Chapter Two
Royce
Iknow I'm in trouble the second I step into Emelia Jónsson's office. I expected the pretty shark in a power suit I've heard so much about, not a goddess in a sundress and heels I'd love to feel digging into my back.
She's sexy as hell, with the biggest green eyes I've ever seen. The dress skims her ample curves, accentuating all the places where she's softest. I want to taste those places with my tongue.
Judging by the way she's staring at me like she's waiting for the floor to swallow her, I'm thinking she might not be entirely averse to the idea. Which means I was right. I'm the name that popped up on her little cootie catcher.
Interesting.
"I am not…" She tugs on her dress like she's trying to fix her armor, her cheeks so fucking pink I want to taste the heat of her blush. "We are not…" She huffs out a breath, clearly trying to put herself back together. "You're here to discuss representation, Mr. Elliot."
"Royce."
"What?"
"My name is Royce, babe. You keep calling me Mr. Elliot, and we're going to have a problem."
"We already have one," she grumbles.
"Yeah?" I grin at her. "What's that?"
"You." She flings her hand out, motioning between us. "This. Stop calling me babe."
"Would you prefer Future Wife?" I tease.
She makes a strangled noise.
I should tell her that I'm just fucking with her, except…I don't think I am. No fucking clue what that's about because this is not something I do. I play hockey and mind my goddamn business, in that order. But there's just something about her that I like, perhaps a little more than I should.
She'd probably kill me if she knew how much research I've done on her. But, shit, you can't blame a motherfucker for wanting to ensure that his future publicist isn't going to fuck him over. Been there, done that. Have the underwear campaign to prove it.
I looked into her before I set up this meeting.
I talked to people, pried into all the little details of her life.
I know her mom is a publicist back in Nashville, and her dad is the legendary Kris Jónsson, retired former captain of the Predators.
I know she's smart as hell, and fiercely loyal. I also know she's single.
I didn't expect her to be this fucking sexy, though. I mean, she was gorgeous in her photos. But in person? Goddamn.
If my dick gets any harder, I won't be walking out of here without making a scene.
"Let's get down to business," she says, marching back to her desk, clearly prepared to pretend I didn't just call her my future wife. "You want to be the next face of Firestorm, right? Or did you just come here to harass me?"
"Can't it be both?" I kick back in the chair across from her desk, letting her think she's in control.
She's not, but she doesn't need to know that yet.
Frankly, I don't really care if I get the energy drink campaign or not.
I just need someone who will ensure I don't get fucked over.
My last publicist was notorious for putting shit deals in front of me.
"If I'm going to represent you, it will be a professional relationship only.
" Emelia sits up, taller somehow, even though she must barely hit five-foot-nothing without the heels.
"I don't sleep with my clients. I don't date them, either.
If you want representation, that's all this will be, Mr. Elliot. "
"Royce," I growl at her. "And you will be changing your rules for me."
She crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. I know that look. I've baited enough forwards into penalties to recognize when someone is digging in for a fight they have no chance of winning.
"Not happening," she says, enunciating the words like that makes them more meaningful. "Not now, not ever. Pigs will fly first."
"You might want to revise your metaphors," I suggest, stretching my legs out until my knees brush her desk. "The league already has a team with a flying pig logo, the Mighty Hogs."
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Why didn't I go to law school?" she mutters like she's trying to will herself into a reality where I don't exist, which is pretty fucking adorable.
"Why didn't you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She gives me a look that's all ice and fire. "Excuse me?"
"Law school," I say. "Why didn't you go? You were prelaw. Full ride, all-conference debate." I tick off the facts on my fingers, enjoying the way she's trying not to look impressed. "You could have gone to law school anywhere. Why'd you settle on PR instead?"
She blinks, thrown off guard. "How do you possibly know that?"
"Answer the question, and then I'll tell you."
She stares at me for a moment and then sighs.
"I realized that I wanted to help people like my dad, not spend my life inside a courtroom.
I understand sports. The horrible things people do to one another, though?
" She shudders slightly. "Maybe I decided I didn't want to spend my whole life trying to understand or defend those things. "
"I like that." I grin at her. "You'd have made a shit lawyer. You have a soul. Last I checked, most lawyers don't."
She rolls her eyes at me. "Your turn."
"I know about you because I do my homework." I pause, leaning in. "Especially when it comes to my future wife."
"That's it!" She rises so fast her chair nearly tips over. "I'm not doing this with you. You need to find a different publicist, Royce."
I haul myself up, planting my hands on her desk and leaning in, close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes, close enough to smell the coconut in her shampoo. "Nah, babe. I think I've already found the one I want."
Before she has time to come up with a response, I press my lips to her cheek, just below the hinge of her jaw. Her skin is molten and so fucking soft.
She freezes, the little gasp she makes going straight to my aching cock. Jesus. I want her to make that same sound when I'm sliding inside of her. I bet she'll be a wild little thing when she's wrapped around me, pleading to come.
"Send over the contract," I murmur, letting my stubble drag across her skin as I pull away. "I'll let my team know you're representing me."
"Don't you dare," she whispers, her voice deadly.
"It's already done," I call over my shoulder, striding for the door. "We can discuss your objections over dinner tonight. Forte, eight o'clock." I wink at her, loving the way her mouth snaps open in disbelief.
"Royce!" she yells.
"See you tonight, Emelia." I walk out of her office, pulling the door closed behind me. I grin like a maniac, confident she'll be there even though she's going to fight the truth right up until the last second.
When I hear something heavy thunk against the closed door behind me, I laugh out loud.
This is going to be the best season of my life.