8. Due Diligence
8
DUE DILIGENCE
Maddox
A few days later, I board the plane in Los Angeles for London, right foot first for luck. A flight attendant in a starched blue suit asks for my ticket, then gives a cheery nod when she reads my name on the mobile app.
“Welcome, Mr. LeGrande. Let me know if I can do anything at all for you,” she says.
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.” I settle into the second row—seat 2A, my usual spot—and check my messages while I still can.
I sent a bcc text to all my clients a few minutes ago, letting them know I’d be traveling for the next eleven hours or so and to contact Adriana if anything should come up. I never want them to worry if they can’t find me easily—unless it’s the middle of the night, of course.
A few have already responded. Crosby replied: Oh my god, whatever will I do with myself if I can’t text you pics of my lunch?
I write back: You mock, but I know you had ramen yesterday and a green goddess chicken salad the day before. Can’t wait for today’s lunch pic.
Others write back with simpler notes—smiley faces and thanks for the heads-up . They don’t all call me after midnight. Some do, rarely. But I pride myself on being easily accessible and communicative.
I take out my laptop because I’ve got a mountain of contracts to sort through, and I can’t think of a better way to spend the next ten and a half hours. There’s a deal memo from a shoemaker for one of my San Francisco Cougars, a renewal proposal and a dating app sponsor opportunity for my quarterback on the New York Leopards, and a fat new contract for one of my linebackers on the San Francisco Renegades. That team won two Super Bowls in a row, allowing me to take advantage of a fantastic loophole in Isaiah’s rookie contract related to sales of his jersey this year, of all things.
This is my happy place. The flight won’t take off for another thirty minutes, so I dig into my paperwork.
I start with the most recent addition to my to-do list—Bespoke. Late last night, Priyam sent an initial proposal for Zane, outlining some of Bespoke’s goals. As I search through my inbox, I find a new email in the thread, sent twenty minutes ago while I was boarding. When I click on it, I chuckle. Priyam’s attached a shot of Zane and his teammates Gunnar Ford, Declan Steele, and Holden Kingsley at a karaoke charity children’s hospital fundraiser from a year ago. They’re on stage singing, and Zane wears a checked short-sleeved button-down and a navy-blue bow tie. It’s the dapper side of Zane, and I haven’t seen this look before, but he wears it well.
This! Can we please make bow ties a thing again ?
I write back, stat. As long as you do a how-to tie a bow tie video.
Priyam’s reply is nearly instantaneous. Brilliant!
I seize the moment and switch to my phone, calling up Zane’s name in my contacts. I haven’t been in touch with him since I dropped him off at his hotel after the rooftop party. No need to, really. I’m determined to put that scorching moment behind us. Our dirty talk nearly burned the hotel down that night.
Maddox: Please tell me that’s not a clip-on bow tie you’re wearing in the karaoke shot from a year ago.
I check the time. It’s nearly eleven in the morning, and even with a night game against Phoenix yesterday, he’s probably up already. He didn’t respond to my group text, but that’s no big deal. Now, he writes back immediately.
Zane: What do you take me for? Someone who doesn’t know how to tie a tie?
Maddox: Just doing my due diligence.
Zane: Yes, I can tie a bow tie, a necktie, etc. I told you in Venice, I’m good with ties. All ties. I can tie many knots.
The message is barely risqué, but even so, my skin tingles. I shift in my seat and angle the phone closer, even though I don’t plan to volley back with the same level of innuendo. Or any innuendo at all.
Maddox: I suspected as much.
Zane: Hold on. I’m not done. I have more to say about my bow tie skills. I can wear a bow tie undone and look smoldering. I can do it up all nice and tight. I can pair it with the right shirt.
Maddox: You’re the bow tie king.
I review the last note before I hit send. That’s so innuendo-free it’s certifiably G-rated. I fire it off.
Zane: King of ties, that’s me. Also, why are you asking?
Maddox: Someone likes your bow tie pic.
Zane: You can say it, Mad. You do. You like my pic.
That’s the first time he’s used a nickname for me. Still, I resist reacting to Zane’s term of endearment as I write back.
Maddox: Credit given where credit’s due. Priyam found the shot. It’s not even on your Insta. A fan took it and tagged you. He likes it. I like it too.
That’s not too revealing, so I send it.
Zane: And to think I was excited about you checking me out. Now that I know the client is, I’m even more excited!
That . Right there. That fucking exclamation point. That delights me. His enthusiasm for the deal is motivation to work hard for him every day. I recall his words about his brother. I picture finalizing the partnership for him. I imagine his exuberance. That is why I do what I do—the thrill of making business magic happen.
I’ve just started a reply when my phone dings again.
Zane: In fact, I’m so damn excited I just put one on. Want a bow tie shot right now?
A picture of an off-limits man? That’s risky. But bow ties aren’t sexy, so I say yes. One minute later, a file arrives on my phone, caption first— My team color. I call this look…casual gym wear . The photo is a shot of him from the neck to the knees. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, nice and snug, workout shorts, and a purple bow tie. It’s a little goofy. It’s definitely not smoldering.
