Chapter 7
LINCOLN
I’m a planner. I’m a man who develops a course of action and sticks to it. I’m responsible, and I pride myself on making good decisions.
Normally.
But when I booked the reservation for my very important business meeting last week, it completely slipped my mind that Jules works at this particular restaurant.
I had no idea that I’d be forced to sit here at Le Trésor des Fées on Monday over lunch, staring at the woman whose pussy was on my dinner menu last Saturday night.
Maybe I’m hallucinating, but I swear I can still taste her on my tongue.
Seriously. Of all the days that Jules and I could have jumped into bed together, it had to be less than forty-eight hours before this pivotal appointment? Fuuuccckkkk…
Lucky for me, all the violent, red scratches and bite marks she left on my chest are fully hidden by my crisp white button-up shirt. Unlucky for me, I’m pretty sure her sexy as fuck ‘O’ face is sketched in permanent marker on my brain.
As I’m seated at this round table in the center of the restaurant, surrounded by my middle aged associates in their ill-fitted suits, listening to the murmur of their small talk amidst the clinking of silverware, I’m busy mentally reviewing a list of all the ways the past few days have been a train wreck.
I’m starting to think the universe has a terrible sense of humor. And I’m the butt of it’s favorite joke.
In any case, Jules is the restaurant’s hostess today. She looks incredible in that ridiculous fairy uniform all the female employees are forced to wear. Without a doubt, the length of her skirt is half the reason that all the males in this room keep checking her out.
I don’t blame them. I can’t take my eyes off her, either. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s caught me gawking. But every time she struts by my table and her stare meets mine, she makes sure to give me an extra-poisonous eyeroll. Ouch!
Yet still, I take comfort in knowing that I’m the man responsible for the faint hickey on her throat.
There’s something intoxicating about knowing that I’m the one who gave her that love bite she’s trying so desperately to hide.
It gives me a childish sense of pride that makes me sit up a little taller in my seat.
Jules may pretend to be this tough-as-nails bad girl, but that little mark on her neck tells a more complicated story.
I’ve seen her softer side now, so she can’t fool me anymore.
And if she’s forced to think of me every time she looks in the mirror for the next few days, well, that makes me feel a tiny bit better.
I try to turn my full focus back to my table.
Too bad the fifty-year-old business associates who are here to meet with me today have the attention span of a bunch of toddlers.
They take turns, going on and on about how they’re all married men.
Yet, each and every one of them is eye-fucking the waitresses who walk by in their skimpy, little uniforms.
Whenever the men’s eyes wander toward Jules and her bare thighs, I find myself turning into her unofficial bodyguard, trying to force the men’s attention away from her. All while my own eyes keep betraying me. I’m such a goddam hypocrite.
We haven’t even gotten our plates yet, and already I’m having doubts about the success of this deal. This meeting has been months in the making. I’m the founder and owner of The Raines Agency, a small sports management company that I’ve spent most of the last decade building from the ground up.
Having my brother, Easton, as my biggest client sure helped me get to where I am today. I represent a handful of other athletes—a rookie football player, a few decent baseball players, but mostly up and coming hockey stars.
Now that Easton has confirmed that he’ll be retiring from the game, I can’t rely on one mega star and a handful of B-list professionals.
At this rate, I’ll never have enough stability and growth to even consider retirement.
And I can forget about comfortably paying Cameron’s college tuition in ten years.
The day after Easton came to me with his retirement plans, I was already devising a strategy to pivot my business. I need to do it fast. Especially if I want to avoid crashing and burning next year when he leaves the league.
So not only is my personal life on fire, my business life is very much on the verge of blowing up in my face, too. Which further underscores the importance of this meeting today.
I’m trying to negotiate a merger of my small company—and my client roster—with WinningEdge Sports Management, a larger, more established firm.
Someplace where I can play a major role and continue bringing in business, all while earning a comfortable salary and working in a long-term bonus arrangement.
At this point in my career, I’d enjoy the perks of a larger firm.
Paid time off, vacation benefits, a 401K, and a team to lean on.
I’m not asking for the world here. Just a fair shot.
But these four smug business men are sitting here and carrying on like I’m not even on their level.
