Overnight Service

by Blakely, Lauren

  He reaches for his golf club and takes a swing. The man is in perpetual motion. If you sit in Dom’s office, you look lazy. Ergo, I stand. Always.

  “What do you hear?” I ask.

  He wiggles an eyebrow. “That some of Jackson Pierce’s people will be in the city of sin. His best friend and his girlfriend-slash-publicist.”

  “But not the momager?”

  He winks, shaking his head.

  Instantly, I know what he means—the hotshot twenty-one-year-old is finally ready to move past having his mother manage his sports career. “I’ll find them and talk to them. Helluva match, wasn’t it? When he won the Australian Open earlier this year.”

  “Pins and needles. I was on pins and needles,” Dom says, connecting with an imaginary golf ball. Looks like a good shot.

  I don’t tell him he has a nice swing. You don’t suck up to Dom Pinkerton. Not about golf, orchids, or clients you want to chase.

  “I’ll work the angles. I presume this means you want to be the agency that represents the superstars and the rising stars?”

  He grins knowingly. “I want all the stars. If he signs with Dick Blaine, I will wring your neck too.”

  I remain stoic. “There is no way we will lose him to Blaine.”

  “Good.” That one word conveys everything Dom doesn’t say—I trusted Dick Blaine, Dick Blaine crossed me, and Dick Blaine stole clients.

  Dom lifts his club and waggles his hips. “How’s your mom? How’s Amy? How’s Tabitha? How’s Quinn?”

  He hits a beauty, admiring it as we segue from persona non grata to my mom and my trio of little sisters.

  Always ask about someone’s family.

  Always give a shit too.

  Because it’s the right thing to do, the right way to be.

  That was what Dom told me when he hired me. The man loves money, loves making it hand over fist, but he also gives a shit about your family. That’s how I am too. Not because it endears me to anyone—if I didn’t care about my clients and their families, I wouldn’t fake it. That’s not how I’m wired. When I ask, it’s because I care to the 1927 Yankees and back.

  “Great. Keep me posted on Vegas. All is well with Alfonso’s trade?”

  “Nearly done with it. The terms are fantastic for him.”

  “And what’s the story with Austin? You’re not going to lose him to Dick Blaine King of the Strip Clubs, are you?”

  “No, sir.” I suspect Austin would enjoy the Dick Blaine strip-club client treatment that I abhor, but I’ve done my homework. “I have something better than nudie bars. I found a loophole in his contract that’ll net him more money.”

  Dropping his club, Dom thrusts his arms in the air. “God, I love hiring Yale Law School valedictorians.”

  “What can I say? Contracts are my jam.”

  He cuffs me on the shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Of course. I’ll be following up with him shortly.”

  “I love loopholes even more than orchids. Almost as much as I love money.” He picks up his club again and points it at me. “And you’re going to be the one to nab Austin.”

  I guess it’s a good thing Austin doesn’t want to bang me, then.

  4

  Haven

  It’s the middle of the workday, and I’m swimming in a sea of deals, but swimming in deals is where I like to be. Even so, I’m the kind of girl who needs girl time, so when my good friend Sloane pings me with a text, I turn away from my computer, and click on my phone, grateful for the chance to chat.

  Sloane: Are we still on for our wine-and-painting class this weekend?

  Haven: Stop. I don’t want anyone to know I’m taking up painting.

  Sloane: Well, is someone monitoring your text messages? Otherwise, how else would anyone know?

  Haven: Good point. But we should clearly wear masks and disguise ourselves when we go.

  Sloane: I’m glad you’re not totally paranoid.

  Haven: I just don’t want anyone to know I have a soft side.

  Sloane: I will keep your soft, squishy center a secret. And I will never let anyone know that you can paint a beautiful hedgehog. While drinking chardonnay.

  Haven: It’s one of the things I’m most proud of—my ability to do nearly everything while drinking vino. Also, my hedgehog was pretty fantastic, wasn’t it?

  Sloane: Your hedgehog was the best hedgehog ever painted. But especially painted while drinking. :)

  Haven: I don’t know what I’ll miss more—the wine or the painting, because . . . I have to miss the class. Forgive me! I’m speaking at a conference this weekend in Vegas.

  Sloane: Is it for your charity?

  Haven: No, but Girl Power is kicking ass! Just landed a huge corporate donation from Heavenly Chocolates for funding athletic programs in the Bronx.

  Sloane: Go you!

  Haven: The conference is actually a sports marketing thing, and I have big plans.

  Sloane: Spill. Celine Dion show? Front-row tickets to Magic Mike? Are those the big plans?

  Haven: Who has time for entertainment? I’m trying to score some key meetings when I’m there.

  Sloane: Aren’t you always trying to score meetings?

  Haven: Yes. Yes, I am.

  Sloane: Your ambition is boundless.

  Haven: Yes. Yes, it is. :)

  Sloane: I’ve no doubt you’ll be scoring, then. But be sure to have some fun too. I’ve always enjoyed Vegas.

