Chapter 6
Carly
“I need to make a call. Give me a second, and then I’ll take you down to HR,” Grayson says, already lifting the phone to his ear and heading toward his office door.
“Okay,” I manage, which is impressive, considering my brain is stuck back on head-of-the-training-line and has moved through the stages of shock.
He nods once and steps out. The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left alone in his office.
It’s quiet in here on my own. I can hear my own breathing, can almost hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Boulder and the hazy outline of the Flatirons, snow frosting them like powdered sugar.
The leather chairs look like they cost more than my car.
Everything is neat, ordered, masculine, and controlled.
And the photos.
I shove my empty cup into the trash can and drift toward the wall like my feet aren’t entirely under my control.
Jersey after jersey is framed behind glass, each one with his name stitched across the back in block letters: SPARKKS 82, SPARKKS 65.
CU Buffaloes gold and black, and Denver Broncos orange and blue.
Action shots frozen midair: him catching passes, him sprinting down fields, him grinning with a helmet under his arm and sweat slicking his darker hair back, attractive in a way that is far too effortless and dangerous.
I’ve seen these images online, on posters, in the lobby.
But it’s different seeing them here, in his space — like it’s proof that this is just…
who he is. That this ridiculous, powerful man with the controlled voice and an expensive watch used to have eighty thousand people screaming for him on Sundays.
My gaze snags on a photo that doesn’t look like the others.
Grayson on a field in jeans and a Sparkks hoodie, not gear, holding a little girl on his hip.
She can’t be more than one, maybe two. Tiny puffy jacket, tiny pompom hat, tiny sparkly boots.
Her hair is a dark tumble of curls, her cheeks flushed from the cold as she grins at the camera.
He’s looking at her instead of the lens, and the expression on his face does something awful to my insides.
He looks soft. He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat and force my eyes away, only to land on another frame — him with a group of guys in suits at some awards thing, all of them broad-shouldered and stupidly handsome.
I recognize a couple from billboards and ESPN clips, and one of them has a very recognizable, charming smile.
“Oh my God. That’s Tim Tebow,” I murmur. Damn.
I drag a hand over my face. Focus, Carly.
My boss’s boss’s boss just promoted me. I’m standing in his office. And he is somewhere outside of it, muttering curses about something that is very clearly not my business. I should not be sightseeing.
I slip my phone out of my pocket with shaky fingers and open my messages.
Me:
I think I’m going insane? bc if not I think I just got promoted??
I stare at it, then type again.
Me:
Like ACTUALLY promoted. Head of the training line. NFL stuff.
Three dots appear in the bubble for half a second, then disappear. Typical. It’s not exactly easy for Zoe to text when she’s with customers most of the day.
I pace in a circle in front of the windows, looking down at the city. The streets are crusted with old snow, the kind that’s gone gray around the edges. Sun glints off car roofs. People move in little puffy-coated dots along the sidewalks.
My phone buzzes.
Zoe:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU THINK YOU GOT PROMOTED???
Me:
Grayson Sparkks. He took me to his office. Said he’s promoting me to head of the training line with the NFL partnership we’re getting. My designs. I’m not having a stroke, right??
Zoe:
OMG
YOU DESERVE THIS SO MUCH
We’re going out TONIGHT to celebrate
Drinks on me.
Wear something slutty-professional, maybe we can pick you up a new man with all that luck you’ve got today
There’s a little swoop in my stomach at that. Working closer to Grayson means seeing him more, being in meetings with him, having to string sentences together while looking at his ridiculous face. And body.
Me:
Deal.
I add a string of crying emojis and drop down onto the nearest chair before my knees give out.
Head of the training line. No pressure.
But all I can think about is Grayson Sparkks’ body when he took off his shirt.
* * *
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’ve eaten, I’ve processed, and I’m thirty percent sure the promotion was real and seventy percent sure I’m going to trip in front of someone important in my new role and die on the spot.
The bar buzzes around us as I tug at the hem of my dress.
It’s black and fitted and definitely not the kind of thing I’d wear to work, even if it is a sample of one of the tennis dresses I’d sketched.
