“So?” Hannah leaned enough away from him so he could see her face, turning her head forward and back to shake the perfect braid.
He crinkled that brow, but this time it was all for show. It was insane how quickly the man could run hot and cold.
“What?” He asked as he scanned her face and body. “Did you grow an inch during practice?”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “No, silly.”
He pursed his lips, and I swallowed hard.
Damn, those were some excellent lips.
Lips I was sure could find every single spot a girl possessed and draw flames from it.
I blinked hard, shaking my head.
Down girl.
It had been way too long.
Like, since Europe long.
Maybe not sleeping with Crosby had been stupid. At least if I’d slept with him, I wouldn’t be so desperate that I’d be imagining Connor shoving me against a wall and making me moan with nothing but those lips.
Good God, I need a grip.
“Ivy did it!” Hannah was pointing at me, and I snapped out of my purely lust-filled haze.
“Hmm?”
Connor cocked a brow at me. “Of course, she did.” It looked like an effort not to roll his eyes. “And is that a new shirt?” He eyed me.
I shrugged, the picture of innocence.
Normally that look worked, but he was having none of it.
I huffed. “She said Ariel was her favorite princess,” I said like that explained everything.
And the last one she wore had a hole in it.
I kept the thought to myself and tried like hell to keep the sadness from my eyes, too.
But something shifted in Connor’s—like he’d caught my train of thought despite my best efforts not to let it show, and it softened those hard edges around him.
“Do I need to take you shopping?” He asked Hannah, but his eyes were on me, almost a plea.
Poor guy. He probably hadn’t even noticed the state of her clothes. Why would he? It wasn’t like he had Hannah twenty-four-seven—until recently. Maybe before he could’ve assumed it was simply a well-loved shirt. It would take a woman to notice the difference, and obviously her mother didn’t.
I scolded myself internally—I didn’t personally know Connor’s sister, and it wasn’t my place to judge. I just had a hard as hell time figuring out how anyone could know Hannah and not want to hang out with her. Let alone leave her.
I bit back the acid roiling in my chest and took a deep breath.
“Maybe I could take her?” The words were out of my mouth before I could think to stop them. I’d been a strictly game and practice only babysitter. I highly doubted Connor wanted to stomach me for any more time than that.
“Oh yes!” Hannah said. “Please, Uncle Connor? Can I?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have seventeen dollars saved in my piggy bank,” she said and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know, the one I keep at your house so Mom—”
Connor cleared his throat, shifting her to the other side of him. No doubt to stop her, and not because his muscles were cramping. With guns like that the man could likely hold me against a wall for hours and not cramp.
My eyes bulged at my own devious train of thought.
“I’ll talk him into it,” I said, tugging on Hannah’s braid.
That earned me another look from Connor.
“What makes you think you can talk me into anything?”
“I have my ways,” I said, flashing him a smirk that would’ve earned me a free drink with anyone else.
“Maybe with someone who doesn’t know you,” he snapped, and I flinched, the sting so intense I took two steps away from Hannah.
Damn. What was I doing?
All I wanted was to buy the girl a few outfits and take her out for a proper girl’s day where maybe for just a couple of hours she could pretend like she didn’t have to hide money to save it or that it had been a week since her mom left with no intention of coming back.
She was five.
But he was treating me like I was trying to get into his pants.
“Ivy—”
I gasped, cutting off whatever Connor had been about to say.
Because Crosby had just sauntered out of the locker room, and I had managed to avoid any awkward run-ins since he’d been accepted back on the team.
Until now.
His eyes locked with mine, and I felt frozen.
The promises. The compliments. The fake dreams he’d shared with me.
All of it was nothing.
Meant nothing.
Nothing compared to his team.
My eyes flashed from his to Connor’s and back again.
One man crushed me.
One wanted to destroy me.
Brilliant.
“And that is my cue,” I said, finally gathering up my big girl panties. I kissed Hannah on the cheek. “I’ll keep you posted on our girl’s day status,” I whispered in her ear, and she nodded eagerly. “Also,” I said, keeping my voice a whisper despite knowing Connor could hear us. With how close the three of us were at that moment, I could smell him—citrus and something smoky and freshly showered man smell.
Jerk.
“Mark the moment,” I finished, ignoring Connor’s confused head tilt.
“I will,” she promised as I turned on my heels and clicked the opposite direction. No way in hell I was taking the closest exit—the one that would lead me into Crosby’s path of bunnies waiting eagerly for his leave.
I kept my head held high, too.
Not that I felt prideful or strong, but because I was Ivy fucking Harris, and anyone who wanted to see the real shit going on underneath the polish would have to work for it.
And it sure as hell wasn’t anyone in that hallway.
“An opening act?” My editor—Shelby Concord—splayed her fingers on the edge of my shared desk, her immaculate red nails stark against the boring gray of the plastic. “You honestly think that will cut it around here, Harris?”
“I—”
“This is the Seattle Chronicle Entertainment section. This is the site that broke the Ben and Jen breakup. The site that was first on scene when Robert and Cynthia went on their first date as an official couple after both their divorce papers had cleared. When celebrities are within a two-hundred-mile radius, we are the first to know. Hell, sometimes we go to them because they want us.” She shook her head, sneering down at me, her perfect lips coated in a pretty shade of lavender, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders in kill-for waves.
Damn, she was good.
Feared. Renowned. Editor.
I wanted to be her someday.
But right now? She was totally riding my ass, and it was a pain.
“I understand,” I dared say.
She took a deep breath, adjusting the frown to more of an annoyed purse of her lips. “Look, Harris,” she said, her hands now on her hips. “I hired you because your portfolio was legit. I know you can write.” She rolled her eyes. “The little piece you turned in was well-done…”
I smiled at the first real compliment she’d ever given me.
“But it was boring,” she continued.
My shoulders dropped.
“No one cares.”
Ouch.
“It was an opening act,” she said again.
“They’re on the brink,” I said as fast as I could before she could cut me off again.
Another eye roll.
Ugh, I invented that too-bored-to-care-look. And now I couldn’t do a thing about it.
“This paper does not care about on the brink. Bring me juicy. Bring me downright devious. Liars, cheaters. Romantics. Stars. Bring me something.”
I nodded, sealing my lips shut.
“You’re on a trial basis.”
As she loved to remind me every single day.
“And the clock is ticking. You’ve got three months, Harris.”
I glanced to my left, where my a
ssigned photographer—Zach Wells—sat like a statue in his seat, his camera frozen in his hands as he’d paused mid-cleaning. His blue eyes wide and panicked. We were roped together on day one as a package deal—either we landed a story that bought us a year’s worth of time, or we were axed.