Beauty and the Blitz

C
ole Hawthorne lived alone
in a massive fortress of gray stone, climbing roses, and rooftop gargoyles.

And his front door had better manners than he did.

Cole didn’t answer his door when I knocked.

He ignored me when I rang the bell.

He didn’t respond to my texts, emails, or the dozen unsavory curses I spat at his home.

The skies opened, and the rain poured. I crowded under the stone portico and sought shelter behind the marble columns. Unfortunately, the wind kicked up. Fat rain drops sprayed sideways and soaked me as I beat his door.

This was
not
how I planned the meeting, but we had no choice. After so many unanswered calls and emails,
someone
had to deal with him face-to-face. Dad sent me, but I didn’t have better luck getting inside Cole’s sprawling mansion.

Castle?

I couldn’t tell the difference.

His château loomed over the countryside. Coiling ivy stretched over the intimidating mansion, and leering windows darkened the dreary gray exterior. Decorative carvings and sculptures spiraled along the facade of the intricate, gothic architecture.

I had no idea something so ornate could be so
foreboding
. His home was one briar patch short of a fairy tale villain’s lair. No
Happily Ever Afters
here. If anything, his fortress was the castle the princess escaped at the beginning of her
Once Upon A Time
.

And I was the village fool, pounding on the door to get inside.

What did a linebacker need with such a huge, protected estate anyway?
No one
in their right mind would harass Cole Hawthorne, defensive captain for the Atwood Monarchs.

But that didn’t excuse him. I rang the bell again. Twice.
Three
times. I hopped onto my tip-toes, but I couldn’t reach the windows on the top of his door.

I was
not
conducting this meeting outside, shouting in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I should have known. Cole didn’t have the best reputation with the league
or
his agents. But the power to change his life was clutched in my hands. The folder got a little damp, but I’d hidden the contract waiver inside.

All I needed was a signed consent form that stated he agreed to be traded. One quick signature, and I could be gone, back home, wringing the water out of my only nice outfit.

Instead, he lurked inside the shadows of a mansion more cursed than enchanted. He didn’t give me a chance to explain why I was there.

Well, I wasn’t putting up with it. No, sir. Not me. I’d guarantee it.

He wasn’t even
my
client. Dad was the one hell-bent on getting Cole to agree to the trade.

It didn’t feel right leaving without a fight, but I wasn’t the type to toss a brick through a window. Instead, I rang the doorbell one last time
extra
hard. Maybe I imagined it, but that annoying
ding-dong
chimed a little louder than the ones before.

I stormed to my car, slogging through in every puddle along the way. The rain poured, and I leapt into the driver’s seat to escape the deluge.

I tended to look for the little blessings. At least the rain rinsed out Rose’s gift on my skirt. Mornings were usually frantic while I tried to get her situated with the nanny, so Rose helped me however she could. This morning, my sixteen-month old combined her opinion of breakfast with her hug goodbye. Her verdict of my cheesy eggs left a splotchy pattern all over my skirt.

Of course, I hadn’t noticed the stain until I stepped into the office. Given the other types of stains Rose could leave on me, I preferred a bit of breakfast.
Especially
in comparison to the unexpected, milk-related surprises from before I weaned her. After one awkward meeting with my father, his biggest client, and a good dose of postpartum hormones, I decided to keep a spare bra and shirt in the office. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought to pack a fresh skirt.

At least my day was almost over…or it
should
have been. If Cole had been amenable, the trade waiver might have been signed and I could have picked up Rose before dinner. So much for saving an hour’s worth of baby-sitting charges. Mrs. Potter was an excellent nanny, but she didn’t come cheap.

I brushed my fingers through my hair.
Nope
. The rain created an instant frizz. That just wasn’t fair. The downpour destroyed a modern day miracle—this morning I actually straight-ironed in peace while Rose distracted herself with her toys. A whole
four
minutes of frantic heat that only burned me twice while I smoothed both sides of my hair before Rose tossed out the binkie and gnawed on a shoe.

