The Wedding Deal

by Cindi Madsen

  That’s it. No more looking her way.

  She probably wouldn’t be smiling for much longer, anyway.

  “I tried to give you all a chance and tell you what I thought you’d need to hear to light a fire under your asses, but instead you decided to whine and complain, and that’s not who I want for my team. You think it’s funny to have a fucking parade to celebrate a so-called perfect season without a single win? Well, now you can parade yourselves on out of here.” He narrowed his eyes on the front row. “Jimmy, Steve, Mark, Scott, John, Thomas, and Clint, you’re all fired. Thank you for your time with the Mustangs, but I’ve decided to go another way.”

  Jaws dropped, and silence fell.

  “Is this a fucking joke?” Jimmy asked.

  Charlotte stood, a panicked gleam in her eye. “Now if we can all just keep calm, I’m sure—”

  “This whole team’s a fucking joke,” Lance said. “And I refuse to be a punch line. So, as I said, the entire front row’s dismissed. Gather your things and go. Security will escort you out if necessary.

  “As for the second row, you’re on thin ice. Prove yourselves or you’ll be looking for jobs with other teams as well. And if any of you’d like to resign”—he gestured toward the exit—“there’s the door.”

  With his big speech delivered, he turned and strode out of the room. His heart beat faster, not from nerves but adrenaline. And okay, maybe a little bit of nerves. He had five months to restructure an entire team and have them up and running for preseason.

  But he had contacts. There were plenty of guys waiting for a chance—both players and coaches—ones who wouldn’t squander it. This should’ve been done years ago, honestly. The older he’d gotten, the kinder and more sentimental his grandfather had become, and luckily Lance didn’t have those things to get in the way and cloud his judgment.

  Once he was back inside his office, he reached for the whiskey decanter and glasses Grandpa Price had kept in the minibar behind his desk. Now he knew why.

  The door to his office burst open and Charlotte stormed inside, none of the hesitation she’d done her best to hide during their earlier interaction. This time she was all fire and fury, and as his heart beat faster for another reason entirely, he again wondered how he’d missed her before.

  The lid of the decanter clinked against the top of his desk as he discarded it. “Hello again, Charlotte. I’m guessing you came to commend me for taking care of things so thoroughly?” He shouldn’t stoke the flames, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She claimed to want professionalism, so he’d go over-the-top with it and see how much she liked it then. “I told you I’d fix it so you wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore, and I always keep my promises.”

  “That’s not how… You can’t just…” She pressed her fingers to her temples and began to rub circles there. “You said you were a reasonable guy.”

  “I am. I gave them a chance to get it together. Instead they complained to you about my methods and how I’d dared to demand they do their jobs, which shows me they were too far gone for second chances. And considering our pathetic record, it’s more like their fifth or sixth chance.” The only reason he’d given the coaching staff a shot at all was for his grandpa, and he was almost glad they’d failed because now he could do what he’d wanted to do in the first place. “In order to make the Mustangs a team we can be proud of, we need to start over.” He picked up his glass and tipped back the contents, sighing at the way the honeyed liquid burned and soothed on the way down—it was the good stuff. He set down his glass and met Charlotte’s gaze.

  Laziness was nearly impossible to overcome, but passion could be shaped and molded, and this woman had it in spades—even if he’d love to point it toward other areas of the company. “I’m hoping you’ll stick around to help me with that.”

  She crossed her arms, emphasizing her curves and her frustration at the same time. “Because you suddenly have a whole mess of job postings to make that’ll result in hundreds of résumés to sort through?”

  “Yes. And because of all the people in that room, you’re the only one who’s been bold enough to tell me what you thought to my face. I have a feeling you’re very good at your job.”

  “Oh, I am, but I’m not sure you want to hear all of what I’m thinking.”

  He poured a couple more fingers of whiskey before glancing at her. “Did you want a glass?”

  A semi-insulted sound came out. “Drinking on the job? That violates section three of the employee handbook.”

  He bit back a smile, because there was stoking the flames and then there was asking for something to be hurled at his head. Idly he wondered how good her aim was. “So that’s a no?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He lifted his glass, swirling it to keep his hand busy, even as his eyes remained on the woman across from him. “But a yes to helping me restructure the organization, I hope.”

  Exasperation creased her features. Uptight wasn’t his usual type—although, it’d been long enough since he’d dated that he wasn’t sure he even remembered what his type was—but there was something about her buttoned-up manner and the way she recited the sections of the handbook that sent a flicker of desire through him.

  One he quickly smothered, because he had a whole organization to restructure and he knew better than to get involved with someone from work. A big ol’ spotlight was being shined on him now that he’d taken over the team, and from here on out, he wanted to make headlines for winning games, not for ridiculous reasons.

  He’d had more than enough of that to last a lifetime, and he’d be perfectly happy if he never had to speak to a reporter again.

  “I need this job,” Charlotte said. “I’ve been with the team for seven years and worked my way up, and I don’t want to have to start over somewhere else. More than that, I love my job. Like I said, I’m good at it.”