And yet.
And fucking yet…
It sends tingles down my chest.
My stoicism starts to crack as that warm, hazy feeling rises higher in me. I fight it off with an ultra-agent-y reply.
Maddox: Do not post that on social media.
Zane: Even though purple’s my favorite color?
Maddox: You have a favorite color?
Zane: Wasn’t that in my client profile? :) Course I do. Purple is our team color. Ergo, it’s my fave.
He cracks me up. Such an athlete response.
Maddox: Fair enough. But you cannot post a photo of you wearing a bow tie to the gym on social media.
Zane: Don’t worry. That was just for you.
Ah, hell.
Those are dizzying words. I can’t stop staring at them. Just for you. I can’t stop feeling them everywhere, all at once. Gripping the phone, I shut my eyes, willing away my reaction to him. But this sensation fries my brain. It makes me want to share the dirty details of what he did to me last night when I was alone in my shower, thinking of him. I’m always thinking of him at those times.
I’ve got to ignore the just for you . But hundreds of miles separate us. Soon, thousands upon thousands will.
What’s one text?
When I open my eyes, I give in.
Maddox: I really like it.
That’s all I can manage. The simple, bare truth. I hit send then shake my head, annoyed I caved and thrilled I got that off my chest.
I flip my phone over and set it on the seat under my thigh, like that’ll help me resist chatting with him. Then I return to my laptop, clicking open Isaiah’s contract, zooming in on the jersey clause. As I do, my phone pings against my leg.
My fingers itch to open the new message. But I need some rules. I won’t check it till I re-read this whole section. I dive in, studying the wording about jersey sales.
But a voice snags my attention. “I can handle it,” a woman says to the flight attendant.
I look up from the screen. An older lady with coiffed hair and a Chanel jacket hoists her own Louis Vuitton luggage into the overhead, dismissing the attendant’s offer to help. She takes the aisle seat next to me with a friendly smile. “Ready for a long flight?”
One of my favorite things about transatlantic flights is I don’t have to say a word. But maybe I need someone to talk to. Maybe she’ll be the distraction from my wayward wishes.
“Yes, I am. And you?”
Laughing, she waves a hand airily. “Always. And I just took a valium, so I’ll probably be sound asleep the whole time. Don’t even think twice about stepping over my legs. You won’t bother me one bit.”
I smile. “Good to know.”
Seconds later, she closes her eyes as the flight attendant’s voice crackles on the loudspeaker. “We’ll be taking off soon,” the attendant begins. “You’ll want to put your electronics in airplane mode shortly.”
Well, I don’t want to be rude to my client. This might be my last chance for a while. I pick up my phone at last and click on Zane’s message. The sound from my throat could have come from a porn video.
Zane: Then here’s a full shot. Also, just for you.
This time, he’s taken off his shirt. He wears shorts and the bow tie, now undone. Smoldering indeed. His tattoo is visible on his right wrist, like a private reminder of the night we met and the way he reeled me in to his wishes—the mirror of mine—with his tattoo story.
But the best part of this shot? I get to see his face. Those green eyes blaze and that fiery look in his irises is just for me. He’s staring right at the camera as if I’m there. As if he wants to rip the phone out of my hand, throw it to the floor, devour my lips and then the rest of me.
I stare salaciously at the shot, memorizing the shape of his face, the faint dusting of stubble across his jaw, the fullness of his lips. Most of all, the ownership in his gaze. Even though he’s shirtless, even though his abs are insane, even though his arms are mouth-watering, his eyes call me back every time. He looks like he wants to eat me alive. I don’t even know what to say except… mmm .
But before I can try to type that, another text from him lands.
Zane: It’s customary to send a selfie back :)
I laugh in the middle of all that incomparable heat. This man cracks me up and turns me on at the same damn time. He also makes me want to do his bidding.
Maddox: Now? My flight’s about to take off.
Zane: Pretty sure that’s prime selfie time.
I glance to the left. Chanel Woman, as advertised, sleeps. The flight attendant helps other passengers. Good. I don’t want anyone to see me taking a picture. This photo feels private. Like, if I take one now, everyone will somehow know it’s for Zane Archer. As if I’m wearing my desires like clothes emblazoned with the brand name Lust. That’s ridiculous, and yet that’s how I feel as I write back.
Maddox: You really want one?
I know he does. But I want him to tell me to do it one more time.
Zane: Yes, Maddox. Send me one.
It’s like he knew what I needed. He read between my lines. As surreptitiously as possible, I lift the phone, turn it to selfie mode and snap a shot, then check it. I’m not even smiling. But I can’t pretend I look businesslike in this image. I can tell what’s in my eyes. Bet he can too.
I hit send. Thirty seconds later, Zane replies.
Zane: Fuck…do you have any idea how good you look?
Maddox: Glad you approve.
Zane: I approve so hard. This will go to excellent use tonight. Also, thanks for your due diligence. I seriously appreciate it, as much as I appreciate this pic.
Then, I power down my phone, so I don’t slide even further into loopholes or think too much about what excellent use tonight really means.