"There are a multitude of outside pressures contributing to whether I meet the goals on my career timeline. Yours are self-imposed. There's a difference."
"Well if you mean that I don't have the pressure of twenty-two million dollars to succeed then you're right. You've got me there."
"I find it absolutely incredible that you are so judgmental about the amount of money I make, yet your entire livelihood depends on the fact that I make it."
"Actually my livelihood depends on the income of musicians and television personalities."
"It depended on them. Past tense. Now it depends on mine as well."
"Not if I get a client like Spin. Then you'll be made somebody else's problem. I know just the person that would love to have you on her roster."
"You think that backyard band's money is better than mine?" he asks, as if I've totally offended him.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to," his voice rises. "You've all but implied it by your words and actions since the day I signed on the dotted line. Would you feel better if I made my money writing songs about clean water and world peace? Is that what you like, or is the real issue here is that's all you know?"
"I'm sorry if I've made you upset, but I think that I've made it clear ad nauseam that I didn't want to work with you, and that I prefer musicians. So don't get all offended about it now."
"I'm not even sure what it is I see in you," he blusters.
"It's baffling to me too."
"Stop talking."
"Fine by me."
"Let's just listen to some music."
"Fine by me."
Saint gives me a cold hard stare and then turns on a sports talk radio station instead of music. I had to listen to it for almost ninety torturous minutes.
Sadist.
Driving almost two hours to Pennsylvania and meeting Saint's family over lunch is increasingly feeling like not a smart thing to do. But there's something about this guy. I let him get away with murder. None of my other clients could pull these antics. Of course none of my other clients look, smell or smile like Saint Stevenson.
I probably should have cancelled the meeting once I knew that it wasn't in New York. Especially since I can rely on Jason checking in with me like clockwork. This time with a phone call instead of a text. I'm starting to think that Peter is putting him up to these annoying check-ins. Now I'm going to be forced to tell him about this little day trip, which looks kind of unprofessional and suspicious.
"Hey, Sabrina. Just seeing how you're feeling about your meeting. Making sure you don't need a second man on the bench when you talk to Saint's father. I heard he's a tough old bird. What time will you be in the conference room, or are you meeting somewhere else?"
I can feel Saint staring at me using his peripheral vision while he continues to drive, so I decide to pour it on a little thick, since I was bamboozled into going all the way to Pennsylvania for this meeting. Might as well entertain myself.
"Dangit. I really had every intention of having you sit in on the meeting, but Mr. Stevenson didn't tell me until the last minute that we were meeting his father in Pennsylvania."
"What?! You're on your way to Philly right now?"
"Unfortunately."
Saint frowns.
"This is ridiculous, Sabrina." Jason fusses. "He's monopolizing your time. This guy is not your only client and taking a meeting with his father is not only unorthodox, but it was never part of the contractual agreement. You don't have to do this."
"You're right, this is ridiculous, but--"
Saint snatches my cell phone right out of my hand and puts it on speaker.
"Miss White doesn't need any mentoring today, boss man, but thanks for checking in."
"Mr. Stevenson, I need to say that it is highly unusual and frankly unnecessary for your new business manager to meet the old one. Especially when he lives a hundred miles away."
"What's your name again, boss man?"
Ugh, here he goes with that again.
"Will you quit it and give me my phone back, Saint!"
Believe it or not I am actually wrestling with a two hundred and forty-five pound quarterback, in a pick up truck, for my cell phone. Someone needs to be taping this. I could star in my own reality show.
"Oh right, it's Jase. Listen man, this whole mentoring mentee thing you two have going on is honorable, not, but you don't need to have such a tight rein on our girl here. She's proven herself to be fully capable of handling any situation that I may throw in her. Oops, I meant her in."
I'm mortified.
And I want to kill him.
"Hang up that phone," I say through clenched teeth.
"You heard that, Jase? We have to hang up now. You'll see her in the office tomorrow. We may not get home until late. Don't worry. My family's great."
Jason tries to say something, but I have no idea what, because Saint hangs up and hands me back the phone.
"Don't call him back," he orders. Almost as if he's ... jealous of Jason?
"If you pull one more juvenile stunt like that again, I'm going to ask that you be moved to another account manager, and I'll gladly tell anyone who cares to listen why. No one will blame me."
He says nothing in response. Instead he turns up the sports radio station, and we drive like that for another twenty minutes. Since I'm not used to him being so quiet with me, I try to busy myself by texting Marisol.
Me: I'm not trying to sabotage my career, but I'm not sure I can keep working with Saint Stevenson.
Marisol: Has it even been a month?
Me: He's a jackass
Marisol: You already knew that
Me: He's like a big kid
Marisol: According to you all players act like that. So why are you surprised?
Me: Maybe Abby will want him.
Marisol: You can't be serious. What aren't you telling me?
Me: Nothing
Marisol: Lies.
