Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) (3 page)

Shelby steps up to bat this time, taking one for the team.

“I guess we should go back in,” she says reluctantly, smoothing down her hair. “Before anyone else wanders out here.”

I nod, putting more distance between us as I open the door for her.

“Sounds like a plan.” A better plan than hanging out alone in a dark alley just waiting for temptation to strike.

Atlanta is a big town, I remind myself as I watch Shelby’s swaying hips march up the stairs ahead of me.

When the game is stacked against you, sometimes you just have to throw your mitt down and head back to the dugout. Better luck next time.

M
onday
. Not just any Monday. My first Monday as Vice President of PR for the Atlanta Falcons. Which means that in about thirty-two minutes, I’ll be running my very first staff meeting.

“Hey Jasmine,” I call out to our bubbly receptionist as I sweep past the front desk, “Love that top! Color looks great on you!”

Deep breaths, Shelby. I
may
have had a little too much espresso in that morning latte.

I’ve been gunning for this promotion since the day I started as a department assistant with the Falcons four years ago. I worked my way through the ranks. So why do I suddenly feel like an overeager intern whose boss called in sick and left her in charge for the day?

Just a standard case of nerves with a side of the caffeine jitters, I tell myself as I settle into my office. My to-do list for the week is ready to go, and my presentation for today’s meeting just needs to be proofread and printed out. I’ve got this, I think as I double-check my makeup.

Besides, I’m a professional with a long list of crisis management wins under my belt. When our wide receiver Justin Fears called Atlanta fans a bunch of spoiled little bitches who didn’t know the first thing about team loyalty, who came up with the idea of having him spend ten days kneeling before fans as he begged for their forgiveness? The pics from that Twitter tour of repentance got us more retweets than the original post. And Justin’s been a fan favorite ever since. Take that, bitches!

I check my feeds to see whether there’s anything urgent going down this morning. No new Twitter beef or incriminating selfies since last night. Looks like the Falcons enjoyed a quiet day of Sunday rest with their families and friends. Which means I have a little extra time to prep for the staff meeting.

Or, as the case may be, a little extra time to think about Cooper Knox. My new, smoking hot, and intensely off-limits
friend
.

I scan through my presentation, rubbing my arm on the spot where Knox touched me as I replay our last interaction. That crazy energy I’d felt between us on the roof of the Library New Year’s is definitely still there.

That chemistry was the reason I threw caution to the wind and hooked up with one of my brother’s oldest friends.
Slightly
important detail to note: hooked up with one of my brother’s oldest friends while pretending not to know who he was . . .

He definitely looks as good as I remember, with those piercing, liquid green eyes, that chiseled jaw, and a dense, muscular frame that makes it seem as if he’s ready to burst out of his clothes—and who would want to stop him. Dangerously sexy and masculine, but with a clean-cut, all-American ball player’s swagger that makes you want to rip off that checkered button-down shirt he was wearing Friday night to find out what’s underneath. Only I already know.

And I also know what comes next. Kisses that just about melt your panties off. And hands that will have you writhing with a wild, animal desire in a record amount of time. The Atlanta Braves’ new starting pitcher is very, very good with his hands.

Shit.

I’ve been staring at the same spot on my screen for the past five minutes. Focus, Shelby.

But what I really want to focus on is the memory of Knox pulling me into his arms in a dark alleyway. I don’t think I’ve ever had a kiss get me so hot so quickly. Unless you count New Year’s. When I found out that Knox’s kiss was just a prelude to the best sex of my entire fucking life.

Seeing Knox again without being able to take things to the next level has gotten me twisted up into knots.

But he’s right. Jackson would
kill
him. And possibly me. Or maybe just hire body guards to monitor me 24/7.

He’s a liiiittle overprotective, which is occasionally endearing but usually frustrating as shit. But I guess I’m being protective too, because I don’t want him to find out about this. It would be too weird. And what if things didn’t work out with Knox? Or what if we wound up in some kind of fight, forcing Jackson to take sides?

I can’t do that to my brother. It’s not fair. There’s plenty of uncomplicated guys out there I can choose from.