  Haven: Same here. It’s kind of crazy, but I think of Vegas as a good-luck charm. I was in Vegas when I signed my first sponsorship deal.

  Sloane: Have I ever mentioned you’re thoroughly badass for having been on a Wheaties box? I still have a cereal box with you on it in my pantry, by the way.

  Haven: Have I mentioned I love you?

  Sloane: Yes, yes, many times over.

  Haven: Oh fuck.

  Sloane: Um. How did we get to “oh fuck” after “I love you”?

  Haven: This email I just received. It’s from the reporter who invited me on the panel this weekend. Let me forward you this email of oh fuckery.

  Dear Ms. Delilah,

  I hope this note finds you well. We are so excited about your attendance at the upcoming sports marketing conference. We’ve had a few last-minute schedule changes, and I wanted to give you a heads-up that we will be moving you onto the Negotiation Skills panel. We have several other esteemed agents on it, including Josh Summers. Can you attend a prep session in advance? How about Friday evening? We could meet at the Lily Bar and Lounge. (No relation!)

  All the best,

  Lily Whiting

  Sloane: That is some epic oh fuckery.

  Haven: I was hoping to avoid Mr. Sexy Pants Summers for the rest of my life.

  Sloane: It can still be a long-term goal. But for now, what’s the strategy when you see him?

  Haven: Easy. I wind him up, needle him like bamboo slivers under the fingernails, because I don’t want him to think for a moment that I have a soft spot for him, or that I remember how good he is at giving my favorite thing in the world.

  Sloane: Ah, the old pretend-you-despise-him routine.

  Haven: I do despise him. I also want to grab his tie and tug him into my hotel room. How is it possible to want to sleep with someone you hate?

  Sloane: I believe the phenomenon is called hate sex.

  Haven: It’s one helluva phenomenon.

  5

  Josh

  As I work my way through the morning crowds at JFK Airport, I catch up with my youngest sister, Amy, and her work woes. “I hear you. But there are a ton of ways to deal with this issue. Jumping ship isn’t always the best option.”

  She huffs, her frustration with her job escalating by the day. “Do I just . . . stay and keep plodding along? That sounds like the yellow brick road to misery.”

  “It does. But we need to be smart. We’ll figure out a plan, devise a strategy. Let’s get together when I return and discuss it. How does that sound?”


  “That sounds good actually.” Amy’s been stressed for some time about her publishing gig, but I hear a little relief now. “But can you go sans Bluetooth when I see you? Pretty please with a serving of commercial-free World Series on top?”

  “Ames, take that back. The commercials pay for the broadcast rights, and the broadcast rights pay for my stars.”

  “And your stars pay for everything. Like my grad school.”

  “Which you rocked.”

  “Of course I did. I take after you.”

  “And for that beautiful compliment, I will ditch the Bluetooth when I see you.”

  “Miracles can happen!”

  I laugh. “I need to take off. I’m almost at the gate.”

  “Fly safely. I hope you can survive all the pandering they do to you in first class.”

  “It’s tough when they wait on you hand and foot, but someone’s got to enjoy the warm hand towels. Might as well be me.”

  “And the warm nuts. Don’t forget the warm nuts. Wait. Real quick. Did you get the invitation I sent you to Josie’s baby shower?”

  I cringe at the mention of a baby shower. “No. Did you send it by carrier pigeon?”

  “Email. Like a normal person.”

  “I hate email,” I say.

  “How are you a top sports agent again? Don’t you need email for your job?”

  “I do work email. Personal email is hell. It’s like every sports news site I’ve ever visited is offering me twenty percent discounts and I can’t take wading through the shit in the inbox.”

  “Which explains why you never replied about the baby shower.”

  “Actually, that only half explains it. One, I never saw it. Two, I love you, and I love our cousin Josie, but I’m not going to a baby shower. I’ll get her a gift, but a man has limits.”

  She scoffs. “Oh yes. Of course. Stand your ground on baby showers.”

  I smile as I reach my gate. “And now it’s time for warm nuts and pampering. I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

  I end the call and the gate agent scans my boarding pass. As I head down the jetway, I switch over to my podcast app and turn on Jason’s Modern Gentleman show, his guide on how not to be an asshole.

  “Today, let’s tackle mansplaining. What is it? Are you doing it? How can you recognize it, and when should you shut your piehole?” I listen through my headphones (because I’m not an asshole) to his familiar British accent, which I’m sure helps his cachet as a manners expert. “We have a question from Brent in Chicago. He writes: ‘The other week I went on a date with a woman who’s run a few marathons. When she told me about her finish times and how she wanted to improve them in the next one, I suggested she should try some different sneakers, and maybe also add sprints into her regimen. Then she accused me of mansplaining! What did I do wrong?’”

  I snort at Brent’s cluelessness. I know the answer. I’ve heard it from Jason before.

  “Now, gentlemen, before I answer, you might be wondering if Brent is a fellow marathoner. I made sure to ask him that, and he told me that his favorite sport is working out on a stationary bike. So here we go, Brent.” Jason takes a pronounced breath. “You’re not a marathoner. She is. You’re trying to explain to her a subject in which she is far more knowledgeable, or possibly even an expert. That is the very definition of mansplaining, and ladies detest it. As for what you should do differently, I suggest that you . . . wait for it . . . listen.”

