Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  Becca leaves my house laughing.

  * * *

  The workweek gets off to a rocky start. Monday is a long slog through meetings in Manhattan. The main point of business is choosing a buyer for my router division. After the Canadian company made an offer, I also got one from Alex’s cable company.

  Weirdly, Alex hasn’t called to talk to me about it herself. Everything is coming through her investment banking team. So that’s odd.

  And—as she predicted—I don’t see Becca at the game that night. Not only do we lose game four, but I hate that she’s avoiding me. I’m still Becca’s dirty secret.

  But Tuesday night she’s all smiles. We eat sushi at a new place in Brooklyn Heights and then walk home again. I light a fire in the den, and Becca sets up the Scrabble board. But two turns in we jump each other.

  Go slow, I remind myself as we make out on the sofa. But apparently that’s just not possible. Ten minutes later I have all her clothes off and mine, too. I direct her to lean over an ottoman in front of the fireplace. I nudge her knees apart, and she moans.

  Taking her hips in my hands, I push inside.

  “Nathan,” she gasps, her hands gripping the furniture.

  I do her right there. And it’s amazing. But it isn’t slow.

  * * *

  Nothing else goes right, however.

  The meetings come thick and fast. I’m tired of analyzing this transaction, but I can’t just dump the work on others, because there are 126 Kattenberger Tech employees whose jobs are on the line. I owe it to them to make the right decision.

  Alex is still talking to me only via vague text and through her investment banking team. So I can’t even discuss it with her properly.

  On Wednesday morning I get a call from Stew. “Hey, you got a second?”

  “Sure. But aren’t I meeting with you in fifteen minutes?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, but not about this. This is a closed-door conversation.”

  “Uh-oh.” I get up and close my office door. “What’s the problem?”

  “I got a call from this kid Mickey down in the AI research division.”

  “You did? Why?” Stewie is our CFO and doesn’t usually muck around with research. Mickey is the one who’s working on the Bingley product.

  “He and I play squash on Thursdays. His backhand makes me feel like an old geezer. Anyway, he knows you and I are close, and he wanted my advice about something.”

  “Okay—what?”

  Stew laughs again, and I’m starting to wonder what’s so funny. “Well, think about it. He studies the audio files from your module at home. And suddenly they’re full of…”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “Exactly.” Stew busts a gut on the other end of the line.

  For a smart guy, I can do some pretty stupid shit. I’d completely forgotten that other people heard my interactions with Bingley. He talks to me and Mrs. Gray and the kids down in AI listen to the interactions to figure out how well the module responds.

  Rebecca would die of embarrassment if she heard about this. And probably castrate me, too.

  “I hope you told him to delete those files?”

  “Yup. And then I told him to set it up so that you need to okay each day’s interactions. You’re going to get an email every morning. If you push a button in that email to send him the files, he’ll hear them. If you delete the email, the files stay private.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “Thanks for handling it.”

  “You’re welcome!” He snickers. “Notice I’m not judging you for their content.”

  “That’s because you didn’t hear them. I did some of my best work this week.”

  “Congratulations. Can I assume that the beneficiary of your efforts is a certain Bruisers employee? Or did you take your ambitions elsewhere?”

  “No. It’s her. No need to lecture me, though.”

  “Do you hear a lecture? However you two worked it out, I’m sure you made HR proud.”

  “They wouldn’t be wildly excited about the whole thing. But it was her decision.”

  “Hey—I don’t have any doubt.” Stew clears his throat. “I hope this sticks, man. You deserve someone who can put up with your dorky ass.”

  “It’s no dorkier than yours,” I argue.

  “A nut for a jar of tuna,” he replies, and it actually takes me a second to realize it’s a palindrome. “I’m happy for you. When’s the wedding?”

  I snort. “Baby steps. First I have to convince her that the world won’t end if other people know we’re together.”

  “Smart girl. The practical implications of dating you aren’t really so great. Are you going to put a bodyguard on her?”

  “Ugh. No. She’d hate that.”