Now my curls re-inflated and ballooned. They were natural. They were angry. And they were…expanding. If I let it get bad, the rain shower would have transported me back to the 70s.

All the more reason to peel out of Rude McDouchey’s mile long driveway and head home.

But the folder containing his paperwork rested next to me, and the rain turned sleety as soon as the key hit the ignition. Not a safe drive. And at least Rose was still with the nanny…

If nothing else, Dad had ordered me to force Cole to sign the waiver
at any cost
. Of course, he’d also wished me
good luck
with an amused snort when I took the case.

I stared at the imposing mansion. It wasn’t like Dad had any faith in me. Half of a master’s degree in French Literature didn’t give me much of an edge in…anything. But after the baby was born, Dad found me a place at his office. If I could get Cole to play nice, I’d make a name for myself in the agency.

Who better to prove that brains could prevail over brawn, even in professional football?

How tough could this one man be?

I bundled my curls into a pony tail and bolted to his front door. Cole Hawthorne couldn’t hide from his future in the league forever.

I punched the doorbell again, but, this time, I didn’t take my finger from the button. The chimes dinged, donged, and dinged again. The ringing buzzed louder.

“Ignore
that
, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said.

But I jammed the button a little too hard. It depressed completely, cracking in two and falling
inside
the casing. I yanked my hand back as the components sizzled and shorted out.

Uh-oh
.

The ding didn’t dong anymore. Instead…it
wailed
. A high-pitched, murderous note that screamed like an insomniac, teething baby with a fever and no binkie.

Somehow, I doubted the house would calm down with a nice juice box and rendition of
You Are My Sunshine
.

The screeching crackled, and the sound cut out.

I breathed a premature sigh of relief just before the doorbell also shorted out the alarm system. The
ding-dong
and whooping wail of a security siren
and
the ear-piercing buzz of a fire alarm roared through the house. The ungodly melody shook the mansion’s
hundreds
of windows.

Oh, I
really
hoped this castle didn’t come with a dungeon.

Time to bolt.

I kicked off my heels and prepared to run.

Too late. The scratch of the door ground against the stone frame. That whine wasn’t the scrape of a door that opened very often. Probably for good reason.

I clutched the folder with his papers and dropped my shoes.

Why the
hell
hadn’t I run when I had the chance? Then again, I had visions of the linebacker chasing down my car and ripping it apart with his bare hands—ala Tyrannosaurs Rex style. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t tear me to shreds. If I was unlucky…

He’d answer the door without a shirt.

I stared at the god-like man looming in the doorway.

Cole Hawthorne was a
beast
.

A monster.

A huge, lumbering slab of muscle and rage.

And he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my
life
.

He gripped the door, and every muscle in his upper body rippled as if he debated on whether he should slam it or wood-chip the slab into splinters with his fists. A still moment passed, and he wiped his face with a towel. He left the beads of sweat trickling over his broad shoulders and pecs.

I didn’t think men like this really existed. A modern day Goliath sneered at me from his isolated castle outside of the city. He was more animal than man, especially surrounded by acres and acres of forested hills separating him from civilization.

Every perfectly tanned muscle in his body popped and tensed. The tattoo swirling on his arm streaked him with angry reds, blues, and greens. His thick, defined abs clenched as the waistband of his sweat pants hung low.

A little
too
low.

I forced my gaze up and not on the sleeping beast bulging against his sweatpants.

I shouldn’t have made eye contact with him.

Not because he was fierce. Not because his thick jaw tightened in a scowl. Not because the mane of his wild, blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders and obscured his violent ink.

I met his stare and
lost
myself. His eyes shimmered unbelievably
blue
…and achingly intense. What might have been icy and frightening was brightened in a storybook blue, something charming and knee-shakingly intimidating.

“
I
…”

I couldn’t even hear myself talk. The doorbell, fire alarm, and security system blasted a deafening cacophony that echoed through his house and scattered the doves in his rose garden.

And he stared at me as the culprit, his eyebrow rising.

