Hm.
“Could be random, you know, just the idea of a famous footballer being surrounded by beautiful women…” I rub my hand over my jaw. “But the part that’s bothering me is that you mentioned Vegas, and thirty-four floors up.” I grip the back of her chair and spin her toward me. “Very specific details, but I can’t recall any newsworthy stories coming out of that trip.”I shrug. “So I did a little internet sleuthing and couldn’t find anything.”
She lifts her head, meeting my gaze, and the look in her eyes isn’t one of fire or disdain—I’m used to being on the receiving end ofthoselooks—but one of hurt and distrust.
Immediately, my shoulders tense. Frowning, I search her gaze. “Were you…” I let the words trail off because of course she wasn’t there. Sutton Hart was never a Playboy bunny; that’s information I’d know.
And an issue I’d own ten-plus copies of.
Her phone buzzes on the countertop, dragging her attention away from me. I watch her read her incoming text, then her shoulders deflate and she types out a quick response.
“Bad news?”
She jumps like she forgot I was beside her.
“Yeah,” she says with a bitter chuckle, “my three o’clock appointment canceled, so my assistant cleared the rest of my afternoon. Told me to enjoy my lunch.”
That doesn’t seem like bad news, but then, the more I learn about this woman, the less it seems I understand.
The bartender returns to us and Sutton places a drink order, then I follow suit. “I’ll have whatever that is.” I motion toward Sutton’s cocktail.
When we’re mostly alone again, save for the diners sitting on either side of us and the restaurant full of Friday afternoon patrons, Sutton spins her chair toward me. “You really don’t remember, do you?” She shakes her head as her eyes flick back and forth between my own. “I guess I always hoped you remembered and just felt too stupid to say anything.” She barks out a bitter laugh. “But of course not, right? Men like you don’t remember women like me, and you certainly don’t apologize for the shit you pull.”
I raise my hands. “Hold up, what?” Shaking my head, I add, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sutton. Men like me don’trememberwomen like you?” I scoff because the idea is fucking comical, at best. She’s all I think about lately. “I’ve probably asked you out two-dozen times—”
“And I always turn you down.”
“Right,so—”
“Why do you think that is, Max?” Her jaw is tight as she watches me, lips pulled into a firm line. The look in her eyes has morphed from hurt into hatred, and though I can’t say I ever want those amber eyes hurting, whateverthisis feels much, much worse.
This feels like a trap, but I’m not sure why or how, and I certainly have no idea how to escape from it.
After a drawn-out stretch of heavy silence, Sutton scoffs, shaking her head as she flags down the bartender. “I’ll take the check when you have a moment.”
He nods, then strides toward the drink well to finish making our cocktails.
“Sutton…” I don’t know what to say next. Scrambling for something, anything, I finally just settle on the fucking truth: “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
Her shoulders shake on a silent laugh, then she slowly swivels back to face me, and I feel like I’m about to be skewered onto a BBQ spit. “Right. And when was that?”
Frowning, I think back to that day she walked into my life five years ago.
Athleticas, once the largest sports agency of its time, was housed in a massive, open-air warehouse downtown. Unlike other agencies, with their small offices and tight cubicles, Athleticas was wide open. Loud and high energy.
I was there for a lunch meeting with my former agent, shooting the shit and laughing about the good ol’ days whenSutton Hart walked in—and all cognitive thought left the room. I don’t remember how long he continued speaking before realizing he’d lost me.
My eyes were glued to a knockout in a navy-blue pantsuit and cream-colored high heels, her hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail. I remember it so vividly, even all these years later, the way she climbed up onto the massive conference table that sat in the center of the warehouse floor, and whistled so loudly they must have heard that shrill sound clear across the country.
I was fucked the moment I laid eyes on her.
She interrupted the midday rush of contract negotiations, handshakes, and circle-jerking to announce that she was quitting. It was the wildest thing I’d seen in some time, and to say I was intrigued would be putting it lightly.
She made quick work of citing her reasons, from unfair practices, a lack of loyalty, blatant misogyny, and a whole slew of other things she’d found wrong within the agency and the industry as a whole. Her diatribe was both brutal and beautiful—and spot on, but I’ll never admit to that part out loud. When she was done, this badass just climbed down from the table and strode out with her head held high even as the men in the room laughed at her back.
I lick my lips as they pull into a smile. They didn’t see what I saw. What I see. “It was the day you quit working at Athleticas.”
She smiles sadly, inhales a deep breath through her nose, then gives a curt nod.
