by Maria Luis
I want to apologize, but something tells me he wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. Still, there’s one last question burning on my tongue, and I give in pathetically. “Do you still go on dates with her?”
If I thought he looked upset before, now he looks downright annoyed. A pulse leaps to his jaw, ticking away like a sand-timer.
Without warning, he moves swiftly, invading my personal space, backing me up against the wall. The dartboard is just to my right. His hands land on either side of my head, boxing me in until all I can smell is the scent of pine and all I can see is the ink peeking out from the neck of his T-shirt at his throat.
I inhale sharply, dragging much-needed oxygen into my lungs.
“You’re not asking me about dating, are you, Charlie?” One hand slides down my arm before taking a detour and landing flat on my belly. The heat of his palm seeps through my layers of clothing. The heat of his palm sends want spearing down between my legs. “No, you’re not asking me about dating,” he rasps, his mouth dipping to hover by my ear, “You want to know if I fuck her, don’t you.”
“No,” I whisper on a shaky breath.
“Liar.”
He’s totally right. I’m lying between my teeth. It’s not my fault. I do want to know if there’s something going on between him and Gwen, not that is affects me either way. Duke and I . . . whatever this is, isn’t permanent. I have seven days until my article is due for review. Seven days to remember that my attraction to him is probably only skyrocketing because of close proximity.
If I only had to see him via TV or online, no way would I be suffering this sort of need. And, yeah, I’m needy. My hands are curling into fists, desperate to sink into his soft T-shirt and pull him close. My knees are stick-straight, to keep my body from sinking against his chest. My heart is beating so fast that I’m worried it might leap out of my chest.
I want Duke Harrison.
Maybe it’s because of my job.
Maybe it’s because he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever talked to personally.
Maybe it’s because whenever he steps close, all good reason flies away to destinations unknown.
Whatever “it” is, I give in to temptation and ask, “Are you having sex with her?”
I feel the vibration of his harsh laugh reverberate against my chest. “I don’t mix business with pleasure, Charlie.”
At the squeezing of my heart, I glance up to meet his gaze. “Then what are you doing right now?”
Just like that, Duke releases me with a curse. His hands fly to the back of his head, like he’s got to keep them away from me. After a moment, in which my breathing slowly regulates and I’ve slumped against the wall for stability, he twists around. He points his finger at me, and then points at himself. “This isn’t happening.”
Disappointment grips my limbs, dragging my shoulders down in a hunch. “I got it. You, athlete. Me, nobody. You don’t have to act so disgusted by the thought of kissing me.”
His large hands follow the line of his neck and close down at the base. Stupid me, I can’t help but notice how attractive he looks, all frazzled and disjointed. His biceps coil under his shirt, unfurling when he drops his arms to his side on a heavy exhalation. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it is,” I say, straightening my spine and snapping to my full height. I may want him, but I’ve got standards. Plus, it’s not like I haven’t been in a similar position before. Men never seem to want the goods when I’m ready to give them up—hence, my lack of a sex life.
Pushing away from the wall, I stock over to the couch where I draped my coat an hour ago. I stick my arms through the appropriate slots, determined to not let him see how much his rejection hurts me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, zipping my coat up to my chin, a modern-day version of body armor. “You know what? Message me your email on Twitter. I’ll forward the rest of my questions to you there. As long as I have them by next Wednesday, I’ll make my deadline. Then, I’ll get out of your hair.”
Duke makes a grab for my hand when I stalk past him, whirling me around until I’m back in the same position—my back against the wall, the dartboard to my right. This time, I can’t really feel the heat of his body, thanks to the thickness of my puffy winter coat.
“I’m not disgusted by the thought of kissing you,” he mutters, his long-tapered fingers fluttering over my face, before cupping my head. His thumbs fan out over the crests of my cheekbones. “This has nothing to do with Gwen. Nothing to do with you.”
“Exactly,” I exclaim, slapping at his hand though he barely budges. “This has nothing to do with me. We’ve broken your rules, anyway. You said one question per meeting.”
“I adjusted the rules.”
“Then adjust them completely. We don’t meet up after this.”
He doesn’t pull away, and I’m ashamed to admit that my heart rate kicks up speed again. Stupid, stupid heart. Stupid, stupid hope.
“How much more do you need for your feature?” he asks quietly.
In all honesty, I could probably get away with everything he’s told me tonight. Between personal quotes and regurgitated stats from other publications, I’ve got enough on hand that Josh won’t have any complaints. Still, I’m tempted to lie . . . tempted to tell him that I need so much more.
Seven days’ worth of material.
But his rejection still stings, and the thought of wearing my embarrassment like a cloak for the next week deters me from fibbing. “I have enough now,” I tell him, praying that I do. “Look at that, Mr. Harrison—you’re already off the hook after only two days.”
His brows come together like he doesn’t believe me. “Are you sure?”
No. “Yep, completely, one-hundred percent positive. Now, maybe you can back off of me?”
He stays where he is, pressing his hard body against mine for a long, excruciating moment before peeling away. “This isn’t how I planned for this game to go,” he tells me softly, and I believe it. Duke Harrison may be a man of few words, but the open expression on his face speaks of regret.