Beneath, I’m wearing sheer tights that bother the absolute hell out of my toes, and heeled ankle boots that are testing my patience.
My hair looks exactly the same because I couldn’t be bothered to try to tame it a second time in the cafe’s bathroom today.
“And then he said he’s promoting me,” I finish, still a little breathless from telling her the entire story of the chaotic morning. “Head of the training line. NFL collection. He said my work is the strongest they’ve had in-house in a while.”
Zoe makes a sound that is half squeal, half wounded animal as she sucks on her mojito. “Of course he did. Because it is. Because you’re a genius.” She lifts her glass and clinks it against my margarita. “To Carly Drake, Head of Training Wear.”
I laugh and drink, warmth spreading all the way down to my toes.
“And,” she adds, eyes narrowing shrewdly over the rim of her glass, “to your raging crush on your very hot, very divorced boss.”
I choke on tequila. “Oh my god,” I hiss, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I do not.”
“Oh, come on,” she laughs, leaning in. “It’s obvious.
You’ve been flustered over him since he came to your floor that first time and asked if you had any preliminary concepts on the Nike collab.
You know what you told me about the most during that story?
His forearms. His hands. I didn’t even ask about them. ”
“Shut up,” I say weakly.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, god, fine,” I admit, feeling my face heat. “A small crush.”
Zoe snorts.
“And now,” I continue miserably, “I have to work even closer to him. Meetings. One-on-ones. Actual eye contact. How am I supposed to do that when half my brain is busy cataloging the way his dress shirts fit over his shoulders?”
“Like every other woman in the building,” she says without sympathy. “You think you’re special? Please. I guarantee every woman in that office has had at least one inappropriate thought about Grayson Sparkks. I don’t even work there, and I have.”
Something hot and sharp twists under my ribs at that.
I know she’s right. Of course she’s right. I’ve seen the way people look at him in the hallway, the way the receptionist at the front desk goes a little pink when he says good morning.
It’s not like I thought I had a chance or anything. But still. The thought of being just another woman in the building who can’t look at him without thinking about his hands does something small and ugly inside me.
I drain the rest of my drink in one go.
“Another?” Zoe asks, already lifting her hand to flag the waiter.
“Yeah.” I’m going to need it if I’m going to get through the… well, however long I have this damn job.
By the time the second round arrives, the room is softer at the edges. The music blends into a pleasant hum. The world feels slightly less sharp, slightly more manageable. I’m warm and floaty and just tipsy enough that my anxiety has loosened its claws.
Which, for me, always seems to be the point where shit hits the fan.
I’m laughing at something Zoe just said about stealing the salt and pepper shakers so she has a matching set, when something on Zoe’s face shifts. She goes still for half a beat, eyes tracking over my shoulder.
“Fuck,” she murmurs. “Do not turn around.”
My stomach drops. “Why?”
“Because your boss just walked in,” she says under her breath, lips barely moving. “And he looks… yeah. That should be illegal.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
I twist in my seat despite her suggestion, just enough that I can see the entrance in the polished reflection of a glass divider.
Grayson stands there with another man, shrugging out of his coat.
He’s in a dark button-down that fits him like it was custom — probably because it was — with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, no tie, the top button undone.
His hair is slightly messed up, like he’s run his hand through it one too many times today.
If he was attractive in his office, he’s… more in the wild. Taller. Broader. More real.
The man with him is about his age, maybe a little younger, still somewhere in his forties. Big, athletic, with a familiar face I can’t place. One of his old teammates, maybe. They walk toward our section, and I freeze, heart pounding in my chest, before they slip into a booth two back from ours.
“Turn back around,” Zoe hisses. “You’re going to get caught staring.”
I wrench myself back around, pulse thudding behind my eyes. “He’s not going to see us,” I whisper. “Or at the very least, he won’t recognize me. There’s no way.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You literally just got promoted by this man this morning. He absolutely knows what your face looks like.”
I make a strangled noise and pick up my water like hydration will save me.
Their table is close enough that if I angle my head just so, I can hear their voices over the music. I know damn well I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I’m tipsy and ravenously curious.
“I’m telling you, man, you did the right thing,” his friend says. “If she’s calling out that much, you can’t rely on her.”