Chapter 2
OLIVIA
What exactly is the point in telling someone to take it one day at a time? Like hello, Karen, did I miss the class in school where they taught us how to skip Monday?
—Olivia’s Secret Thoughts
“Excuse me.” I grab the attention of a passing cocktail waitress. “Could I get another, please?”
She cocks her hip and flips her hair, probably hoping to flirt her way to a bigger tip. Joke’s on her. She doesn’t need to flirt her way anywhere for the rest of the night. If she takes care of us, we’ll take care of her. “Sure, hon. What were you drinking?”
I slide a few hundreds onto her tray and place my empty glass on top. “Dirty martini, blue cheese olives. Belvedere vodka, please. And another glass of Cristal for my cousin.” I nod Serena’s way. “Keep them coming.”
She looks down at her tray, silently counting the hundreds as her smile widens. “No problem, doll. Do you need anything else?”
“I’d be careful about calling her doll, if I were you.”
That voice.
That scent.
That fucking man.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Isn’t that right, Olive?” With Serena sitting to my right, none other than Logan Adler takes the seat on my left at the blackjack table I had been enjoying. Emphasis on had.
Sandy-brown hair, desperately in need of a trim, curls slightly at the ends like someone’s been running their hands through it all night.
Strong, broad shoulders stretch his black button-down shirt.
His sleeves rolled up. A gorgeous Patek Philippe watch wraps around his wrist, hiding where his tattoos start before they disappear under his sleeve.
He’s a sinfully sexy package.
He’s also a dick.
Because apparently, Vegas decided I haven’t suffered enough today.
His brother, Rafe, stands behind us for a moment, as if to make sure Logan’s going to behave before taking the only other open seat next to Serena. And I swear to God I silently warn him to behave. If this asshole screws with my cousin tonight, I will end him.
“What brings you to Vegas, Olive?” If I close my eyes, I could listen to this man talk for hours.
His voice is dark and husky, and I’m fairly certain he could make reading the phonebook sound sexy.
But at some point, I’d have to open my eyes and remember it’s Logan Adler, and damn if that wouldn’t just ruin it.
“Seventeen,” the dealer says.
I tap the table, ignoring Logan. “Stay.”
The dick beside me steals a look at my cards. “Conservative.”
“Smart,” I correct him, refusing to look his way but unable to avoid seeing him all the same. His mouth tips into a grin that feels dangerous, and I cross my legs.
The dealer flips a bust card and slides the chips my way, and I finally allow myself a good look at Logan. “Like I said, smart.”
“Never doubted that for a second.” He grins, those eyes focused on me like heat-seeking missiles.
“Could have fooled me.” This man makes my blood boil . . . and not in a hot, sexy kind of way. Okay, that’s a lie, but it’s one I’ll take to the grave. “Why are you here, Adler?”
“Oh, I thought you’d have heard.” He leans forward and smiles at his brother.
My stomach drops. “Heard? Heard what?”
This man is bad news.
He’s the star forward for the New Jersey Nobles.
A walking tabloid headline waiting to happen.
He fights too much, flirts too much, and probably fucks too much, for all I know.
And I’m personally familiar with the kind of PR nightmare he can be.
According to his narrative, I supposedly cost him a few hundred thousand during his last contract negotiations by wrapping up my client’s raise first. The team hit their cap, and Adler’s raise was sidelined.
So what did this dick do? He turned me into the headline.
The headline of him calling me an ice queen flashes in my mind, followed quickly by the clip of him calling me a bitch. For the love of God, why can’t men be more original than bitch? There are so many more exciting ways to say you don’t like a woman. Bitch is so cliché.
That stupidly sexy grin grows. Again. “You’re looking at Mulland Exeter’s newest clients.”
Son of a bitch.
No. I had not heard that.
Again, not telling him that though.
Instead, my eyes scan the floor for our waitress, who thankfully just walked up. Swallowing half my martini in one sip, I square my shoulders and look at Rafe first. “Congratulations. We’re the best.”
Rafe nods. “That’s what Pete guaranteed us.”
“Peter . . .” And the hits just keep coming.
“What’s wrong, Olive? Hadn’t heard the news?” Logan challenges, an annoyingly condescending tone to his voice.
“My name is Olivia.” I hiss the words through clenched teeth.
The dealer slides cards across the table as I bite down on a stuffed olive.
“Yeah. I know.”
I choke. This fucker.
“It’s hard to forget the woman who cost you your new contract.” He throws down a chip.
“I didn’t cost you shit, Adler. It’s not my fault your agent blew it.” I look at my cards. A queen and a six.
Logan leans in, his hot breath fanning the side of my face. He smells like vanilla and bourbon with a hint of cigar lingering. “Hit it.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap but tap the table anyway.
The dealer slides over a five.
Twenty-one.
“Look at you go, Liv,” Serena cheers, tapping her glass to mine as Logan smirks . . . the entitled ass.
“You should trust me more often,” he stage-whispers.
“I’d rather walk through broken glass.” Dramatic—yes, but also true.
“Could be hot,” he murmurs, and it actually pains me not to throw my elbow into his stomach like I’d have done had my brother or one of my cousins pissed me off this badly.