  “And you’ll have plenty of chances to prove that to me by posting the listings and helping me sort through the replies.” She hadn’t been wrong about him needing help with that. He’d prefer someone familiar with the organization and positions involved, but if she wasn’t willing, he’d find someone who was.

  She gave him a saucy head tilt. “Oh, I have to prove it to you?”

  “Sure you don’t want that drink? You seem kinda wound tight.” He lifted his glass in unreciprocated cheers, and she scowled at him. After downing the contents, he tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening the silk noose. “I’d rather not fire you, Charlotte. What I’d like for you to do is channel all that frustration, turn it into positive energy, and”—he smacked a palm on the desk for emphasis—“help me do what’s best for the team.” He gave it a beat to sink in before adding a disclaimer. “But I’m not handing out guarantees, either.”

  The tactic he’d often used while on the field didn’t have her standing straighter and hopping to it. Instead his inspirational speech earned more of an eye roll. “Let me guess, there are no guarantees in football?”

  “Exactly. More crying than you’d expect, though. Possibly more than in baseball.”

  The corner of her lips quivered slightly, so she’d obviously understood that he’d thrown her modified movie reference right back at her. Clearly she wasn’t ready to fully give up her anger quite yet, either. “Fine, I’ll help you restructure the staff. But this doesn’t mean you’re above the rules. You can’t simply yell ‘you’re fired’ at someone and be done with them. There are forms and certain protocols, and I hope you’re prepared for severance pay requests and wrongful firing lawsuits that might be brought against you.”

  “I’ll take your suggestion under consideration. But for now, I think we’d better get to work on those job postings.”

  “I’ll grab my laptop.” She took a few steps toward the door and then abruptly spun around. “I really hope you know what you’re doing.”

  He kept his indifferent mask in place, but he couldn’t help thinking: I really hope I do, too.

  Chapter T
wo

  “Sorry I’m late,” Charlotte said as she took the stool next to her roommate. Wednesday nights at the bar were how they dealt with the hump day, the weekend’s still too far away blues. It was a tradition they’d started about six months ago when they’d become roommates. They’d forged a friendship based on necessity at first, but it’d quickly moved into genuine territory in spite of not having much in common. “Work was the worst today.”

  Shannon spun toward her, her blond curls swishing with the movement. “Did you lay down the law with Lance Quaid?”

  Charlotte loosed her hundredth sigh of the day as she let her head fall back. “I did. I’m just not sure it took.”

  “Well, now that you got all up close and personal with your new boss, let’s get to the important details first.” She propped her cheek on her fist as a dreamy look overtook her features. “Is he as handsome in person as he was on TV?”

  “He’s…” The irritation she’d felt in his office—especially after the meeting where he fired everyone—drifted to the surface again. “Frustrating. Pigheaded. Impossible.”

  “So yes.”

  Charlotte glanced around, since they were in a sports bar and you never knew who might be listening in, then leaned closer and whispered, “He’s even hotter in person. Like, I accidentally ended up ogling him a few times and forgot to listen to whatever he was saying— I’ll deny that if you tell anyone.”

  Shannon squared her arm as if she were about to swear an oath in court. “I promise not to reveal any of your secrets. Although the fact that Lance Quaid is hot is hardly a secret. The Locker Room Report ran an article on him today and added him to the NFL’s most eligible bachelor list.” She grabbed her phone, tapped the screen, and swiveled it to Charlotte.

  A quick scan revealed his picture—he was tossing a ball, his arms gloriously bare and sporting a sheen, the strong profile she’d stared at for way too long highlighted along with the confident smirk that drove her crazy in more than one way—the news about inheriting the team, and his eligible bachelor status.

  Considering his temper and his obstinacy, he might be a bachelor for life. Actually, Charlotte knew that was far from true. Most women wouldn’t care about that, especially when they factored in his net worth. But the guy had impulsively fired the front office, and now he wanted her to cover his ass.

  And my, what a nice ass it was.

  When they’d been working on the exact right wording of the job listings and he’d been putting out feelers via a hundred phone calls, he’d paced his office. Her eyes needed a break from the computer screen, so she’d glanced up and accidentally noticed how nicely his backside filled out his tailored pants.

  Luckily a minute or so later he’d spoken, effectively downgrading his hotness a level or two.

  “Look at the comments.” Shannon scrolled down. “This one says, and I quote, ‘the Mustangs have been out to pasture for years, but this guy looks like he could give me a decent ride.’”

  Charlotte leaned over the lit screen, sure Shannon was making it up. But nope, there it was in black and white, and another person had added she’d happily try her hand at taming him. The next person escalated the thread with her remark about riding bareback, and Charlotte’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment on behalf of someone she didn’t even know.

  Who posted that kind of stuff on a public page? Judging from the slew of similar comments that were mixed in with statements about his quarterback career and how they were upset/glad/doubtful/hopeful about where he could take the Mustangs, several women and a couple of men, none of whom were overly concerned with things like online etiquette or proper grammar.

  Then again, it’d be rather hypocritical to fault them for losing their minds a little over the guy when she’d had trouble keeping hold of hers when they’d been in the same room.

  Which was why, after giving herself a mental scolding for ogling him as he was pacing, she’d made a strict decree.

  There’d be no checking out any of his assets.