Me: He just gets under my skin
Marisol: Well put on your big girl panties, because if you drop the ball with America's quarterback, you can forget about that five year plan of yours.
I shove my phone violently back in my tote bag. I'm pissed. Saint notices, but still doesn't say a word. His silence is unnerving. I can't take it anymore, so I break first.
"Say something."
"About what."
"What's going on?"
"What do you mean, Freshman?"
"Freshman?"
I know I've heard that before, but I'm not sure where. Is that some sort of football reference? I observe him for a moment as we drive along the final stretch of the turnpike. I mean really watch him. He's grinning, because he thinks I'm checking him out, but that's not it. I want to figure him out. I want to understand why he's targeted me of all people. He's dated underwear models and famous actresses for God's sake. What does this football demigod want with me?
"We're here!"
Chapter Fifteen
SABRINA
His body is humming. He's excited to be home, and I can see why. Saint's family lives on what looks like a compound. About thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia, his family home is situated on top of a sprawling piece of grassy land with a huge formal stone house in the center and a smaller carriage house behind it.
According to Saint, it's not a working farm any longer, but it looks like one to me. I see a few horses grazing at the far end of the property and he already told me his mother has a lot of chickens. There's also a beautiful white wooden gate enclosing the entire property and a tasteful sign in front that reads Oak Hill Farm. For a girl from a modest home in Colorado, it's a real farm to me.
While I'm not surprised at the beauty of their home, due to the fact that the Stevensons are pretty well off, I can't help but take notice of just how good Saint had it growing up. How his sense of entitlement must have begun very early in his life, because he's always had all of this. No wonder he always expects to hear the word "yes."
"Why are you so quiet?"
"I'm not quiet. You are."
"Are you still mad about earlier? I was just playing with you and short dude. Maybe if he thinks he has a little competition he'll finally step up and claim you."
That's not exactly what it seemed like he was doing to me.
"Did you grow up here?" I ask ignoring that last statement.
"Yep and my brother still lives here with his wife, Kennedy, and their son, Jake in the carriage house. Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's beautiful. You are very blessed."
"In many ways."
He says that while looking in between his legs.
"Why do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you are the most fantastic man in the universe. Like you are God's gift."
"You said it. Not me."
"You talk too much about yourself."
"I've got a lot to say."
He laughs heartily again, and it's so darn sexy and infectious, I forget for a moment how much he irritates me and laugh with him.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
We were laughing so hard; neither of us noticed Saint's parents approach the car.
"Oh hey, Mom. Dad."
Saint rolls down the window. It's not as cold here as it is in New York but it's still a cool afternoon.
"Hello to you too, Saint, and welcome to Oak Hill, Miss White," Saint's mother pleasantly says. His dad on the other hand just gives me a good once over and turns to walk back towards the main house.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson," I offer brightly. "Nice to meet you both."
Saint's mother looks at me, then looks at Saint and smiles. It's a grin that completely matches her son's. It's warm and friendly and has a lot of meaning behind it.
"I hope you like lamb chops. I just charred some to death on the grill."
"You grilled lunch?"
"Oh we like to grill all year round here. As long as there's no snow on the ground. All you have to do is wear a jacket."
I nod my head as if I understand. I see that crazy might be a Stevenson family trait.
"Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Stevenson?"
"Oh no, dear. I wouldn't think of it. My husband made you come all the way out here to give you the once over, the least I can do is feed you."
"That's very gracious of you. Where did Mr. Stevenson go? I'm sure he has some questions for me."
"I'm not sure he does, now that he's seen you."
Oh he better ask me something.
I look at Saint with my best "what the fuck" expression.
"I'll go get him," he says.
Yeah, you do that.
"Oh that's cute," his mother says to me. "You two can speak to each other without words already."
Oh dear God.
The four of us sit down at a beautiful whitewashed, butcher-block, kitchen table to a lunch of very well-done but delicious grilled lamb chops, greek salad and couscous. It was damn good. Saint's mother is an awesome cook.
The conversation is pleasant. We talk about random things like shows we like on HBO, their plans to add solar panels to the house, and of course football. I was holding my own in the conversation until they took it there. They were mentioning things about players, games and coaches that I knew nothing about, and it was painfully obvious. My only course of diversion was to address the elephant in the room.
"So Mr. Stevenson, were there any questions you wanted to ask me about Saint's move over to Carson Financial?"
"Yeah, are you interested in my son romantically?"
I almost choke on the swallow of lemonade that is in my mouth.
"Not even a little bit, Mr. Stevenson."
That gets me my first smile out of the patriarch.
"That's all I need to know then."
That's it!?
"Did you think I was some sort of gold digger, Mr. Stevenson?" I ask a little miffed that he has no serious business questions for me.
"Anyone can be tempted by opportunity and everyone has their own agenda. That's why I like to keep things in-house. There's no questioning my motives, but you I don't know. I only want the best for my boy."