We go back and forth like this for a few more hands, settling firmly into our roles.
Enemies. Even if we never were until he shaped the damn narrative.
But Serena is smiling at whatever jokes Rafe’s cracking beside her, and my cousin hasn’t smiled much in the past few weeks, so I keep my ass planted right where it is.
I can take one for the team if it means she relaxes for a night.
I laugh at myself. Not like I’d actually take one . . . not this one . . . not to bed . . . Sweet Jesus. Even my inner monologue is a traitorous bitch.
“What’s so funny?” Logan asks as he swaps out his now empty glass for another full one.
“Nothing. It’s just been a day, I guess,” I admit. No clue why I tell him that. I’m blaming exhaustion and aggravation.
“Yeah.” His blue eyes lower to the felt table. “I’ve had one of those too.”
And for just a moment, I see the crack in his cocky, asshole facade. It’s fleeting and gone just as quickly as it appeared. But it’s enough to pique the fixer in me’s interest.
I always said the only job I could possibly love more than my own would be to be a fixer. The Olivia Pope of the sports world because seriously, politics—eww.
“Shouldn’t today be a good day?” I wrap my lips around another olive and bite down, not missing the way he watches me. “Not to toot my own horn, but you just signed with the most prestigious agency in the country. What’s been so rough about your day?”
He looks at his card and taps the table for another hit. “You wouldn’t want to know.”
Jesus. He may as well have waved a red flag in front of a raging bull, and I hate how wrong he is.
“Try me,” falls from my lips before I take a hot second to think the words through.
His eyes lift, intrigue shining back at me. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
I wave my hand over my cards. I don’t want another.
“Come on, Olive . . .”
I should say no. I’m not about to bad-mouth my bosses to a man who just signed with one of them. But for some reason that makes absolutely no sense, I’m desperate to know what’s bothering him.
The dealer flips the card, and my smile stretches my face as the chips are slid my way again. “Fine. You first.”
Long, dark lashes I would die to have frame baby-blue eyes that hold me hostage for one beat, then another . . . I watch the muscles in his forearm bunch before he sips his bourbon, looking into his glass. “Do you know I have a daughter?”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah . . . guess you didn’t know.” Logan’s cocky smile is gone as a couple sits down across from us. “She just turned one, and she’s great. Her mom is another story.”
I feel like I’ve heard this story a million times from a million players, but I listen with rapt attention, already knowing where this is going.
“She was a puck bunny. But I’ll never regret her because she gave me Maggie.
” He pulls out his phone and hands it to me.
A miniature version of Logan stands on unsteady legs in the middle of a field of sunflowers, her tiny arms crossed over her chest, a little pink jumper tied in bows at her shoulders, and matching ribbons laced around two space buns holding back brown curls.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, staring at the sassy little girl. “I take it you and her mom aren’t—”
“No. We’re not. We never were. Not like that.
It was never like that with Monica. When she told me she was pregnant, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted to keep the baby.
And until now, she’s been happy with visitation.
Hell, she doesn’t even bother to show up half the damn time.
” His voice raises on the last sentence, and Serena and Rafe look over.
Rafe’s brows go up in concern, silently asking if his brother’s okay before Logan nods and waves a hand over his cards, holding this hand.
“Okay, so your baby momma is a shitty mom. That’s . . . disappointing.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Sorry she sucks? “But not exactly an original story.”
“It wasn’t a bad thing as far as I was concerned, until she got engaged and decided she wanted to actually be a mom.” His face tightens, and so does his hand on his glass, worrying me he’s about to break it.
“And that’s a bad thing?” I push, trying to understand and completely clueless why I even care.
“It is when I get served with custody papers.”
“Ouch.” I study him. The tired line of his shoulders. The heaviness in his eyes that wasn’t there when he sat down. “What are you going to do?”
And just like that, the lingering exhaustion snaps away, and the cocky mask slips back into place. “I don’t know, Olive. You’re the lawyer. You got any fancy ideas?”
“You’re not my client, Adler,” I remind him as memories of my own shitty day linger on the periphery. “Did you talk to Pete about it?”
“Not really. I hired him to be a shark for my career, not my personal life.”
“Oh, you sweet summer child.” I sip my martini and look at him over the rim of the still cold glass. “Don’t you know they’re one and the same?”
“Okay then, Olive. If you’re the smartest woman in the room, what would you tell me to do?”
I look at him . . . Really look at him, already knowing the answer.
I seriously should have become a fixer.
Maybe I should say fuck partner and go for it.
It’s almost comical the way the answer to his problem and mine are basically the same thing.
“Come on, Olive. Don’t hold back on me now.”
Oh no. Hell no.
Time to shut this train of thought right down . . . now.
But—it’s just . . . kind of perfect.
Complicated.
So fucking complicated.
No. I can’t.
Pushing that thought aside and stuffing it in a metaphorical box I can ship off to the dark recesses of my mind, I finish my drink and give him my honest opinion. The one that fixes his problem. Because that’s what we’re talking about. His. Problem.
My stomach flips. “If you were my client, I’d tell you if she found a husband, you need to find a wife.”