“Hey Shelby, are we meeting in the upstairs conference room?”

Startled, I look up from my reverie to find that I’ve broken out into a cold sweat. “Yup, I’ll be up in about five minutes. Thanks, Doug.” I glance at the clock and realize I’m running out of time. Won’t be proofreading this thing, I guess.

I stand up and gather my materials, fanning my face as I abruptly return to reality.

A reality that does not and cannot include a romantic relationship with Cooper Knox. Even if he did give me the best orgasms I’ve ever achieved without the assistance of a mechanical device.

Damn,
I think as I charge up the stairs, putting on my best professional face while I banish him from my thoughts—at least for the next hour.

“Little Miss Shelby, all grown-up and calling the plays!”

Little Shelby. Ughhhh.

A nickname I can’t escape.
If only you knew how grown-up things were getting in little Shelby’s office just about five minutes ago,
I think. “That’s right, Coach. It’s my meeting now,” I call out to head coach Mike DiPalma in my most playfully stern tone. “You ready to run some drills?”

“Watch out, Coach, Shelby’s got her red heels on,” says assistant manager Dan Rich, gesturing to my favorite pair of red suede heels. “That’s how you know she means business.”

“A PR professional’s always gotta be camera ready. Besides, I could outrun and outthrow you in these any day, Dan,” I respond gamely.

“I can get my hands on a pair of oversized shoulder pads if you’d like,” says Eric Jones, our creative director and graphic designer, who is always overcompensating for his lack of football cred. “Take your power dressing to the next level. They might be kind of sweaty though.”

Welcome to NFL Office Politics 101. A woman working with a team full of macho football players and a staff full of retired or formerly-aspiring football players gets used to being the niece, the daughter, the little sister, the work wife. The teasing gets annoying, but it’s generally harmless. And the older guys, like Coach Mike, are a bunch of overgrown teddy bears at heart. It’s the younger members of the staff I tend to have trouble with. Dan, Eric, and most of all Karl, who’s noticeably absent from the room as the rest of the group starts trickling in. They’ve still got something to prove, and they’re constantly angling for a better position in a never-ending power grab.

After a few minutes of chitchat, I take control of the room and start running the show. The main item on today’s agenda is our upcoming casino night, a big-ticket fundraiser that raises piles of money for early childhood education. The team’s owners, Atlanta real estate moguls Richard and Cherry Blazer, bring in their large network of powerful, high-net-worth buddies. The high rollers get to mingle with the players while gambling and boozing to their hearts’ content, all for a good cause. And the Falcons get a bit of heartwarming publicity. In other words, everybody wins.

“We’ll have staff members and players putting out social media posts under the same hashtag in order to amplify our message,” I begin, briefing the team on the setup for the night. Even by my slightly over-the-top standards, we’re in pretty good shape.

Sure, a casino-themed charity night is a bit of a fluffy event. But I’m still giving it the full Shelby treatment. We’ve got confirmed attendance from several local news outlets and blogs, and I’ve added a few creative touches to the usual playbook. I freshened up our entertainment lineup by replacing the magic act with a burlesque performance and hiring a DJ to spin throughout the night in a separate disco lounge. And we’ll have a photo booth featuring fedoras, dark glasses, monocles, and oodles of costume jewelry so guests can come away with casino-themed selfies.

Just as I’m starting to go over the menu, Karl casually rolls in. “Sorry everyone, don’t mean to disrupt the proceedings,” he says, scraping his chair along the floor as he takes a seat. My promotion doesn’t make me Karl’s boss—we both report to Tim Donovan, the Falcons’ director of marketing and PR—but it
does
make me his senior, a fact he doesn’t like one bit. We started with the Falcons around the same time, and now I’m a year younger than he is and occupying a spot he assumed he’d get. None of this pleases him, and I’m pretty sure his late arrival is meant to communicate as much.

“What’s up, Karl?”

“Another wild weekend?”

Of course Karl’s lateness is greeted by a round of fist bumps from the boys. And of course he doesn’t bother to offer any excuse.

“Hey Karl, glad you could join us,” I venture, barely disguising the aggression in my voice.