Paul Price—a.k.a., the short angry one—is the founder. The man is a legend in the sports management world. Over the past decade, he has represented some of the biggest names in professional sports. Maxwell Masters and Jason Bellino to mention a few.
Bob Buckley—the bald one is the company president and CEO. The other two stooges—Dale Adler and Eric Something-or-Other—are the heads of operations and finance.
Normally, I’d have to fly to meet with them on their territory, at one of their offices in New York or Los Angeles. But luckily for me, they were willing to travel out here for a mini-vacation. As long as they could use the trip as a tax write-off.
“I guess what we’re trying to say is that we’re looking for someone more…settled in their life situation,” the CEO is saying as the server sets our plates in front of us. He gets distracted, pausing to shamelessly check out the woman’s cleavage.
Meanwhile, I shake my head in utter confusion. “Meaning?”
All four of them awkwardly look around at each other. Clearly no one put on their big boy pants today. None of them wants to spit out whatever message it is they’re trying to subtly convey.
Finally, Finance Guy clears his throat. “We, um, just…Here’s the thing. We’re all married and…”
“And you’re well…not,” CEO Dude adds.
I put my fork and knife down and meet each of their eyes around the table. “Not anymore,” I clarify. “I was married for over six years. I’ve got a son. I’m registered to vote. My taxes are filed. I’m far more responsible than most adults. I’m not following. I’m not sure what the problem is here.”
Why are they skeptical about bringing me on board? Just because they’re all married and I’m not? What does that have to do with anything?
“Uh, well, I guess you could say our wives aren’t really fans of us associating with single men,” the operations head explains, “because puck bunnies tend to follow any single man in proximity to pro hockey.”
My brows jump to my hairline. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t associate with puck bunnies.”
“Ha. Try convincing our wives of that!” CEO Dude says.
“And whose fault is that?”
All eyes point to Finance Guy, and the band of geniuses bursts out laughing at their inside joke. Meanwhile, I sit there trying to hide my annoyance.
These guys are the biggest hypocrites ever. I haven’t known them for more than an hour, and I already know they’re probably not the most faithful husbands themselves. And yet, I’m the bad guy? I’m the big threat to their sad, fragile marriages?
One of the men starts bragging about this new carnivore diet he’s on. Another one is making jokes about ‘the rack’ on one of the younger waitresses. I’m not paying attention.
When I become too exhausted to continue trying to hide my annoyance, the owner chuckles. "You're a single guy, Lincoln. Come on. You can't blame a man for looking! It’s innocent.”
I focus on the medium rare ribeye in front of me, trying not to let my frustration bubble up and spill out across the table. The conversation veers away from business again.
But the moment Jules sashays past, leading a group of patrons to their table nearby, I notice the men’s wandering eyes traveling up and down her body again.
I quickly change the subject. “Tell me, who do you have going first in the NFL draft next year? And what do your NCAA connections look like?”
The conversation shifts, but probably just to appease me. These men don’t really seem all that interested in talking business during this so-called business lunch.
We’re about to order dessert when I’m distracted by my phone ringing. I consider letting it go to voicemail—anything in the hopes of getting into these guys’ good graces—but when I see the name of Cameron’s babysitter flash across the screen, I rise to my feet.
“Sorry, gentlemen. Excuse me. I’ve got to take this.”
I answer the call and hustle to the restaurant's back exit for some privacy. On the line, it’s Gabby, the babysitter I just hired when the previous one quit.
Cameron’s in school during the day, but with the requirements of running a business on my own, I need some extra help.
I’ve hired a sitter to give me a hand with the mornings and school pick-ups, to ensure Cameron has a consistent, steady schedule, no matter what meetings or travel may pop up for me during the week.
Only problem is, I’ve already gone through a revolving door of hires in the few short weeks since Cameron and I moved out here from Chicago.
“Gabby. Is everything OK?” I say as I burst out the restaurant’s backdoor, worried that the school nurse might have called her for some medical emergency.
“Oh yeah. Everything’s totally sigma, Mr. R.”
I have no idea what she just said, but her tone seems calm, so I’m able to exhale as I step outside into the quiet back alley.