Chapter Nine
NINE
HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:
If your dreams fail to become reality, create a new reality, don’t abandon your dreams.
Last night, I dreamed that Sonia told Liam all about her passion for acting. The two discussed it. He was honest about his dreams in New York. They hugged. Parted ways. And I got to eat the desserts for the engagement party all alone while celebrating another future saved.
The light of day brought a different reality.
Chickened out. Couldn’t tell him.
The text from Sonia meant it was full speed ahead with planning the engagement party. I’ve been spending so much time on this and not nearly enough on my own career. Sleuthing, organizing, implementing mental warfare, and coming up with ways to break up an engagement without anyone finding out is taking all my energy and focus.
Warren’s already waiting outside Brooks’s Bar when I pull up. He really is staying close. Which I should hate, especially after the other day, but being around him has less of a nails-on-chalkboard effect now than it did before. Which is dangerous for so many reasons. I’m not supposed to like him or get to know him, and I’m certainly not supposed to be attracted to him, but the sight of him has my heart picking up speed—just a tad.
I’d like to dismiss it as fear of getting caught, but I know it’s because he looks gorgeous in a pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt, runners on his feet and an old, worn baseball hat on his head. There’s something sexy about a guy in a baseball hat that I can’t explain. It should look amateurish. It goes against all the polished principles I live by, but it’s a weakness of mine.
As is the perfect five o’clock stubble along his jawline, which I notice as I climb out of the car and approach.
“Morning,” he says, pushing off from the wall he’s leaning against.
“It’s two p.m.”
“Early for us bed huggers,” he says with a grin as he opens the bar door and gestures for me to enter.
As I duck under his arm, I get a distinct whiff of cologne. Someone showered today—impressive. And the scent is actually really nice. I’d expected him to wear Axe body spray like he did in high school, but this is a richer, more manly smell—earth toney and slightly wild.
A smartass comment right now would take the edge off the mild attraction, but my mind is blank and I’m afraid I’ll accidentally compliment him instead, so I keep my mouth shut.
He follows me inside and we approach the owner, Darren Brooks, who’s standing with his back to us. He’s jamming to something, but it’s definitely not what’s playing inside the club—loud hip-hop. Darren stacks glasses behind the bar. He’s dressed in a tight black T-shirt with the bar logo on the back—one I helped him choose—and jeans, likely held up by his signature horseshoe belt buckle.
At least he lost the cowboy hat.
We stop at the bar and I call out. “Brooks!”
He can’t hear me. Earbuds in his ears.
I lean across the bar and, in the mirror behind it, catch Warren checking out my ass. I want to be offended or call him out, but instead, I flex my ass cheeks tighter.
I tap Darren on the shoulder and he jumps as he swings around.
I send him a sheepish look as his hand flies to his chest and he pulls one earbud out. “Hailey, Jesus. Kill a guy why don’t you.”
“Sorry,” I say, picking up the dangling earbud and holding it to my ear. “Whatcha’ listening to?” As if I need to ask. Darren is a huge country music fan and amateur performer. When he first came to me, he wanted to open a country saloon with open mic nights and a mechanical bull, featuring wet T-shirt contests and BBQ tailgates in the parking lot.
Unfortunately, the location he’d already signed a lease on was in the middle of Silverlake...not exactly Nashville or even the slightest bit Southern-ish.
Convincing him that a hip-hop club would be more suitable to the trendy location had taken some major convincing, with focus group studies and a real breakdown of economics in the area, but eventually, he conceded that it was the better play.
Now he wears ear pods to block out what he calls “chaotic noise with repetitive beats and uninspired lyrics.”
As I expected, twangy country music fills my head when I hold the earbud near my ear. The song, about a guy who lost his girl and is now keeping a whiskey label in business, sounds like a dozen others on the radio, but I’d never offend his “religion” by voicing my opinion.
I smile as I hand the earbud back. “Still not a convert, huh?”
“The day I enjoy this—” he gestures around, indicating the music “—put a bullet in me,” he says with a deep Southern twang that the customers love. At least the ladies. The clientele may not be on board with country music but they love a country boy.