  My best friend is quiet for a moment. “It’ll come up someday.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “Please. If I was I wouldn’t have started the conversation congratulating you on your sex life.”

  “Are you coming down the hall to meet with the tax guys now, or what?”

  “See you in ten.”

  * * *

  And if work wasn’t fun enough, my hockey team decided to really stink it up during games five and six. The Bruisers had led the series 3-0 going into the week. But after Monday’s debacle, they lose a remarkable two more games in a row.

  I can barely leave the stadium after Saturday night’s game. The press conference is grim, and on my way out, every reporter in New York wants to shove a microphone in my face, asking me how I feel about my investment now.

  No comment, fuckers. But I can’t say that. Hell, there’s a lot I can’t say. The fact that Dallas has just won the Western Conference slot makes me feel insane.

  I fucking hate that team. And my fragile male ego really really wanted a chance to match off against them. Really a lot.

  But I can’t say that, either. So I let Ramesh and two of his team members encircle me as we make our way out to the car.

  It’s midnight already. I’m grumpy and probably poor company. But I pull out my phone to text Rebecca anyway, because I have no self-control.

  And I find that she’s already beat me to it. Ack. Sorry about that shitshow of a game. Hugh looks like a bomb about to blow.

  I’ll bet he does, I reply. Where are you?

  I see her start to answer me immediately. Packing for an early departure to Detroit.

  Shit. Of course she is. Sit with me in the box on Tuesday?

  A couple of minutes go by without an answer. Ramesh pulls into the garage and I tell him good night. Inside, Bingley greets me, but I give him the silent treatment. He tried to embarrass my girl.

  Or, fuck, I guess it’s me who’s guilty. Bingley doesn’t have a human brain.

  But why do we have technology if we can’t blame it when things go wrong?

  Becca finally responds. I don’t think I can sit there in a box seat beside you and pretend I’m not undressing you with my eyes. I’ll watch the game with Georgia, as I usually do. And we’ll catch up later.

  Ah, well.

  No problem, I reply. We can sit together during round four in Dallas.

  Awfully sure of yourself! :)

  Stick with me, babe.

  Tell you what, she comes back a minute later. If our boys make it to the final round next week, I’ll sit beside you during the deciding game.

  It’s a date, I agree. If we win the Cup, I’m going to have to kiss you.

  If we win the cup, I’m going to have to let you.

  I walk upstairs grinning to myself.

  22

  Rebecca

  Another day, another red carpet.

  From the bus window, I watch the players file off the vehicle to applause. I’m sure it’s less applause than the Detroit team received on their way into the stadium, since game seven will be held tonight on their home turf. But the hockey fans are out in force, since this game will decide who goes on to play for the Cup in round four. Regardless, there is a sizable crowd cheering a
s my boys strut into the stadium in their suits.

  “Oh my,” Heidi Jo sighs beside me. She says that a lot when the boys are wearing crisp shirts and ties.

  “Ready, ladies?” Hugh pauses in the aisle of the bus.

  “Absolutely,” I tell my boss.

  Always the gentleman, Hugh waits for Heidi Jo and me to exit the bus ahead of him. Unwilling to hold him up, I nudge Heidi Jo to her feet and then quickstep to the front of the bus. I thank the driver and then hop down.

  Unfortunately, the asphalt is a little further away than I anticipate, and I turn my ankle for a split second before catching myself on the grab bar. A bolt of pain slices up my leg.

  Shit.

  Even so, I step to the side and smile.

  “Oh, honey!” Heidi Jo says too loudly. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine!” Nothing to see here.

  Hugh gives me a small frown. But there are people watching so he gives the crowd a wave. “Working lunch with the boys in thirty, right?” he asks me.

  “Right.” My ankle throbs. “I’m going to call the caterer right now and make sure everything is a go. See you inside?”

  He gives me a friendly salute and walks toward the doors, where the security staff sees him through.

  I wait until the bus pulls away before putting any weight on my left foot. And then I take a tentative step. It’s…sore. But not that bad. I think I’ll live.

