Hard to Hold

by K. Bromberg

  I despise when plans are changed and buck against anyone telling me I have to do something other than what my mind has made up to do.

  Like Rush.

  One hundred percent, but how do I prove everyone wrong? How do I say I don’t sleep with clients to get them and then turn around and sleep with the one client I’ve been contracted to get?

  Add to it? Fucking Rush. The devastating smile he flashes my way through the crowd of people clamoring for him. The way he leans over when he passes by me and whispers with that knee-melting accent into my ear something to make me smile.

  He’s not doing me any favors.

  Especially to the promise I made myself the minute he walked into the conference room earlier when Cannon “introduced” us for the first time. After that initial sucker punch of seeing him again, I told myself that I’d put my career before my own physical needs and use this opportunity with the MLS to do just that.

  In many respects, being away from the family makes that a little easier. I’m not someone’s sister here or someone’s daughter. And I will recruit Rush away from Sanderson to KSM, gaining a new star client without my father’s intervention.

  I stand offstage and behind the curtain as Cannon drones on and on to the crowd, waiting for his SportsCenter moment, which I’m sure Cannon has calculated with precision to get the most bang for his buck.

  But if he keeps talking much longer, he’s going to lose his audience’s attention.

  “Hey there.” Rush’s smooth whisper hits my ears the same time everything else about him does—his cologne in my nose, his hands on my waist, the heat of his breath on my cheek.

  I stiffen immediately, when all I want to do is a cross between sinking into him and turning around and kissing him senseless.

  Neither is an option.

  “Are you avoiding me, Kincade?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I’m thinking you are. I’m thinking you’re still mad at the list I made in the conference room.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice and I have to fight my own urge to be playful back.

  Playful is only going to end up with me in trouble.

  “Your list was ridiculous.”

  “I beg to differ,” he says as he leaves his hand on one side of my waist but moves in front of me. “Taking me to a game so I can tailgate. Teaching me what the American fascination with ice cubes is all about. A muscle car—I need to drive one. A huge pancake breakfast.”

  “Ridiculous. I’m not your tour guide.” I chuckle and take a step back to give myself some space from him and those lips I keep glancing at.

  “I could make another list for you, you know.” The step he takes eats up the space I just gained. “Of what else you could do to make me an even happier man . . . but that one doesn’t need to be put on paper.” He taps his temple. “That one is memorized right here.”

  There’s arrogance in his voice and seduction in his eyes, and hell if this little alcove just didn’t become ten times smaller.

  I swear my swallow is so loud it’s the only thing I can hear over the pounding of my pulse in my ears, but I hold tight to my resolve.

  “Rush. I can’t. We can’t. It’s not professional of me—”

  He squeezes the side of my waist, and my body heats beneath his touch as he leans in and whispers so his breath tickles my ear. “I love the prim and proper thing you have going on right now. The pencil skirt, the high heels, and those square shoulders. I really do. In fact, I’m not sure if I love this look or the one from the other night where you were staring at me and all but begging me to kiss you more. But—”

  “I was not.” I was too. “Please. You think too much of yourself.”

  His low rumble of a chuckle is a temptation all in itself. “You keep telling yourself that, Lennox, but we both know the truth.” He runs his hand down my body so it rests on my hip, a soft groan coming from the back of his throat that would sound crass from any other man but from him sounds like seduction. “Today, you’re closed up tight, like you’re so bloody afraid to give in to what you want. And what you want is me.”

  “You’re—”

  When Rush’s lips meet mine, I tell myself this is crazy. He’s kissing me when he has to be on stage any minute. If someone sees us, my professionalism would be shot to hell.

  I mentally fight him off, while I part my lips to touch my tongue to his. My body reacts before my head can process otherwise.

  There’s always something in a first kiss. The first hint if you fit together. The initial inkling whether his style of kissing is one that makes your stomach flutter, your core ache, and causes your hands to fist in his shirt. That immediate knowledge that you want to do this again or that you need to walk away and never look back.

  The problem is when the kiss—every soft and demanding moment of it—ends, I’m staring straight into those amused eyes of his and know this will be harder than I thought. There is undeniable chemistry here. But . . . I need to be strong. Resistant. In control.

  I can try. Damn it to hell, I’m going to try, but he’s like the most potent of drugs—addictive at the first hit.

  “We can work together, Lennox,” he says, his accent hitting the last syllable higher, “and still sleep together.”

  “No one said I was sleeping with you.” The words sound hollow rolling off lips that crave another kiss.

  His smile is crooked, and the short laugh he emits is arrogance and desire personified. “You didn’t have to.”

  And in perfect timing, Cannon announces Rush to the waiting cameras and public.

  It’s only when he climbs the stairs and walks away that I exhale—and I didn’t even know I was holding my breath.

  He swaggers onto the stage to the roar of the crowd, which Cannon had drummed up, and he takes the mic, his voice permeating my every thought as I try to tell myself to forget about the kiss.

  To forgo messing up this professional opportunity by acting on what I want with him.