I laugh and introduce Warren. “Darren, this is Warren Mitchell...” Though I’m not sure why I thought an introduction would be at all necessary. Darren’s staring at Warren as though a god has entered the building. “Football fan?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, extending a hand to Warren.
Warren shakes it. “Nice to meet you. Nice place,” he says scanning the bar.
It’s more than nice. With its purple velvet interior and dark mahogany wood accents, expensive crystal chandeliers and modern artwork, Brooks’s Bar is elegant, sleek, upscale, and trendy. It’s reservation only on weekends and packed every night of the week. Bottle service costs these Gen Z kids their rent money, but this is the place to be seen on the coast. The clientele are the youngest, hottest up-and-coming musicians, actors, and models in LA. And the staff rival the patrons for most eye-catching.
The marketing and promotion on this place when it first opened nearly bankrupted Darren, and at first I was a little nervous...but it worked like a charm. The grand opening had A-listers flocking to the purple velvet rope—which had a lot to do with my calling in my previous clients—but the following week, Darren didn’t need any staging to give the appearance of exclusive. The place was a hit.
Just like I’d seen in my glimpse.
“Thanks,” Darren says. “It’s not exactly my aesthetic, but it draws a crowd.”
I hear the hint of disappointment in his voice and have to remind myself that Darren owns his own yacht. Sympathy for what he “gave up” only goes so far when he’s living a lush life.
“Drink?” he asks us.
I glance at Warren, but he shakes his head. “We’re good. We were just wondering if we could book DJ Scale for an event this weekend?”
He looks uncertain. “He’s one of the bigger draws—which night?”
“Actually, it’s an afternoon thing. Early evening at the latest. He’ll be back in the booth by seven.” I’d never consider asking if I thought it would interfere with the club. I’ll call in favors from one client to the next, but not at the risk of their business.
Darren nods. “In that case, he’s yours.”
“Great.” I pull out my wallet, but Darren looks almost offended, as he shakes his head.
“Put that thing away, dollface. You know your money’s no good here.”
I love my clients.
Next to me, even Warren looks suitably impressed.
“You are amazing,” I tell Darren, leaning over the bar again to kiss his check.
And okay, maybe to give Warren another chance to check out my ass.
Which he does.
At least I know this attraction is going both ways.
I reach into my purse for my cell phone and quickly text the details of the event to Darren.
His phone chimes on the bar and he nods, seeing the text. “I’ll make sure he’s there.”
“Thank you.”
Darren hesitates then turns to Warren. “There is one way you could show your gratitude,” he says.
Warren laughs, reaches for a napkin and signs it for him.
“Thanks, man,” Darren says, hanging it on the wall of fame behind him, where photos and autographs of famous people are on display. “It’s a shame you’re not playing anymore.”
My gut tightens and I expect the comment to have a negative impact on the chill vibe currently radiating between Warren and me, but he doesn’t seem fazed as he shrugs. “Even the best rodeo stars have to hang up their spurs sometime.”
“True that,” Darren says. “Don’t be a stranger—you both have VIP access anytime.”
I wave as we head toward the door, and once outside in the heat and sun, Warren says, “That guy seems appreciative.”
“He did all the work, I just helped him target the right clientele.”
“He listened to your advice even though he obviously wanted a country music bar?” Warren asks as we head back toward our vehicles.
“He did.”
“You must be quite persuasive,” he says.
“I am,” I say turning toward him.
Our gazes meet and hold for a sexually charged moment too long. My body heats up and it has nothing to do with the midday sun beating down on the pavement. Warren’s light blue eyes hold a depth I haven’t seen in them before. The five o’clock stubble along his strong, square jawline is like some sort of beacon and I have to force my hand to remain at my side.
I bet his stubble would tickle against my neck...
I look away and clear my throat. “Well, another thing checked off the to-do list.”
“Yep.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks reluctant to get in his Jeep and drive away.
An odd lingering silence drifts in the stifling air.
“My place to go over the playlist?” I suggest on impulse.
He nods. Very quickly. As though he was also trying to come up with a way to keep this day going. “Meet you there,” he says and my heart does an involuntary flutter that it has no business doing.