"I completely understand. Obviously I don't feel exactly the way that you do about your son, but I don't have any ulterior motives either. Saint signed with Carson, and Carson assigned him to me. End of story. His reasons for signing with Carson are his reasons."
"That's good enough for me then. How about we toast to my son and what's hopefully his final season with the Nighthawks. Do you drink?"
Somehow I feel like this is another test.
"Occasionally."
"Caroline, what can we drink with 7up cake?"
"Milk."
"Alcohol, sweetheart."
"Hell if I know, Clint. Maybe rum?"
"I think Miss White here likes tequila," Saint chimes in.
"Tequila? I don't drink that. Last time I had tequila was in–"
I snap my eyes up to his and the realization hits me. The sight of pure satisfaction spreading across his face explains everything running through my head right now.
"Georgetown." I finish my sentence.
"That's right, Freshman–Georgetown."
Chapter Sixteen
SAINT
"What are you doing?"
"What do you mean, Pop?"
"With that girl in there. What are you doing? What was that Georgetown comment all about? You've got about three minutes to explain before she comes back from the bathroom."
"It's something between me and her."
"Did you knock her up?"
"No, Dad."
"Did she go to college with you? Is she saying you two have a love child stashed away somewhere?"
"Dad, are you watching Lifetime movies again?"
"I can tell she's a nice girl," my mother interjects. Always the voice of calm and reason.
"She is."
"She's a looker too," she says.
"She is."
"You meet a lot of lookers though," my father adds.
"Not like this one."
"So you're interested in her?"
"I think so."
"I don't think she gives a rat's ass about you."
"She will."
"Did I make you this cocky?" my father asks incredulously.
"Yeah," my mother chuckles. "I think it's inherited."
"So you signed with Carson for a girl?" my father asks as if it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. Which it hardly ranks up there with some of the other shit I've pulled.
"That about sums it up."
"Then you're crazy, not stupid."
"I guess."
"Crazy I can live with."
"Thanks, Dad. I think."
"Shh, she's coming back," my mother whispers.
Sabrina walks quietly back into the room while staring at all three of us. I wonder how much of our conversation she heard. I can't read her expression at all.
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Saint?"
In the words of Scooby Doo ... rut roh.
"Sure, you want to see my old bedroom? We can talk there."
"Not even a little bit."
"Your loss," I say trying to lighten the mood. "I was going to show you all my high school trophies. Show you how badass I was."
"So it's like I figured. You peaked in high school."
My mother giggles at that joke.
"Very funny. How about I take you to meet Mork, Mindy, Laverne and Shirley then."
"Who?"
"The chickens."
My mother had the chicken coop rebuilt. This is the third rebuild, and I swear it looks like The White House. These chickens probably have a better life than some people. There's no way she's ever going to put one of them on the grill as nature intended. They're like her babies. Before I can point out each hen and my nephew's rooster to Sabrina, she cuts me off with a finger pointed to my face.
"So you are the stranger?"
"
The stranger?" I play dumb.
"The stranger that I drunk talked to at the hotel in Georgetown three years ago. The stranger who must have been responsible for helping me into my room and tucking me into bed with two Advils and a cool compress."
The gig's finally up.
"Yeah, that was me."
"So why would you not tell me that this whole time?"
"I didn't know if that was an event that you wanted to be reminded of. You were pretty upset that night. And then once I realized you didn't recognize me, I didn't think I should mention it. So I decided to leave it alone. Up until today that is."
"You took my clothes off!"
"I sure did. You were sweaty and drunk."
"Oh my God."
"Oh my God is right. Have you ever tried carrying and undressing a hundred and forty pounds of dead weight? It ain't easy."
"A hundred and thirty, smartass."
"If you say so, babe."
"And the Freshman remark the other day?"
"It was obviously your first time doing shots, and you were drunk as a fish, so I called you Freshman."
"How do you remember all of that?"
"It was a memorable night."
"We didn't–"
"No, nothing happened. I like my women alert and coherent. Plus I was supposed to get married that weekend. I don't do revenge sex. Not my style."
"And you recognized me in the restaurant the night I was with Jason?"
"Immediately," I say as I move closer to her. "And it pissed me off that I had to wait for him to make a mistake, before I could approach you that night."
"A mistake?"
"He took his eyes off of you."
I usually gravitate towards taller women like models and actresses because I'm so big; but I'm towering over all five feet four inches of Sabrina right now, yet I don't feel like I'm smothering her like I thought I might.
We fit.
"And I have to say," I continue talking as I walk her backwards towards the chicken coop. "That I'm a little hurt that you didn't recognize me at all. Ever. I must not have made a very good first impression. I should try again."
I'm making her nervous, but the kind of nerves that I like to see. Yellow light nerves. The kind that tell me that she's definitely attracted to me, but that I should proceed with caution.
Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1) Page 10