  So many people say women are weak for giving in when a man kisses her. They say we’re weak when our knees tremble and when we fall under his “spell.” I say screw that. I say, we’re strong. That we’re getting what we want one way or another. It can be by his taking or our owning it. There’s a strength to it. A timeless and resolute beauty to it.

  We’re told we’re bitches if we’re too aggressive, and then we’re told we’re feeble and weak-minded if we fall too quickly. Or better yet, we’re sluts if we crave the touch of a man. If we want to and like to have sex.

  If we like to be made to feel good.

  Well, I’m all of the above. I’m strong to a fault, I’m weak at times and will gladly own it, and hell if it doesn’t feel awesome to tumble into bed with someone who gives as good as they get. From the first moment I laid eyes on Rush, I knew we’d end up a tangled mass of limbs and sheets.

  The predatory look in his eyes, the gravelly grit that roughens up his delicious brogue—and the way my body reacts viscerally to everything about him—tells me that we’re destined to explore our attraction.

  In those few seconds standing beside the pool, I think I accepted it in my mind.

  I chuckle because there’s no denying it: we’ll have sex. It will complicate matters, his brash arrogance will still irritate the hell out of me when all is said and done and ended, but damn, I’ll be satisfied.

  And right now, I’m okay with that. I can still be a professional agent, I can be a sexually charged woman, and I can feel proud of myself for both.

  “Lennox?”

  I’m startled from my thoughts, and make the most ridiculous sound when I look up to see Cannon looking at me from the stage, hand outstretched.

  “C’mon,” he says. “I’d like to introduce you to the public as part of the team.”

  “That’s not necessary. Really. I don’t mind being in the shadows.”

  Then again, maybe I should take his hand and be forced to stand under the spotlight. Maybe the public eye seei
ng Rush and me together would act as a deterrent for what is destined to happen next. Maybe knowing that Cannon, Finn, other clients, and my family are able to see the two of us together publicly, will prevent me from wanting to cross that professional line into personal.

  What a mess.

  Or not.

  Who knew we’d end up meeting, working together? Who knew he’d become the litmus test on whether I succeed or not in my newly acquired goals?

  While I’m back here concerned about public perception, Rush doesn’t care what the public thinks of him.

  Maybe I should take a lesson from him.

  Maybe as long as I’m happy, that’s all that should matter.

  LENNOX

  “THAT WAS AN INTERESTING PLOT twist,” Johnny murmurs as he walks into the family room where I’m flopped on the couch in the most unladylike fashion with my heels discarded on the floor beside me. He sets a bottle of wine and a glass down beside me on the table. “Care to share?”

  Eyeing him, I wait to see what other snarky comment he’s going to make and when none comes, I shrug. “Apparently, we’re both here for the same reason and didn’t know it.”

  “I’m going to trust you on this but it’s not adding up why an agent is in the mix.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure it is.” He glances at the screen of his phone. “In the meantime, I have Heidi waiting to be picked up and an eight o’clock reservation to get to.”

  “Heidi?” I ask.

  “Flavor of the month.” He laughs as he grabs his keys while I smile indulgently. Johnny is a good man, but such a player. I’ve had a front-row seat to the hearts he’s broken over the years, even consoled a few of them in our college days, but that’s just him. “One of these days, I just might find one I’m okay tasting for longer, but in the meantime, I’m taking full advantage of being obscenely rich and incredibly handsome.”

  “How about annoyingly arrogant too?”

  “That too.”

  “You know the unbuttoned shirt thing went out in the seventies,” I say as I eye the five inches of chest peeping out of this shirt.

  My cell rings and when I look at the screen, my face must give away how startled I am when I see Finn Sanderson as the caller.

  “Later,” Johnny mouths as he kisses me on the top of my head before he moves toward the door.

  “If you’re calling me to apologize for being a dick, you can save your breath,” I say by way of greeting when I answer.

  He chuckles. “You really do love to play that whole woman scorned to the hilt, don’t you?”

  “Probably just as much as you like to play the dejected asshole thing.” By now, curiosity has me sitting up, pouring myself a glass of wine because if Finn’s calling me, I know I’m going to need it.

  “You figured it out yet? My secret?” he says with a chuckle that grates over my skin.

  “Secret?” I ask, taking the bait.

  “Rumor is you couldn’t wait to get to Los Angeles to grovel to Cannon and take his offer with the MLS only to find out it no longer existed. Oops. That must have been mortifying for someone like you.”

  “What are you talking . . .”

  The guy at the airport. The one standing at the other ticket counter when I changed my flight. Finn knows because of him, and yet, the position no longer exists? What is he talking about?

  “Look, don’t be too mad. It was just a little underhanded tactic between agents—you know, like with Maddox last year.”

  “What does Hunter have to do with any of this?” I ask. Finn has totally lost the ball here. What the hell?

  “This is about beating you at your own tactics. Decided I’d go after those potential clients you so beautifully described in your binder.” His amused sigh ticks me off. “Names, phone numbers, emails, likes, dislikes . . . you keep great records but honestly, Lenn, you really should keep shit like that in a passcoded phone, not sitting in a binder for anyone to see in a conference full of hungry agents.” He tsks. “Rookie mistake, Kincade, but then again, we shouldn’t expect anything less of you, should we?”