Regret over nearly kissing me. Just what every woman wants to read in an attractive man’s expression.
Ugh.
“It’s fine,” I say, yanking my coat back into place. “No worries. Thanks for—” I break off, waving my hand at the dartboard.
“Do you need a ride home?” he asks.
“I have my car.”
“Right.”
“It was nice meeting you, Duke. Good luck with the rest of the season.”
I don’t wait for him to tell me anything else. I hastily grab my bag from the couch, hook the strap over my shoulder, and hightail it out of The Box. No one stops me, and though I wish Duke would follow and ask me to stay, I don’t hold my breath.
We’ve only met a handful of times. He probably feels awkward turning me down. He may not want Gwen, but he certainly doesn’t want me.
I don’t mix business with pleasure.
Yeah, I read that memo loud and clear. And I have no intention of seeking either pleasure or business with Duke Harrison again.
Chapter Ten
“What do you mean, ‘it’s lackluster’?” I demand on Monday afternoon, four days after my shit-tastic dart game with Duke.
Josh makes a show of perusing the printed copy of my article, flipping through the pages way too dramatically for my tastes. He tosses the stapled stack onto my desk. “It’s no good, Denton.”
My hands fly to the pages. Red ink mars the entire copy. “Can you tell me why it’s no good?”
Josh readjusts his Red Sox baseball hat. “It’s got no pizazz. No life. I could have been reading about root canals I was so enthralled.”
What is it with this guy and the dentist? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I have bigger fish to fry. You know, like possibly losing my job.
“What sort of ‘pizazz’ are you looking for?” I throw in finger quotations because, what the heck. I’m four days away from being demoted to Josh�
�s secretary-in-training anyway. Just the thought of having to sit in his office all day sends dread trickling down my spine.
I plow forward. “Not only did I speak to him personally, but I attended a game, on his dime. I spoke to his teammates”—okay, one teammate whom I’d stalked all weekend on Twitter—“and I’m telling you, that article right there has more information on Duke Harrison than any other publication has put out since he last won the Stanley Cup three years ago.”
Josh doesn’t bother correcting me on any of that. He simply flicks up the brim of his hat, drags his coffee mug off my desk, and slurps the liquid down. Gross.
“It’s bland, Denton. B-l-a-n-d.”
“I know how to spell,” I mutter, wishing I could slam my office door in his face. With my luck, the damn thing would probably fall off the frame. “I took up Hooked on Phonics at least fifteen years ago.”
He doesn’t laugh at my feeble attempt at humor. “You spent two-thousand words praising him in that article, Charlie. Two-thousand.” Pointing at the discarded papers on my desk, he adds, “That’s two-thousand words too much for a player whose good days on the ice are solidly behind him.”
I don’t like where this is going. Softly, I ask, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that The Cambridge Tribune needs ratings, Denton. We need to spark a fire, cause a stir. We’re being left in the goddamn dust right now and I can’t let that happen.”
Yeah, I really don’t like where this is going. Not to mention the fact that The Tribune has always been in the dust. This isn’t anything new. There are no phoenixes waiting for a cyclical rebirth from the ashes at this company.
Fisting my hands against my thighs, I mutter, “You want me to turn this article into a tabloid spread.”
Josh jerks his head in a barely-there nod. “I want you to turn that article into something that’s gonna catch fire and put The Tribune on the map.”
Whatever I feel for Duke has no play in this. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like paparazzi fodder. Sure, I may have felt slightly different about the situation a week ago, but even then I hadn’t planned to trash the guy in the news. My intention hadn’t been to slam him, but to shed light on a player’s long-term career in the NHL. There’s always a downturn, it’s just a matter of when.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I clasp my hands together tightly in my lap. “I’m not comfortable with that, Josh. He’s not a bad guy—”
The coffee mug slams down on my desk, liquid splashing over the rim as Josh literally explodes. “It’s not about what you’re comfortable with, Denton. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. We are five months away from shutting our doors.”
Five months away from not having a job. A million and one thoughts filter through my head, all of them related to my meager savings account. “Maybe we can find a way to increase subscription volume,” I throw out, opting for the positive approach. “Kick off a social media campaign. Get on Instagram.”
“It’s way too late for Instagram.” Josh is pacing now, his feet thudding heavily across the carpet as he sharply cuts around and renews his path to the door and back. “We need something big. You need to make this article something big. It needs to be something that’ll be picked up by The Huffington Post, maybe People. Hell, if The Daily Mail sinks its claws into it, we’ll be golden.”
All from one article about a man who has never made headlines for anything other than his stick play? Sure, there’s been the rare which-supermodel-is-he-dating-now crap, but the media has always been more focused on his stats.
Not on his personal life.
I feel a little nauseous at the thought of being the vehicle that tears everything down for him.
“Josh, I can’t do this.”
My boss stops mid-stride. He’s got that edgy flare to him again, the one that emerges moments before he cuts loose and flies off the handle. “I’m pushing up your deadline from this Friday.”
“You have my piece,” I tell him, pointing at my desk. “Four days early, even.”
