Page 11 of Her Game Plan

“Morning, Frank.” I wave enthusiastically when I pass the security desk, always pleased to see the same smiling face from my youth.

“Miss Charlotte,” Frank replies in his usual polite way, but I don’t miss the gleam in his eyes. This is the man who used to chase me around, playing hide-and-seek in the lobby with Chris and me, after all.

I turn back to offer one final smile and—

“Ooof,” I grunt, rubbing my forehead, pained from where it ran into a wall. Two warm hands grab my upper arms, and I realize, nope, not a wall.

“Are you oka—Charlotte?” The shock in the deep voice pulls me from my slight daze.

Ah, Callan Devine. I give myself a single moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of my dad’s star quarterback before pulling my face into a mask of confusion.

“Cameron, right?” I greet him, forcing myself to step back.

He closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath.

It’s too easy to rile this man up.

“Callan. Devine. And before you throw out some embarrassingly inaccurate football position, I’m the quarterback for your dad’s team.”

I reach out and pat his arm. So pretty this one. “If you say so, Ball Boy.” Winking, I turn toward the elevators. “See you around, Carson.”

“It’s Callan,” he mutters, and I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes me as I walk away.

Three minutes later, I’m heading into my dad’s office, his executive team and their support staff taking up the entire top floor of what’s lovingly referred to as the cash register building. I wave hello to Marla at the front desk, catching sight of my brother’s favorite pair of loafers as he rounds the corner in front of me.

“Chris!” I call after him.

He stops, waiting for me to catch up. “What’s up, little sister?”

“It was three minutes,” I grumble, looping my arm around his waist as he pulls me into a side hug.

As we continue down the hall to our dad’s office, he replies, “And, somehow, it got me all the looks, height, and brains.”

I poke his side. “Categorically false. Except for the height, obviously.” It’s our standard greeting at this point, so I continue with the rest, “I think my master’s from GSB proves it.”

“Only if you believe the clearly biased ratings. Booth is obviously superior,” Chris teases before his expression turns pensive. “Hey, did I see you—” He’s cut off by my father’s executive assistant, Ulysses, announcing my dad’s ready for us.

We walk into the office that feels like an extension of our home. While a workaholic in every definition of the word, Steve Langford has always put his family at the very top of his list, which means Chris and I spent a lot of time here, working with Dad, even before we joined the company after grad school.

“Hi, Dad.” I join him on the other side of his large wooden desk before bending down to hug him. I don’t think Chris and Dad have hugged since my brother hit puberty, so he simply takes his usual seat. After a brief embrace, I take mine as well, more than ready to get this next phase of my life going—the one I’ve been working toward forever.

Dad, however, seems to be happy to make small talk. “How are Kim and Marlee?”

Chris smiles at the mention of his wife and their three-year-old daughter. “Kim’s tired these days, so Marlee has taken it upon herself to be extra energetic.”

My dad shakes his head. “I’m glad we got both our babies in one go. I don’t know whether I could’ve survived your mom pregnant and chasing around a little one. Kim’s thirteen weeks along now?”

“Fourteen,” Chris and I say at the same time. I love my niece to pieces and am so excited to have another little nugget around to spoil.

We chat about mundane things: the weather, the start of training camp, and the upcoming dinner Mom’s hosting next weekend. I’m bouncing my knee to keep from bursting at the seams, needing to ask my dad why the hell he’s called us in today. Not that I don’t love spending time with my dad and brother…

“Why are we here, Dad?” I blurt out, unable to control it any longer.

Chris and Dad both pointedly look at their watches. “Sixteen minutes,” Chris notes.

Dad sighs, shifting his weight to pull out his wallet. “You were right.” He hands Chris a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. “I told you to stop betting on me.”