9. Graciella
NINE
GRACIELLA
OVULATION WAS PROBABLY AT THE SCENE OF THIS BAD DECISION, TOO.
Ari
So, are you ready to play matchmaker?
Me:
I’m not playing matchmaker.
Me:
This is an interview for these women…I’m a professional
Ari:
You broke into someone’s house to threaten them into giving you their promotion
Me:
MY PROMOTION
Itze:
I’m not sure saying that makes it better…
My butt cheeks tingled, and my left foot felt staticky from sitting for two hours, but I refused to get up and join Monroe.
He paced the wall of windows in the conference room like a caged animal, his reflection following him. Five more minutes and there’d be wear marks in the navy carpet. The faint lemony scent of wood polish, mixed with whatever cologne he liked to wear, wafted through the room.
He stopped and folded his arms over his chest, glaring at me. “That makes two who won’t work.”
I studied the glossy walnut table and the ring of condensation surrounding my half-drunk iced coffee. The liquid was dangerously close to the pile of papers. Not that it’d matter if they were ruined. They were rejects.
“So she was a little…older.” I kept the concern out of my voice and busied my hands with arranging my notebook for the millionth time so I wouldn’t pick at the sparse remnants of the polish I’d done that morning.
“She was the same age as my mother.”
I tamped down my wince. “People love an age gap. She’s well established—a former actress making her way back into the limelight.” I knew damn well she wouldn’t work, but his bad attitude was pissing me off. “And she looked amazing for sixty-three.”
That part was true. It took all my willpower not to switch the questions over to her skincare and anti-aging regimen.
“And the first one?” He threw his hands in the air. “She’s divorcing some guy involved with the mafia up in New York?”
“Allegedly.” I waved my pen at him. “The ‘alleged’ part is really important in these situations.” The harsh line of his lips didn’t move. I sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Probably better to avoid her in case they put a hit out on you.”
I was joking…mostly.
Monroe’s thick brow ticked up higher than I thought possible, since it was almost always pulled down.
“Remind me again why I’m trusting you with my future?
” His deep, hollowed laugh filled the conference room.
“Oh, that’s right, because you shoved your way into my business and now I’ll potentially lose my job and my livelihood.
Maybe even my life with the women you’re setting me up with. ”
I rolled my eyes at him. Not that he saw, since he was back to doing laps.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Monroe.” I sounded confident, but inside, my stomach churned.
The pressure of what was riding on these interviews settled on my shoulders.
This hire had to happen today, and two of the three were already out.
With the dinner next week and another article dropping after the meeting with Tommy, we needed to make some offensive moves.
Every time Josh’s name was mentioned somewhere online, I got a notification. This morning, I had the pleasure of waking up to Josh Monroe: Youngest Coach to Win the Cup and Youngest to Retire?
Had to hand it to them. The title was catchy, and a clicky title did more damage—or repair—than anything else.
The rest of the article was pointless, dredging up the same claims from the other one, but that was two articles in a week.
We needed to go on the offensive and build some positive rapport.
Monroe’s fingers rapped on his biceps, his foot tapping in time with them.
Two more seconds and I’d be at a level of overstimulation that led to yelling and throwing shit away.
And I didn’t think the Stars would love it if I started taking the photo collage of past players off the wall and tossing them.
A chunk of blue polish landed on the lacquered table. I brushed it away. “Sit your ass down. I’m tired of watching you.”
He stopped, peering down at me. “Don’t you mean tired from watching me?”
“Nope. Tired of looking at you.”
Lie.
The real problem was I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and having nightmares about him…plus maybe the occasional dream that I’d never admit to.
Monroe cracked his knuckles and plopped into his seat next to me, shifting his weight to get comfortable. I bit my tongue, keeping the smart-ass comments begging to escape from spilling out.
“What’s the deal with this next one?” He picked up the final sheet, rubbing a hand over the short stubble on his chin. “She a failed popstar who’s trying to sing the national anthem at our game or something?”
I ignored the irritation in his tone. He needed to be in a good mood—okay, that might be asking a lot—a marginally more pleasant than usual mood for the final interview.
“No…” I dragged out the word, grabbing my copy of her information. “Lauren is a sports analyst. Worked on a few local channels and has a pretty popular online presence and podcast catering to female sports fans.”