  How the hell did he get those details?

  “You bastard,” I grit between clenched teeth as I cringe at my own stupidity. But I’d been in a conference on sports ethics, the irony, when the phone call came, and I’d run out to the hallway to jot notes down on the players with the intention of entering them in my database when I got back to my hotel room. They were still in the folder. So . . . he took a photo? This man is a complete and utter prick. What in the hell did Chase ever see in him?

  My eyes burn with frustration and anger I haven’t felt in forever. Why is he telling me this? We’re not in public, so there’s no advantage to him. And yet . . . he’s gloating.

  “All’s fair in love and representation, right?” he brags. “Those potential clients have been met with and wined and dined after you only met briefly with them because you thought you had bigger fish to fry. To think you’ve been made the laughing stock again. Only this time, in the City of Angels.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

  “The job with the MLS? The press conference today announcing Rush McKenzie? Cannon and I negotiated the deal last week for Rush to come on board. Part of those negotiations entailed explaining to Cannon why your services weren’t needed there. I assure you, it wasn’t anything personal.”

  I think I stare at my wine glass blinking several times as I try to process what he’s saying. I don’t even remember when I rose to my feet and walked toward the window to stare aimlessly at the view of the valley.

  I don’t see it though. No, I’m preoccupied, realizing how thoroughly gullible I was. Had he made it a point to say all those fucking awful lies about me assuming I’d hear him? He wrecked my confidence and knew me well enough that he knew I’d call Cannon. That I’d ask for the job I’d turned down so that I could save face. And how I played right into every part of it.

  Oh, my God.

  “Humiliation comes in all forms and ways, Lennox, and I guess you just got a clean dose of it.” He chuckles. All I hear is condescension. “Hope Cannon was at least nice when you showed up. No doubt you were completely humiliated when he told you that your services were no longer needed.” Does he not know I’ve been contracted for the position? “Did you finally understand there was only one reason he’d targeted you specifically for the position? You know, because he was interested in your other services?”

  My stomach rolls at his insinuation. Again.

  “You didn’t put it together did you? Poor baby. I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I don’t feel bad about it at all. Karma is in fact a bitch, and we both know which side of those two options you seem to fall into.”

  “You set me up.” My first words are a whisper as the magnitude of everything hits me. The men standing directly in front of the exit. Finn’s voice set to loud to ensure what he said was broadcast . . . just as I was trying to leave the conference room. Holy fuck. “You. Set. Me. Up.”

  “See? I knew it would take a few seconds for you to understand . . . and now that you have, I’m sure you’ll be able to accept my insincerest apologies.”

  “You fucking bastard. You low-lying piece of shit. You—”

  Oh my God.

  He has no idea. He’s so goddamn arrogant that he has no idea Cannon gave me the job, despite Finn’s advice. All because I didn’t go on stage tonight for the media circus. This is gold.

  A slow smile crawls over my lips as I toy with what to say.

  “Lennox? You still there? Please, continue. I’d love to hear what else it is you have to say.”

  “Hey Finn?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What was it you said about karma?”

  “That it was a bitch.”

  “Remember that,” I say and pause for a dramatic beat. “Cannon gave you lip service.” I laugh. “Oh, did you not see me in the wings tonight, right behind the stage? Oops.” I pause. God, I wish
I could see his face. “Enjoy your newbies with low salaries, Finn, while I absolutely enjoy dining and schmoozing one of the highest paid footballers out there. You know, your client, Rush.” His quick intake of air tells me I’ve made a direct hit. Perfect.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” His threat is as empty as his voice is hollow.

  “What did you say? All’s fair in love and representation?” I chuckle at his silence. “Finn? This is about the time you hope all the shit you’ve said about how I persuade clients my way isn’t true. Because if it is, you don’t stand a chance holding on to Rush.”

  I end the call without warning, just as a litany of curses explode from the other end of the line.

  RUSH

  3 Weeks ago

  “CHRIST.” I SIT UP IN bed, legs hanging over the side as I scrub my face and startle at the caller’s name on my phone. Shit.

  Rory.

  He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a little brother—the good and the bad parts of it.

  Was moved back up to my team again—a reserve player.

  Has finally been keeping his head down and nose clear . . . rather than let the drugs and partying win.

  It’s split seconds I have to hold those thoughts. Split seconds where the history between us runs through my head to remind me of the bond formed that day. A bond that changed my life.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry to wake you, son,” Archibald Matheson says.

  “Is it Rory?”

  His laugh sounds like pure exhaustion. “When isn’t it?” But it tells me that it’s nothing urgent and I breathe a little easier.

  “What is it?”

  “There are most likely going to be press camped out in front of your place when you look outside,” he warns, and I rise immediately from the bed to take a look out the window. Sure as shit, they’re there.

  “Why?”

  “Now that’s a little more complicated.”

  “What did Rory do?” There’s silence. “Archibald?”

  “He’s been seeing someone he shouldn’t be. She’s not in a very good marriage, unhappy with a husband who isn’t exactly the nicest of men.”