“See you in the hallway,” I call after him. He shoots me a two-fingered salute, not bothering to slow down.
Touche.
If we weren’t in front of the team, I’d flick him off. Instead, I give him a tight smile and tap my watch.
“Hustle.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing outside the locker room waiting on Bennett. Every second ticking by pisses me off more than the last.
Events like this are the reason I hired the bodyguards. I have a hedge fund to run, a market to watch.
Instead, I’m monitoring an overgrown frat bro who can’t keep his hands — or opinions — to himself.
“Ready, Sunshine?” Bennett swings out of the locker room, the loud din of male voices filtering into the hallway. He’s dressed in joggers and a navy-blue team hoodie, freshly showered with still-damp hair. I’m close enough to catch a hint of his cologne, brisk and clean — and I hate that I notice his scent at all.
“Yes. And stop calling me that.” I press my lips into a thin, tight line and spin toward the Founders Lounge.
“Would you prefer warden?” He falls into step with me, taking long, easy strides.
“No, I would not. How about Tori? Or better yet, nothing at all?”
“Geez. Killjoy.” He swivels his head around. “Where are the boys, Knox and Bishop?” You call them off or what?”
My shoulders tighten, hands clenching at the mention of the bodyguards. “They’ll be outside the event. It’s best if they blend in.”
“Oh.” Bennett pauses mid-step, his face breaking into a slow grin. “You didn’t tell daddy about that, did you?”
My gut churns, anxiety a sick swirl in my stomach. I don’t enjoy losing the upper hand, and somehow, Bennett knowing the truth feels a lot like a checkmate.
“My father doesn’t need to know all the minor day-to-day details. He gave me a task and I’m getting it done. On my terms.”
“Hmm…” He nods, his eyebrows knit together. “Got it. So he’d be cool with you outsourcing me? The asset?”
“Listen, Puck boy—I’m dealing with it. Right now, all you need to do is walk into this meet-and-greet, smile, and look pretty. Don’t say anything stupid, and for the love of all things holy, keep your fists to yourself.”
“Relax, Sunshine. I only hit people who deserve it.” He gives me an exaggerated wink and I debate using my own fists — on him.
Instead, I take a deep, cleansing breath.
I can do hard things.
“Don’t kick up extra paperwork for me,” I deadpan, then forge ahead with the plan. “We go in, you sign some autographs, snap a few photos, and we leave. Got it?”
The corners of Bennett’s eyes crinkle as he mulls over my little pep talk.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a pro.”
Without hesitation, he steps into the Founders Lounge, leaving me in the dust.
This gig’s turning out to be more annoying than anticipated.
And it’s Day One.
The Founders Lounge is dim and intimate, all dark wood and leather. A bar takes up the left side of the room and club chairs, sofas, and coffee tables fill the rest of the space. A large television hangs on the wall, with hockey coverage playing on repeat. About a dozen or so people mingle, chatting and drinking. A few waiters circulate withcanapes and Bennett snags a wonton off a tray as he beelines toward my father.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I hurry across the room to intercept him and at least appear as if I have him under control.