“Hm.” Monroe’s hum of approval had my stomach dipping. “Well, that actually sounds pretty promising. Says here she was a former collegiate athlete at Texas Tech. That’s pretty cool.”
Another dip.
“Okay, well, that’s enough about her. We don’t know if she’ll work out.” I snatched the paper from his hand, ignoring his confused look. “Let’s talk about what we know is happening. You’ve got press coming up, you’re throwing the opening pitch for the San Jose Miners in July, and—”
“Why?” His lips curled, and it irritated me that my eyes shot right to them.
“Why are the pretty ones always dumb?” I mumbled, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Hey—”
I held out a hand to stop his pointless protest. “With or without a relationship, we can’t work the public’s opinion of you if you’re never in the public eye.”
“Fine,” he bit out, elbows resting on the top of the long table. A muscle in his arm flexed, pulling at the shirt cuff. He needed bigger shirts…
That reminds me. I pulled out my phone. “I’m going to make sure they have a jersey with your last name on the back.”
He sighed, like the weight of this topic exhausted him.
Boo hoo. Cry me a river.
Oh no, I’m rich and hot and get to be up close and personal with other hot men in tight pants.
“When is all this shit?” His deep grumble reminded me we’d been talking. “We might be in the offseason, but it’s still busy with hockey for me. I give the guys a few weeks off the ice, but then we’re back at it.”
I nodded, jotting down a reminder of that. “I put it on the Google Calendar. Put in any days you’ve got hockey stuff going on so I don’t schedule you for image stuff.”
“Google what?”
I sighed. “Give me your phone. Not only am I doing your PR, apparently, I’m your personal assistant, too. Don’t you have someone who helps you with this?”
He shrugged, passing it to me. “My mom usually tells me about any non-hockey things, but she’s gone for her yearly summer vacation.”
“I hope you’re paying that woman well.” I flashed the screen toward his face so it’d unlock.
“I’d pay her more if she let me. She deserves the world.”
Oh.
“You do that because you want to? Not because she expects you to take care of her?” I asked, fingers stilling on the phone before I thought better of my prying and refocused on the screen. “Never mind, here. Now you can see all the events you’re scheduled for.”
“And Lauren will go with me to these things,” he asked, scowl deepening the longer he looked at his phone.
“Well, we don’t know if she’ll be the one—”
“She’s the last option.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with his glare.
“I am not going for someone my mom’s age or someone whose ex can off me. We could just not do this whole relationship thing,” he said, sounding hopeful.
The tug in my chest to agree wasn’t helpful. “No, the whole point is for you to look in lo—” For some odd reason, the word lodged in my throat. I coughed to clear it. “Excuse me. You need to look in love.”
Monroe worked his jaw in a tight circle and gave a noncommittal grunt.
Did the word taste as bad in his mouth as it did in mine?
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, and my fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and touch his muscled forearm, to assure him it’d be fine. To assure myself.
But my lips stayed sealed.
Truth was, I had no fucking clue if this thing would work. In theory and on paper, it would, but I needed Monroe’s buy-in. For him to realize letting people in past his shark-infested moat wasn’t such a bad thing.
“I won’t force you to share more than you want.” The promise came out softer than intended.
Blue eyes snapped to me. “You sure about that?” he asked, with an edge to his voice.
The question shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did.
“I said I won’t.”
I picked at my polish.
He searched my face, like he was looking for the lie. I winced at the distrust staring back at me.
Fuck, I’d really put myself in the red with his trust. A confession danced on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell him that, in my attempt to take control of my life decisions, I sometimes forgot to consider how they’d affect others—like him.
But that felt too raw.
I cleared my throat. “We won’t need to use anything personal, since this plan lets us control where you’re seen, what’s photographed, what gets posted—”
“I’m not posting her on social media,” he barked.
“Oh, you’re opposed to something else I’ve said. Shocking.” I dragged in a slow breath through my nose. God, he was exhausting. “You won’t have to on yours, but she’s going to post about you two. Social media is a massive part of marketing, whether you like it or not.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face, body coiled tight, like at any moment he’d leap out of that tiny chair and sprint for the exit.
“Hey.” My hand landed on his warm, muscled forearm. “We’re a team, Monroe, I’m not going to let you down.”
His eyes dropped to where we touched and then back to my face, and something in his expression flickered—softened.
A knock echoed through the room, and I dropped my hand like I’d been burned.