Dax just waits patiently for me to explain.
With a sigh, I drop my hands from my face and turn to face him dead on. “You know that woman I went home with last night?”
Dax nods.
“Well…that was Coach Perron’s daughter.”
“Get the fuck out!”
“And I was in her office before the meeting—”
“Office? What does she do here?”
This information is not pertinent to my dilemma, but I take the time to tell him. “Assistant director of team services.”
Dax scowls. “That’s a bullshit job.”
“Indeed,” I agree. There’s usually one person involved in team services. That’s the person that coordinates all of our travel and meals when on the road. It’s a cush job. We have a director already, and an assistant is most definitely not needed, which tells me that the organization made accommodations for the coach to bring his daughter from New York to Phoenix with him.
Now that’s damn weird.
“At any rate,” I continue with the important part of the story. “Her dad walked in on us while we were in a fairly intimate embrace.”
“And?” he drawls with raised eyebrows.
“And he was pissed and she told him we were engaged,” I bite out with no small amount of bitterness in my voice.
“She fucking did what?” Dax barks at me, then his surprised look melts into humor and he starts laughing hysterically. At one point, he has tears in his eyes and is banging his fist on the armrest of his chair.
“Fuck off,” I growl at him as I push up out of the chair. “When you get over yourself, I’ll tell you the rest of the story and you can help me figure out what to do.”
Dax can’t even respond. He just laughs harder at me as I stomp out of the room, gritting my teeth so hard I’m afraid they might crack.Chapter 4BrookeLeaning back against my car, I hug myself across my stomach with one arm and nibble at my thumbnail, ruining a really great manicure I got the other day. I’ve only been in Phoenix for a month, but I’ve tried to assimilate myself by doing things that I would have normally done back in New York.
Manicures were one of the few ways I’d pamper myself.
Luxury handbags were the other, but those were few and far between, and I could only afford them after scrimping for months.
My gaze travels down to my Stuart Weitzman pumps and then back up to my Moschino dress. Those I did not pay for. They were the perks of the job I left behind in New York working at a boutique magazine specializing in haute couture. I was the executive assistant to the editor, who was the best boss a woman could ever want, and not just because I got free designer clothes after various magazine shoots. Elizabeth Standish was a really great human being, and she saw potential for me in the fashion world. There were many things about leaving New York that make me sick at heart and still cause me to cry some nights, but leaving my former boss is the one that grieves me the most.
Then again, it was a no-brainer for me to come to Phoenix with my father. He simply needed me, and he’s the most important thing in my life. Far more important than my awesome job and amazing boss.
A car turns onto my father’s street and my pulse picks up. It will be the third one since I got here fifteen minutes ago, and each time it happens, my nerves fire into overdrive waiting to see if it’s Bishop. I arrived early so he and I could have a few moments to chat, but I still have no clue if he’s even going to show up or not. I had snagged his cell phone number from his personnel file—I rummaged through my father’s office while they were on the ice. I’d texted him this afternoon to give him the address as well as to “confirm” if he was coming.
He never responded.
It feels like my heart is going to jump out of my chest as the car approaches. It’s a dark blue sports car of some variety since I know nothing about cars. Subways are—or were—my preferred mode of travel.
When the car pulls behind mine on the street, the rumble of its engine seems to match the feeling deep within my chest. When the car cuts off, my throat practically closes off from nerves, and then Bishop is stepping out.
And God…why does he have to be so hot and tempting? Had I known who he was in that bar last night, I would have never, ever taken him home. It would have been tough, because he’s beyond sinful, but I would have held firm.
The man is tall and built in all the right ways. His dark blond hair is long—probably down to his jaw if I had to guess—but he wears it pushed back from his face likely held in place by some styling product. The stylish short-cropped beard makes him look a little older and more mature than his twenty-eight years. I didn’t learn that little fact about him last night but rather Googled him today.