“Not with my job. Not with the people I work with on a daily basis. That would be an HR nightmare wrapped in emotional devastation. And besides—he told his daughter he wouldn’t date younger women. Remember? He’s evenmoreoff-limits now.”
Holly winces. “Wow, Eslin. That is…excruciating.” She reaches behind the counter and pulls out a piece of candy. “Want a candy cane?”
“No, I don’t want a candy cane! I need a new job!”
“But I thought you loved your job?”
“Ido!But I am having a hard time facing his daughter every day knowing I’ve had some very dirty, veryunprofessionalthoughts about her daddy!”
“And I’m guessing we can’t tell her?” Holly asks, now sipping her own drink.
“Right. If anyone should tell her, it should behim.And something tells me if he wanted to do that, he would have already. So—”
“You’re star-crossed lovers,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “Destined to be together but the timing is all wrong.”
“Are you always so freakingjolly,Holly?”
She shrugs with pride. “I’ve been told my sunny dispositioncould end wars.”
“Girl, your fat ass and beautiful smile will do that all on their own,” I say, before howling with laughter.
“Thathasbeen known to do some damage as well,” she cackles, snapping her fingers in the air with one hand planted on her hip like she’s about to bless the room.
Then she gets serious, leaning in again. “So. What are you going to do?”
“Keep avoiding him like I have been,” I mutter, “and pray to God his daughter doesn’t pick up on a damn thing.”
She makes me another drink to go, sets it on the counter, and hands it to me like she’s passing down sacred wisdom. “I think you should consider being honest. Life’s too short to be without the one you love.”
“It’s not love,” I snap. “It’s forced proximity.”
She holds her drink out with a warm grin. “Happy Holidays.”
I roll my eyes and head for the door, still unsure how I’m actually going to avoid this walking complication in designer suits, but grateful I had someone to unload it all on.
“Happy Holidays, Holly.”
Chapter sixteen
Private Jets & Press Junkets
Declan
Georgia. Atlanta.Hot-lanta.Though I’ve been told more than once that nobody actually calls it that.
It’s my first time in the southern part of the United States, and so far, my only real opinion is that it’s just as damn hot as everywhere else I’ve been. Vegas included.
Only difference here is Atlanta can’t make up its mind. One minute it’s hot and sunny, the next it’s hot and pouring rain. Like the air here is indecisive.
“Declan Agassi,” a reporter calls out as I stand in front of the press backdrop. “How does it feel to be wearing a US jersey for the Atlanta Strikers?”
What a dumb question. How is it supposed to feel? The same as when I wore my Italian one.
It’s my first official day as an Atlanta Striker—on loan—and apparently, someone thought it’d be a great idea to set up a press conference.
Without telling me. Or my manager.
Surprise.