  “Well?” Heidi Jo crosses her arms. “Is this because you’re shaky today?”

  “It’ll be fine. And I’m not shaky.” But I am. It’s been a shaky day. Too much stress and too little sleep last night. I gave myself the worst hotel room—the one right near the elevator shafts—because the players need their Zs if they’re going to win game seven. I haven’t been to therapy in ten days, and I can feel my exhaustion affecting my balance. I feel squinty and tired. Not that I’ll admit it to anyone.

  And if that weren’t enough trouble for one week, I also got my period yesterday. So I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours ducking into public bathrooms to pop ibuprofen and feed quarters into tampon machines.

  I swear to God I heard O’Doul complaining about a hangnail on the bus just now. A professional athlete.

  Standing here on the asphalt outside the arena, I dial the caterer. One thing you learn traveling the continent’s hockey destinations is that if you need to talk to someone, don’t call from the bowels of a stadium.

  Heidi Jo waits patiently while I review our food order. My faithful shadow.

  “Okay,” I say, chucking my Katt phone into my bag. “They’re en route, but hit traffic. They’ll be ten minutes late. Let’s go tell Jimbo so he can watch for them.”

  “Roger,” she says, as we stroll toward the door, me limping slightly. Now that all the fuss is over, the entrance is guarded by a single person. Although he’s the size of two people. His neck is thicker than my waist, I think.

  I pull out my team ID and show it to him. Heidi Jo does the same.

  The human refrigerator frowns. “Players only beyond this point,” he says.

  That’s ridiculous, since our team credentials allow access anywhere. “If you’ll step aside I’ll show you that my card opens the door.”

  He steps aside. I wave my card past the scanner and… Nothing happens. Shit. It’s been demagnetized in my bag. “Heidi Jo?”

  She lifts her card but Mr. Refrigerator moves to block her. “Sorry, miss. Players only beyond this point.”

  “Please let her try her card? Or radio inside,” I say coolly. “I’m the assistant to Hugh Major, the General Manager, and he’s expecting us. I can show you my Bruisers ID…”

  He holds up a hand. “Listen, girls. This might work for you sometimes, but not on my watch. I know it’s fun to stalk the players, but…”

  “Are you kidding me?” I sputter. “We’re not…stalking the team. We work for the team. It’s different!” I feel myself becoming a little unhinged. This shit happens frequently enough, but today I just can’t take it.

  “No girlfriends neither,” the guy adds.

  I’m about to leap on his giant body and choke him when Heidi Jo sort of nudges me gently aside with one of her slim little hips. “How ‘bout I call the G.M. out here to vouch for us? He’s rully busy but he’s likely getting impatient without us so I’m sure he’d be willing to answer your questions.” She smiles innocently up at the Neanderthal who’s giving us trouble.

  The giant man blinks. She’s calling his bluff, and he’s having a moment of doubt. Getting reamed by the G.M. of an NHL team probably isn’t on his to-do list for today.

  “Lemme see your ID again, miss?”

  She hands it over quickly and Mr. Refrigerator squints at it.

  If this works, I’m going to owe Heidi Jo. But it’ll be worth it.

  My ankle throbs while I wait to hear the verdict. He must be a really slow reader.

  “Imma think about it a minute,” he says slowly.

  “You do that,” I can’t resist saying.

  Heidi Jo makes a warning face and pulls me aside, to give the big man his space. “Easy,” she whispers. “I’ve got this.”

  I take a deep breath in through my nose. “You’re right,” I say, even though it hurts me. “You’re sugar-on-top routine is working better than my sass.”

  The compliment thrills her, and I get a big puppy-like smile. “I saw you do the same thing just last week. Learning from the master.” She pulls out her phone in a showy display of urgency. She dials up her Southern accent, too. “I’m fixing to call in the big guns before an entire hockey team misses lunch. They’ll be rully upset.”

  That’s when a shiny limousine pulls up where the bus was a few minutes ago. We all turn to see the chauffeur step out of the driver’s side, cross the car, and open the door for none other than Nate Kattenberger.