  No sniffing the cologne that lingered in the air of his office.

  No thinking about how he was still in really good shape.

  And her kryptonite—scruff-covered jaws that screamed all-man—was also off-limits.

  The bartender asked for her order, jerking her away from dangerous territory where she was slipping on the thinking about Lance’s scruff. She asked for the whiskey that she’d refused to drink at work—it’d been a long day, and she’d just have the one and then she’d go home and prepare for tomorrow.

  Silver lining, at least she still had a job.

  For a few minutes in that meeting, after Lance had fired everyone, she’d worried she was getting the ax, too. Not that it’d stopped her from doing her job and demanding to know what he was thinking, but that was because she was as good at what she did as she’d claimed to be. Her exceptional knowledge of every rule and regulation and attention to even minor details had earned her promotion after promotion until she was the director of HR, which was a huge accomplishment and a goal she’d worked toward since day one.

  But she really did need the job. A huge chunk of her savings had gone toward her dad’s expensive rehab bill. Which was something she worked to keep hidden, even from her roommate, who’d once told her that she allowed the men in her life to walk over her far too much. She’d stated it as nicely as possible, saying they shared the weakness and it was something they were working on together.

  What was she supposed to do, though? After nearly a decade of begging her dad to get help for his gambling addiction, he’d finally come to her and admitted he had a problem.

  Because of his history and the public repercussions, she needed a rehab center with a stellar reputation for being successful and discreet, and about three weeks ago she’d checked him into one that would treat his addiction and the resulting depression. If it worked, it’d be worth it. And she had to believe it’d work.

  “Earth to Charlotte.” Shannon snapped her fingers in front her face.

  “Sorry. I’m here now. No more work talk.”

  “At least tell me I can hold my head high as a Mustang fan this next season.” Shannon was more of a casual fan, cheering for the team now that she was a local. Her football knowledge was spotty, but she’d picked up a lot the end of last season when Charlotte had been standing on their couch screaming at the TV.

  “Yet to be determined,” she said, then quickly glanced around like a paranoid lunatic. While she’d never go into details, she had to be careful talking about the team in general. She’d signed a nondisclosure agreement she’d personally ensured was up to par and took it deathly seriously, to the point she sometimes felt like she couldn’t even cheer for the Mustangs in public for fear she’d slip and say too much.

  Working for the team had been a dream come true, one she’d been scared to actually believe for quite a while. After everything that’d happened with Dad, she’d worried people would take a look at her last name, put two and two together, since it’d been a huge story in the news around that time, and reject her without even giving her a chance. Worried she’d end up in a boring office where she didn’t feel as much passion for what she was doing.

  Luckily Mr. Price had told her that he judged people on their own merits. Kind of funny for a team that practiced a bit of nepotism, but when you owned enough companies to make you a billionaire, you got to dabble in hypocrisy.

  After this afternoon with Lance, she could at least say he obviously cared about what happened to the team. Over the past few years, it’d been more and more difficult to remain a fan. Not that she’d hop on a shiny bandwagon when it passed on by, but it would be nice to not spend every Sunday during the season disappointed.

  “Okay, so I guess it’s time to move on to another depressing subject.” Shannon glanced around the bar. “There is a severe lack of guys out and about tonight, and this was the only social outing on my calendar all week.”

  Charlotte was glad her drink arrived, and s
he took a swig before Shannon could say what she was 99 percent sure she was going to.

  “That means we’re going to that speed dating thing next door.”

  “Tonight?” Charlotte shook her head, cursing that her drink hadn’t had time to work yet. She was exhausted. She also wanted to point out that even if the bar was chock-full of guys, they’d all be marked off the possibility list because she had a new rule against meeting guys at sports bars. It always ended badly. Technically, every one of her relationships had ended badly, but again, football was to blame in a surprising amount of them.

  It’d all started with her first boyfriend, who’d found out her dad was the assistant football coach at the college he wanted to attend. Where he also hoped to play after he graduated high school, of course. She’d gotten him his in, and for her efforts she’d acquired her first broken heart.

  You see, football kept him too busy for a serious girlfriend. It did not keep him so busy that he couldn’t have sex with a lot of coeds, though. Funny the way that works.

  “It’s happening,” Shannon said, undeterred. “We’re going to take advantage of this hot, ballbuster-businesswoman-meets-retro-pinup-girl thing you’ve got going on while you’re already out and about.”

  The compliment cracked Charlotte’s resolve to remain firm, despite her best efforts. It had been the exact look she was going for, fashion the one area where she liked to bend the rules a little—not to mention that vintage styles flattered her curvier figure far better than modern ones did.

  “Really, you brought this on yourself,” Shannon added, chasing away the warm fuzzies and resealing those cracks.

  “How?”

  “You refuse to go out after you get home, kick off the heels, and flop on the couch. Remember how we decided we were going to get back out there?”

  “I remember you decreed that you were.” Charlotte still wasn’t there yet, but if she’d voiced that when Shannon was on her tear about it last weekend, her roommate would’ve only debated why she should be, and she hadn’t wanted to hear it. This was the problem with simply nodding. People thought you were agreeing and committing.