“It needs to be rewritten. I’m telling you, Denton, this shit has got to be good.”
I’m not sure he even knows what he’s asking of me at this point. “What if I don’t?” I burst out. “What if I won’t rewrite it, and you’re stuck with these two-thousand words?”
“You’re fired.”
He says the words so succinctly that my mouth drops open. All I can do is blink back at him. Fired? “I thought my punishment for failure to deliver the copy was demotion.”
“I’ve changed the rules,” he says, sounding a whole lot like Duke from the other night. Josh’s short, squat body swaggers over to my desk and grabs for the article. I’m almost not surprised when he proceeds to tear the paper into shreds, letting the pieces fall into the garbage can.
Shrrripp.
There goes page number one.
Shrrrrripppp.
Page two.
By the time he’s working on page three, anger seeps out of my ears like those on cartoons I used to watch as a kid.
“New deadline is Wednesday, Denton. If that article isn’t on my desk by three p.m., you can pack your things. You’ll have the weekend to apply to those jobs you like so much at the Boston Globe—if they’ll take you.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks from the room. With him, I swear he takes every bit of oxygen. I’m having a hard time regulating my breathing, for one very good reason: I’m so screwed.
I don’t want to do this to Duke, but what choice do I have? It’s either my job or my integrity, and never before have I been so torn between the morally right and the morally wrong.
You’re better than this.
I am better than this. But I’m also struggling to get by, and while Duke has millions of dollars at his disposal, I have a one-room studio and a Prius that took me three years to save up the funds to purchase.
“Jesus, you look like crap,” Casey exclaims, waltzing into our shared office with bagged lunch for the both of us. “What the hell happened when I was gone? You look like someone stomped on your cat.”
“I don’t like cats,” I point out weakly, nearly breaking into tears when she hands me a Dunkin’ Donuts Styrofoam cup, as well as a bagel and a chocolate donut. I plan to eat the donut first, you know, for emotional support.
Casey takes a seat at her desk, swirling around so she can look at me. “Yeah, I know,” she says, falling back into our regular rhythm, “otherwise we could be lesbian lovers and marry.”
I don’t have the energy to play the game.
Instead I stuff my face with the donut and plot my next move.
A move that, no matter how much I wished it wouldn’t, includes the NHL’s golden boy, Duke Harrison.
Chapter Eleven
“Stop moving, Charlie.”
I freeze under the onslaught of Jenny attacking my eyelids with a makeup brush. She swirls more eyeshadow onto my right lid, and I do my best not to blink. “Are you almost done?”
“Almost.”
“How much longer?”
Jenny snorts, and suddenly I don’t feel bad about the way my knee is digging into her stomach. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, head tipped back as my best friend tries to . . . prettify me, I guess.
If such a word actually exists.
“All we need is some mascara, blush, and you’re good.”
Thank God. I’d texted her in a panic two hours ago because, lo and behold, I’m attending a charity event with Duke tonight.
I know. I can barely believe it myself. Pinch me, please.
After messaging him earlier with the SOS, “BOSS WANTS MORE INFO,” he reluctantly agreed to meet me. Only catch? He’s attending an event tonight, and thanks to my looming deadline, I had no choice but to agree to this shindig.
I’m pretending to be a whole lot more put out about these turn of events than I am. In reality, butterflies have broken free in my belly and I’ve smoothed my hands over my dress no less
than three times since I put it on an hour ago.
Another gift from Jenny, bless her heart. While our frames are completely different, we do wear the same size, something I’ve never been so happy about until now.
“Okay, done.”
She steps back, admiring her handiwork with a tilt of her chin. Her hair is pulled back in one of those sharp hair claws, and a few strands fall loose to frame her face. Jenny has always been the “pretty” one out of the two of us, while I’ve always been the athlete.
Eagerly, I straighten off the bed and head for my full-length mirror, which is precariously attached to the wall.
Wow.
I barely recognize myself. My dress—or, rather, Jenny’s dress—is a deep, cobalt blue that swirls around my ankles in varying lengths. The neckline plunges down between my breasts, giving a tantalizing preview of what’s to come if I mistakenly lean forward too far. As for my face . . . It’s me, and yet it isn’t. My freckles are hidden under layers of foundation, concealer, and bronzer. The eyeshadow, however, I love. It’s smoky and dangerous, and makes me feel a lot more edgy than I do in my daily life. To complete the look, Jenny has painted my lips a vampy burgundy, which I thought would clash with the dress but doesn’t at all.
“You like?” Jenny asks, coming up beside me to stare at my reflection. Her hand lifts to my head. “Your hair . . . ”
With the time constraint, nothing could be done to tame my mane. That’s okay. It’s proof that the woman staring back in the mirror is indeed Charlie Denton, and not some blonde seductress out to steal my identity.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my hand finding Jenny’s. I squeeze, just once, and then let her go.
Jenny grins. “I feel like I’m your fairy godmother.”
“Promise me you aren’t going to disappear at midnight,” I tease, mainly to distract myself from my nerves. Duke agreed to collect me for the night, so that I don’t have to worry about parking and walking in my four-inch heels from the car to the Omni Parker House Hotel.
