Liam stands in the doorway, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat. His attitude reads resigned. “Fine. Let's do this.”
The sight of him gets my heart racing. Even disheveled and clearly exhausted, he's magnetic. I hate that I’m reacting to him like this. “Close the door.”
He does, then slumps into the client chair Jennifer vacated an hour ago. “Go ahead. Tell me what a piece of shit I am.”
I finally look at him directly. “I'm not here to judge your personal life.”
“Right. Just my professional one.”
“Nike is reconsidering their endorsement deal,” I say, cutting straight to the consequences. “Bauer wants a meeting to discuss your brand alignment. Your agent has fielded calls from three other sponsors expressing concern.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Good. Maybe financial consequences will get through to him where common sense hasn't.
“Media day is Wednesday,” I continue, consulting my notes. “Every reporter will ask about this weekend. I need you prepared with appropriate responses that don't make the situation worse.”
“What kind of responses?”
“Humble. Apologetic. Focused on hockey and your commitment to the team.” I slide a folder across the desk. “I've drafted talking points. Memorize them.”
He opens the folder but doesn't read it. “It meant nothing.”
The statement confuses me. Is he talking about the endorsement deals? The media coverage?
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“The whole weekend. It meant nothing.” His voice is flat, almost angry. “I went home alone both nights.”
Relief surges through me, immediately followed by irritation at myself. “It's none of my business who you take home. All I care about is your public image, and right now, that image is of someone who can't control himself.”
His expression shifts. He stands up slowly, moving around my desk. My office shrinks with Liam getting so close. But I’m not going to show him how much he’s affecting me.
I swivel my chair to face him.
“Is that right?” he asks, his voice dropping to that rough whisper I remember from Chicago.
Before I can respond, he's tilting my chin up with one finger, leaning down to capture my mouth with his. The kiss is rough and demanding, and so damn hot. My legs turn to mush.
Heat floods through me, and for a moment, I forget where we are, who we are. My lips part under his, and I feel him smile against my mouth.
Then he pulls back, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
“Still think I can't control myself?” he asks, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.
I stare up at him, my heart pounding, my professional walls crumbling. “This can't happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're my client. Because I have a job to do. Because?—”
“Because you're scared,” he finishes.
He's right. I am scared. Scared of wanting him, scared of being just another conquest, scared of losing control of a situation I was hired to manage.
“Get back to your chair,” I say in a harsh voice.
He studies my face for a long moment, then moves back to the client chair with that same swagger. As if he’s proved a point.
Focus.