Window down, music blaring, I follow Hailey’s convertible as we drive along the coast to her place. With the top down, her hair blows in the breeze and she drives ten over the speed limit, as though she’s in a hurry to get there.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing wanting to spend more time with her, but booking the DJ was a lot quicker than I thought...or hoped?. Her suggestion to work on the playlist was the excuse I hadn’t been able to come up with.
And it definitely seemed like an excuse.
She’s been wanting to plan all of this alone, so asking for help on something like a playlist feels as though she wanted to spend more time with me, as well.
This is a bad idea. Neither of us should be playing this weird game of attraction. We’ve never gotten along. We don’t even like one another most days.
I do like her ass though. The image of her sexy curves in cut-off denim shorts—tight ass and shapely hips—will be etched in my brain for a while.
And I know that second lean over the bar was for my benefit. I caught her catching me in the mirror the first time, so what exactly is she playing at?
The Hailey from a few weeks ago would have slapped me or delivered a lengthy lecture for checking her out...this Hailey was inviting the attention.
Then, standing near our vehicles, the look on her face was pure desire. We’d both been reluctant to part ways, and a smart man would have made up an excuse for this afternoon.
I’m readily a fool.
Hailey’s blond hair blows in all directions and she raises her sunglasses up over the strands to hold them back. It looks silky soft and I’d like to feel it against my skin. See it splayed out against a pillowcase.
She hits the brakes last minute at a set of lights and I hurry to do the same.
Shit. That was close.
My cell phone chimes in the console and, glancing down, I see a text from “Kelly” on the screen. I pick it up and a quick read reveals she’s interested in meeting up, which with Kelly always translates into a booty call anytime of day. She’s a teacher. Supersmart, superfun, supersexy and we have a good time together. No strings attached fun.
This invite is my out.
My body is definitely in the mood. My mind tells me it’s a good idea.
I glance up and my gaze meets Hailey’s in her rearview mirror. The same hint of desire from the parking lot reflects in her eyes.
My mouth goes dry and my hands sweat against the steering wheel.
Blow her off and go hang with Kelly? That would be the logical, safest thing to do before things get more complicated...
I reply to the text quickly:
Sorry Kelly, tied up right now.
Obviously logical and safest aren’t doing shit to convince me to avoid the mess that is Hailey Harris.
A jug of fresh-squeezed lemonade collects condensation as the heat of the day reaches its peak. Warren suggested we sit outside and I agreed, but now sweat pools on regions of my body I hadn’t known sweat could pool.
I still can’t believe he agreed to this. I expected him to bail once we got in our vehicles.
“So, playlist.” Best to get to it and avoid making a fool of myself by suggesting other options for this afternoon. I reach for my cell phone and scroll through my music. “I’m thinking classical remakes of love songs.” I hit Play on a slowed-down version of Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space.”
Warren pretends to drift off, snore, and fall off his chair.
I stop the music and shoot him a look. “Okay, well, what do you propose?” Of course it’s just a formality. He’s not getting to decide on the music.
He moves closer and takes my cell phone. His arm brushes against mine and I expect him to move away, but he doesn’t.
My gaze lingers on his forearm as I keep my arm next to his on the table. We’re both sweaty and contact makes our skin slick, but neither of us seems bothered.
At least not in a bad way.
What is he doing? What’s with checking me out and this intentional breaking of the touch barrier?
And now that his cologne is mixed with a mild hint of sweat, holding my breath is probably the only way I’m going to make it through this afternoon without insisting he leave his T-shirt behind when he goes.
On my phone, he opens a music site and a second later, a loud hard rock song plays. He closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip and starts to air drum to the beat.
All actions that should totally kill any attraction to him and yet...
But the music sucks so I cover my ears. “This is just noise.”
If my plan is to ruin the romantic vibe at the engagement party, this might be a good way to do it.
No. I have to let this relationship implode without looking like I’m intentionally sabotaging it.
Subtle tactics. Under the radar.
I take the phone back and scroll through another playlist. I settle on a 2000s boy band remix and instantly the sound of my teen years fills the backyard.
“Absolutely not,” Warren says, but the next second, he’s on his feet, doing the routine from the video. Hand on his hip, he body rolls, then spins and drops to one knee on the pool deck, spins around, then jumps back to his feet.