  How many times have I seen Nate get out of a car? Hundreds? Thousands? This time my belly flips over. His sleek body unfolds, revealing his trademark hoodie, the sleeves tugged up to reveal strong forearms. He’s wearing hipster jeans and black suede kicks with a retro sole.

  I spent years trying not to notice how attractive he is. But now a switch has been flipped and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to unsee it.

  He grabs a leather duffel out of the car and hoists it onto a shoulder. Then he struts over to us with a serious frown, looking like a runway model as the breeze tosses his hair.

  Even Mr. Refrigerator looks a little turned on. Or maybe I’m just projecting.

  “Miss Rowley,” Nate purrs. He doesn’t make eye contact but his voice lingers on my name in a way that makes me shiver. “Miss Pepper. What are we doing standing around the back entrance?” He gives Mr. Refrigerator a piercing look, and of course the guy sweeps the door open with his own security card and ushers all of us inside.

  Of course he does.

  “Don’t you clobber the guy, Becca,” my intern warns. “Just keep it movin.’”

  Nate chuckles, and the sound vibrates inside my chest. It’s almost enough to distract me from the lingering pain in my ankle. “Having a little trouble with security?”

  “Just the usual sexist crap. Mr. Kattenberger,” I add to be a pill.

  “We were just about to outsmart ‘im,” Heidi Jo adds.

  “I’m sure you were,” he says. And then his gaze does a sweep of me from head to toe. It’s entirely gratuitous. I’m half annoyed at his lack of subtlety, and half pleased by his interest.

  Heidi Jo gives us a funny little smile. “I just remembered a little errand I have to run,” she says. “If you’ll both excuse me.” Then she darts away, her heels clicking along the concrete hallway. Then she turns a corner and disappears.

  Uh-oh. The morning after the previous incident—when she walked in on Nate and me standing way too close together—she’d asked me point-blank if Nate was my boyfriend. I’d denied it because he wasn’t. But now he is. More or less…

  This thought is interrupted by a certain billionaire
who steps into my personal space, leans me against the wall, and kisses my neck.

  Goosebumps rise up all over my body, and I instinctively turn my head to give him better access. “Mr. Kattenberger,” I whisper. “This is hardly the time or place.”

  “I know,” he mumbles between kisses. “That makes it extra fun.” He palms my ass through my dress and it’s difficult to argue the point. “Come to my suite tonight after the game.” It’s a demand, not a question, and my nipples firm up at the sound of his voice. Whew.

  Taking his chin in both hands, I remove his lips from my quivering body and hold his questing mouth at a safe distance. He blinks at me from close range, those light brown eyes warm and happy. “Down, boy,” I order.

  Nate sticks out his tongue and pants like a puppy. “I’m two seconds away from humping your leg. It’s been three days since I saw you last, Miss Rowley.”

  “You mean saw me naked,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, which isn’t easy, since I’m still holding onto it. “You keep saying that. And I do enjoy your nakedness. But I miss you, and you won’t text with me.”

  “That’s because Heidi Jo takes my phone away from me whenever she thinks I’ve had too much screen time. Do you want her reading your dirty palindromes, or whatever it is you want to text me?”

  He grins. “Dirty palindromes. I could work with that.”

  I hear footsteps in the adjacent hallway. Nate hears them, too, because we step away from each other. He pulls out his phone as Jimbo from operations walks into view. “Becca, the caterers are pulling up outside. Hold the door open for us?”

  “Sure,” I say brightly.

  Nate tucks his phone away again. “Will you bring me those documents after the game?” Nate asks me.

  I actually roll my eyes. So subtle, Mr. Kattenberger. But I’m not going to his room tonight. I don’t want to get caught. And since it’s shark week, I’d only end up disappointing him. “You’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow for that paperwork,” I insist. “Enjoy game night.”

  “I’ll try,” he says with a sigh. “Later.”

  The word is casual, but he gives me a hot look over his shoulder as he walks away.