Oh God. I was soaked in a
white
blouse.

The thin material plastered to my dark skin, and the dress shirt clung to my curves. My bra contained the girls, but even after weaning Rose, they were still…ample. I crossed my arms. We weren’t
that
desperate for his signature yet.

Cole pulled out his phone and silenced the fire alarm and security system with an entered key code. Unfortunately, the chiming doorbell was the most obnoxious of the three.

I swallowed and braved a professional nod. “Hello. I’m Piper Madi—”

Cole extended his hand, but not to shake mine. He slammed his palm against the doorbell and clawed the box from the stone. The wires snapped. The estate fell into silence.

This…wasn’t going well.

He dropped the electronics at my feet.

“You…” I regretted speaking. This wasn’t a man who wanted explanations. He was the type who’d tear apart his own
house
when it annoyed him. “You didn’t answer your door.”

Cole’s voice was a heavy scrape of gravel and irritation. “I was in my weight room. In the
basement
.
Working
. Didn’t hear any knocking until…”

He stepped on the doorbell, pulverizing the plastic under his heel.

Point taken.

I raised my chin and faked some confidence. Usually I could get tough enough to dissuade my toddler from licking electrical outlets, but I hoped I could pull off authority against an egotistical, alpha-male, bastard jock.

“I’m sorry about the interruption. I’m with Sports One, your agency—”

Cole didn’t care. “You’re not Maddy.”

“Paul Madison,
Maddy
, is my father. I’m Piper Madison.”

I smiled. Cole didn’t. So much for the professional tone. Since when were football players harder than masters’ theses?

“My father asked me to meet with you regarding your contract—”

“Not interested.”

“Oh, but—”

The behemoth returned to his house. I leapt away as the door slammed in my face.

What. The. Hell.

No greetings. No introductions. No pleasantries.

Did I knock on his door and fall back in time to some crazy feudal era?

Cole had glanced me over—one stare that was as invasive as copping a feel—and then
bashed
the door so hard his whole mansion grumbled.

What sort of pompous, ill-mannered, egomaniac was this man?

No wonder Dad sent me. As if fetching his coffee and cleaning his office wasn’t demoralizing enough, he set me up to fail! He
knew
Cole would act like this.

I was
not
letting defensive diva Cole Hawthorne get his way, not when I came to
help
his career.

I balled my fist and pounded the wood. The windows rattled, but I didn’t stop until the glass nearly crashed into his foyer.

The door opened. If possible, Cole was even less welcoming this time.

“Get off of my property.”

Not until I got what I came here for. “My father sent me with the paperwork for your contract. When you signed with the Atwood Monarchs, you and the team agreed on a consensual trade clause. You couldn’t be traded unless you consented to the transfer.” I held up the folder. “I have the waiver here. Sign this, and the Monarchs will begin the process for the trade.”

“I told you once…” He spoke slowly, not to intimidate me, but as if each word sharpened his teeth. “
I’m not interested
.”

A crazy desperation seized me. Sixteen months of interrupted sleep had culminated this morning when I poured two tablespoons of salt into my coffee. My descent into sleep-deprived madness continued as I waged career—and personal—suicide.

I stepped into the door and blocked it from closing.

Cole didn’t move. His sneer darkened into a threat.

I didn’t know much about football, but I’d learned one very valuable lesson working in the industry.

Some players were fun. Others flirty. Most were gentlemen.

Cole Hawthorne was none of those things.

Monsters existed in the world. If we were lucky? They’d stay bound between the hash marks. If we weren’t? If he went wild? No little yellow flag would be enough to stop a beast like him.

Cole smiled now, just to bare his teeth. “You’re making some bad decisions, little girl.”

I hadn’t been a little girl for a while, not since I took the pregnancy test in the cramped library bathroom between college classes.

“You need to sign this waiver, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said. “The trade would benefit your career. The Monarchs are done protecting you from the league. This trade will let you sign with a team who is willing to take the chance on you. Given the right contract, we might be able to get you more money and a bit of wiggle room.”