I’m in utter shock, impressed that he 1) knows the moves, 2) remembers them after all this time and 3) isn’t afraid to arm me with this knowledge for future blackmail purposes.
In fact...
I grab my phone and start to record as he continues the routine and even starts to sing along. He knows the lyrics. And his voice is not half bad. His speaking voice—a deep alto—has me surprised he can pull off the tone of this prepubescent boy band.
I laugh from behind the phone camera, but then he walks toward me and gently pushes the phone down, so I put it on the table. He reaches for my hands, but I shove them under my legs on the chair, already slick with sweat.
Undeterred, he bends and grips my hips instead, pulling me up off the chair and onto my feet. As I stand, my body is only an inch from his and there’s a sizzling fraction of a second before he takes a step back and nods for me to join him.
“Come on, you know you know these moves.”
I do, in fact, know these moves. I performed this dance with a group of friends in the junior year talent show. We came in third place. But dancing in front of Warren...
What the hell?
He’s making a fool out of himself, I may as well.
I fall into rhythm beside him and we continue to execute the entire routine flawlessly. My singing is better than his, obvs, but I can’t claim victor on the moves.
Then as he reaches for his T-shirt and pulls it off, as the lead singer does in the music video, I nearly stumble and break my face. His arm flies out to prevent my fall, then he’s all up on me, sweat glistening on his tanned, muscular chest and his come hither hands as his hips lead the way, inching closer to mine. His eyes burn into mine in a tantalizingly sexy, flirty way as he sings lyrics that used to set my teenage hormones aflutter.
Now other parts of me are fluttering.
Holy sweet fuck.
Warren Mitchell missed his calling as a member of a boy band.
I stop dancing and move away quickly, before my actions are out of my control.
He laughs as he rejoins me at the table but leaves the shirt off, draping it over the back of the chair.
I eye his muscular body and suddenly, working on this playlist together feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had. I can barely think straight with him sitting across from me, and allowing this attraction to Warren to grow stronger or turn into something else is a really terrible idea.
We need to get through this and he needs to leave ASAP.
“I have an idea. If we keep playing the songs and disagreeing, we’ll be here all day. Why don’t you make a list of songs and I’ll make a list of songs. We each have three veto’s and then the mixed list will be set along with whatever else the DJ plays?”
He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, Hailst...” He stops short of saying the nickname.
And shockingly, I’m a bit disappointed.
Which is ridiculous. Must be the testosterone oozing from him having some sort of ill effects on my brain, messing with my own body chemistry.
I tear a page out of the notebook and hand it to him with a pen. We both get to writing.
Only suddenly my mind is blank. Or shooting off in a million different directions. I can’t think of a single goddamn song to write down—the boy band song permanently lodged in my mind.
Warren’s having no trouble. Head down, he’s writing up a playlist storm and humming the most awful song from the eighties!
I reach across the table and steal Warren’s list of song choices, then jump up and run away. I have no idea where I’m going or how to escape the backyard, but this playlist can’t happen.
Warren jumps up and chases after me, catches me effortlessly less than halfway across the yard. “Give me back my list,” he says behind me, his arms around my waist, as he lifts me off the ground.
“No,” I say, struggling to break free.
He holds me with one arm as he tickles my waist and ribcage with the other. I kick and flail as I laugh but stuff the paper in my pocket. “All these songs suck!”
“You haven’t even looked at it yet,” he says.
“I don’t have to. You have sucky taste. You suck!” I say, but I’m giggling so hard that I can’t make the words sound even half serious.
Truth is, he doesn’t suck. Not nearly as much as I thought he did. Or nearly as much as I want him to.
He’s actually...fun.
“Okay, that’s it,” he says.
Next thing I know, his hands are under my knees and back as he carries me across the yard and straight toward the pool.
Oh shit.
My body seems to fly into the air for an excruciatingly long moment, though not long enough that I remember to hold my breath before I hit the water. I take in a mouthful of chlorine in my shock at Warren’s actions and the chill water on my scorching, sweaty skin.