  Laughing, I hit pause so I can show my mobile ticket to the flight attendant, who has the look of an aspiring actor (though that’s hardly long odds in New York).

  He gestures to the second row. “You’re in 2A, Mr. Summers.”

  I glance toward my seat then quickly scan the first-class cabin. I do a double take, stomach clenching like I’ve been sucker punched. Because . . . really?

  Fucking really?

  Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

  Over there in 4D, it’s like the universe is having a field day with me. Long brown hair scooped up in a messy bun, a silky white blouse, and a pencil skirt that undoubtedly has one of those zippers reaching all the way from bottom to top.

  What are the odds she’d be on the same flight as me?

  High.

  The chances were high.

  We’re going to the same event, speaking on the same panel, and probably staying at the same hotel.

  “Did you need help finding your seat, Mr. Summers?”

  I glance back at the flight attendant, who’s smiling at me like I’m a confused child at the mall hunting for his mommy.

  No surprise—I’m standing in the aisle like a dumbstruck fool, slowing down boarding. And still, even with his waiting gaze, I don’t answer him, because I’m drawn to her.

  Haven laughs into the phone while gazing out the window. I didn’t expect a laugh. I expected her to be barking orders at an underling—Get me the Rangers GM, stat, and if you don’t get him, call him every ten minutes till he picks up—but instead, she’s speaking to her mother.

  “Mais oui. C’est vrai, maman.”

  My skin betrays me with a sizzle. Fucking hell. I’m turned on by her talking to her mother? What is wrong with me?

  Well, that French accent she slips into from time to time is sex on heels.

  Also, those heels are pure sex too.

  The attendant clears his throat and gestures more insistently to the gray leather seats next to me. “And this is 2A. See? That’s how you find it, because here on Delta, we number the rows from lowest to highest.”

  That snaps me out of my Haven stupor.

  “Thanks,” I say dryly. I believe I’ve just been mansplained to.

  And, unlike the marathoning woman, I deserved it.

  * * *

  She doesn’t notice me. Or if she does, she doesn’t let on. And I’m certainly not going to hop back two rows and chat with her.

  I mean, c’mon. Someone’s sitting next to her. Some tracksuit-wearing twenty-something guy with headphones as big as dinner plates, watching his tablet and popping warm salted nuts into his mouth. Not that I looked back and checked.

  Okay, once, maybe twice, and her head was bent as she tapped away on her phone.

  She’s probably working, and I should be working. I position my laptop with the top angled halfway so no one can see the screen—corporate espionage is everywhere, so you can’t be too careful—and I dive into work emails as the flight settles in at the cruising altitude.

  In 2B, a pink-haired woman with kind eyes stretches her arms high over her head then unleashes a loud yawn.

  “Oops,” she says, covering her mouth like her yawn surprised her.

  I smile. “No worries. These seats are like Ambien.”

  She glances to the back of the plane, then to me. “I need to stretch my legs before I nap. You don’t think they’ll mind if I walk back there, do you?”

  “Go for it. Do a couple laps if you want.”

  She smiles. “Thank you. Confession: I don’t know the rules of this cabin. It’s my first time flying up here. My sister upgraded me. You look like you fly first-class all the time.”

  I laugh, sliding a hand down my shirt. “It’s the tie, right?”

  “The tie, the dress shirt, the oh-so-serious expression on your face.”

  She must have missed my dumbstruck expression from earlier. “No one will mind if you take a stroll.”

  “Good to know. But if the snack man comes by with the beverage cart, can you grab me a Coke?”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her she won’t miss the snack man, because the snack man will ask her personally twenty times if she needs anything. “Absolutely. I’ll get you your Coke.”

  “Actually, can you make it two? They probably won’t mind, will they?”

  “They’ll be thrilled to get you two Cokes.”

  She smiles once more, then wanders past the other side of the curtain, and I return to my laptop. A few minutes later, out
of the corner of my eye, I spot red.

  A red skirt. Red heels. And a stunning silver zipper from the top of the skirt down to the hem.

  Haven walks past me and heads into the restroom. I don’t think she noticed me.

  That won’t last long though.

  When she emerges a minute later, she’s facing me. It takes her a second to register that it’s me. Quickly, she schools her expression, like she’s donning a cool and collected mask.

  She strolls the few feet to me, setting a hand on the newly vacated chair, adopting a casual pose. “Following me again?”

  I go with it, as if she’s caught on to me. “Yep. I called Delta, posed as a federal air marshal, and asked for the flight manifestos of every plane leaving for Vegas today. Didn’t want to miss a chance to be dressed down by you.”

  She arches a brow. “Dressed down? Interesting word choice. A little wishful thinking, Summers?”

  “It’s an expression, Delilah. I could also have said razzed, insulted, or trash-talked. But ‘dressed down’ seemed to fit you best.”