As I surface, Warren’s laughing on the pool deck.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Shouldn’t have messed with my playlist,” he says, but then a second later, jeans on, he jumps in with me, creating a tidal wave that nearly drowns me again.
I shriek but the sound gets trapped somewhere in my chest as he resurfaces and runs his hands through his wet hair, slicking it away from his face.
Jesus, he’s even hotter wet.
And speaking of wet...
He splashes me, breaking the spell his water droplet–covered torso had me under.
I lunge at him, grip the top of his head and push down, submerging him below the surface. He grips my waist and yanks me down below with him. His arm is still around my waist as we stare at one another under the water, little bubbles of air floating up between us. His gaze is amused, filled with a hint of disbelief that I’m capable of giving as much as I’m taking—as though my fiery, challenging nature is a turn-on for him.
And out of nowhere, a song from The Little Mermaid movie starts to play in my mind.
Kiss the girl...
What? No. I don’t want him to kiss me. That would be ridiculous...
Out of breath, we resurface. Warren still has his arm around my waist and the temptation to straddle him like a new inflatable—a hard, sexy floatie—is overwhelming. Water droplets form on his face and drip from his five o’clock shadow. His gaze is on me and I know this unexpected fun has the same unsettling impact on him. Blue eyes blaze into mine then flitter to my mouth with a look of unconcealed temptation.
My cell phone rings on the pool deck, breaking the silence and the tense moment.
Thank God?
I twist out of his arms, swim to the ladder and hurry toward my cell as quickly as wet denim will allow. I pick it up and see “Coach Baxter” on the call display and hold my breath.
Please, please, please be calling with good news.
I take a deep, calming breath—not an easy task with my heart still pounding and my body still twitching with desire for Warren—then answer, “Hailey...” Remembering Warren’s comment about my influencer voice, I clear my throat and start again in my normal voice. “Hailey Harris.”
“Hailey, hi! Coach Baxter from the San Diego Mavens.”
“Yes, hi, Coach Baxter. Great to hear from you,” I say, aware of Warren’s gaze on me, listening as he treads water in the pool.
“Got your email request for a meeting...”
I only sent it a month ago, but whatever. I’m happy he’s calling now.
“Like to set something up,” he says.
I breathe in silent relief, then compose myself. “Great decision. Let’s talk some dates.” I take the call inside, away from eavesdropping ears, and drip all over my hardwood floor as I head into my office.
A moment later, I re-emerge triumphantly.
Warren is out of the pool but still shirtless, tanning on a lounger.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of the six-pack and tanned, broad sexy shoulders. Turns out the rest of his physique is just as impressive as the forearms. The upper half anyway. I’d need to see the rest for myself before passing judgment.
He hears the patio door close and opens one eye to look at me, catches my stare. “Good news?”
“I have a meeting with the Mavens coach. It’s a start.” Nothing guaranteed, but at least someone from the sports world is finally getting back to me.
Warren opens the other eye and studies me for a sec. “Why sports clients?” he asks with genuine interest. “From what I remember, you were never very athletic.”
I obviously can’t tell him the truth. Even having this discussion is likely to kill the lighthearted mood. We’re getting along for once and I hate to ruin that with a reminder that the last non-client athlete I tried to advise was him. “Want to be versed in all industries,” I say simply.
“You truly think you can help professional athletes?”
“I do.”
I hesitate then feel as though I need to prove it to him. Or more likely, reassure myself that I’m capable. Oddly enough, if I can convince Warren, I think I’ll feel more confident. I sigh. “Come with me.”
He gets up and forgets his shirt as he follows me inside.
Our wet clothes drip onto the floor as I lead the way to my home gym. “I’m hoping this area will help me convince athletes that I know what I’m talking about.”
Warren enters and lets out a low whistle as he scans the equipment.
“It’s good, right?”
He nods. “It’s a great training facility...”
“But?”
“Athletes already have those. They aren’t going to sign with you to work out here.”
“I know, I just thought if I looked athletic, it might instill confidence.”
His gaze washes over me slowly. “Those arms are not going to convince anyone that you’re sporty.”
I glance at my arms and make a superhero pose, flexing. There’s a muscle there somewhere. If I squint really hard... Okay, so he’s got a point. “Well, teach me how to use this stuff.”
He looks tempted for a second, but then shakes his head. “You’re missing my point. It’s not being a weightlifter that will get them to sign on for your coaching. It’s knowing the industry,” he says.
“I’m...researching,” I say.
“That’s a start. But you need to get out there. Play the sport. Feel the ball...”
I’d like to feel certain balls.
“You need to experience the games for yourself. The aching muscles afterward and the rush of scoring a goal or touchdown or basket,” he says.
He’s making sense.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
He takes a breath and then lets it out slowly. “Give me back my playlist and I’ll help you.”
My heart races at the thought. More time together. Another excuse to see one another? Get physical and sweaty together? I want to hate the idea. But there are a bajillion reasons I want to say yes.
Focus on the one that makes sense—this could help your career.
I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull out his soaked playlist. I bite my lip as I hold it up. “You may need to write a new one.”
A full day of sports with Hailey Harris.
Spending time with her willingly, doing something other than engagement party planning. I need to have my head examined.
I drop my bag of sports gear onto the field and open it. Inside is a football, baseball and gloves, tennis rackets, and a basketball. The key sports she’s trying to break into.
I don’t know why I want to help her out, but I sensed a genuineness in her yesterday and the offer just slipped out.
But I’m determined to keep things—meaning my thoughts and my hard-ons—in check today. Unlike yesterday in the water where the temptation to kiss her was so strong, I know I would have risked the punch in the face if her cell phone hadn’t rung.
I thought that interrupted kiss cliché shit only happened in TV movies.
Probably for the best, though, as it would have been a huge mistake. We’ve finally reached a point where we don’t want to murder one another and may be able to pull off the engagement party without disappointing Liam and Sonia.
Best to keep this stalemate we’ve silently agreed to as platonic as possible.
Which would be easier if she wasn’t so damn hot.
Striding across the field in tight athletic short shorts and a bra top, her blond hair in a swishing ponytail and bright pink runners on her feet, she looks like SportsPro Barbie. I choose to believe she’s wearing this particular outfit because of the hundred-degree heat and not because she’s hoping to elicit another near kiss out of me. That is absolutely not going to be happening.
“Hi!” she says, sounding excited and happy to see me, which is a first, and it throws me completely off guard.
“Hey,” I mumble. “Ready to get started?”
She bounces excitedly and her breasts are a major source of distraction. “What’s first?”
She needs to calm the fuck down before I get excited.
I reach into the bag and take out a football. Something that requires us to be as far apart as physically possible. I toss the ball back and forth in my hands as I nod for her to head across the field. “Let’s see if you can throw a spiral.”
She nods as she backs away. She holds her arms out, ready to catch the ball.
Oh God, she’s adorable.
Which is arguably worse than being sexy. Sexy hits me in the groin area, whereas this cuteness radiating from her warms something in my core.
I don’t like it.
I throw the ball at about ten percent my usual speed and she catches it. “I caught it!”
Her excitement rivals mine over winning my first pro championship. “Okay, throw it back.”
She positions her hands correctly on the threads and I’m grateful I don’t have to teach her that. Distance is my friend today. She raises her arm and throws.
The ball is wonky and wobbly, but it makes it to me. “Shit. Sorry!” she says.
“All good. Just try guiding the ball with your pinky finger. Stabilize it and try to direct its trajectory.”
That’s it. Coach mode. Think of her as one of your players. You can do this. I toss the ball back and she tries again. And it’s better. And each one after that is better.
Twenty minutes later, she’s not half bad. She’s only throwing the ball about eight feet, but it’s not wobbly anymore.
“Ready for the next sport?” I ask, putting the football away.
She nods, approaching.
Nope. Stay over there.
She stops next to me and touches my shoulder as I reach into the bag for the baseball and gloves. “Thank you. For doing this. You’re a good coach,” she says with such sincerity, it has that unwelcome warmness coursing through me again.
I stand and hand her a glove. “Get back over there.”
She grins. “Yes, Coach,” she says as she jogs slowly back across the field.
And damn, if I don’t love the sound of her calling me that.
I’m in trouble.