He cockily leans back in his chair and sweeps a hand through his preppy, manicured hair. The guy is
seriously
vain on top of being a competitive douche.

“This all sounds fine, Shelby,” Tim says. “We’ll keep the Blazers happy, net a bit of positive press if we’re lucky, and then get back to business as usual.”

Just then Karl decides to pipe up. “What are we doing about the fact that the National Animal Cruelty Society is having an event on the exact same night?”

“I’m not concerned,” I respond quickly. “I just went over our RSVPs last night, and the list looks pretty solid.” Nice try, Karl, but no cigar.

“Just a couple of other things I wanted to bring up,” Karl continues.

He goes on, addressing the coach, the managers, Tim. Everyone but me, the person who planned this event and who’s supposed to be running this meeting. “Is there a way to get more promotional juice out of this event by tying the educational fundraising angle to a story about one of the players?”

“I’m sure we would have come up with it by now,” Tim says, clearly a bit annoyed by Karl grandstanding this late in the planning process.

“It just occurred to me last night. Isn’t Dale Hunter’s wife a teacher at that experimental preschool downtown?”

He’s right.

Shit. Why didn’t I remember that?

“I’m wondering if we could bring her and a couple of students in to do a little presentation. Talk to the donors about how much good their money will be doing for kids like them,” Karl continues.

Hmm.
I’m
wondering if we’re ready to put Dale in the spotlight again so soon after his DUI. But before I can voice my concerns, the rest of the team has signed on.

“Great idea, Karl.” Coach Mike stands, usually our signal that the staff meeting has come to a close. “Dale had a rough childhood and went on to become the first person in his family to go to college. We can bring it all back to his story of perseverance.”

Before I can even say “meeting adjourned,” they’re already filing out of the room, Coach Mike deep in conversation with Karl about his weekend.

“Oh, thanks Shelby,” Coach Mike says at the doorway, almost like he just remembered I exist. He glances at me over his shoulder. “I’m sure that photo booth is going to be a hit.” The rest of the crew files out behind him, and I’m left standing there alone, staring at an empty room.

I gather the handouts everyone has left behind and walk back to my office, dejected. I can hear Karl in the hallway bragging to a couple of the assistant managers about how he’s barely over his Saturday night rager.

No time for chitchat for me. I’ll be scrambling to execute Karl’s late-breaking idea for the rest of this week while he sits around bro-ing down, nursing his hangover and patting himself on the back.

Welcome to the big leagues, Shelby.

Seven hours of frantic emailing and phone calls later, and I’m ready to call it a day.

I’m shutting down my computer and grabbing my handbag when I hear my cell phone buzzing. A text from Jackson.
Work 911, need your help. Can you come by?

Great. One more thing between me, my couch, some top-of-the-line takeout and the half-bottle of Merlot on my kitchen counter. But Jackson’s on my way home. And I could use a hug.
Better have food and booze at your crib,
I respond.
Be right there
.

I park in Jackson’s driveway and walk in through the open front door. My brother’s never been one for locks. “Hello, I’m here!” I call out, heading straight for the kitchen. “Why
am
I here, Jackson?”

I grab a cold beer from the fridge and rummage around in a drawer for a bottle opener.

“Second drawer to the left.” The voice is male, familiar, and definitely not my brother’s. “And I think I can help shed some light on that question.”

Knox. Off-duty and sheepish in a pair of jeans and a soft, broken-in University of Georgia T-shirt that skims his ridiculously well-defined shoulders and pecs. His physical presence sends an immediate jolt through my body, starting at my stomach, flooding me with a tingling warmth that spreads like wildfire.

I guess I’d better get used to this, I think while I pop the top on the much needed alcohol.

I lean back against the counter and take a swig of my beer, stalling for a minute as I pull myself together. “Let me guess,” I manage. “Did a former Yankee have anything to do with this emergency of Jackson’s?”

Knox raises an eyebrow and smiles, taking a step in my direction. “You know me, always starting fires.”

“And then putting them out before it gets too hot,” I respond, afraid of what might happen if he comes any closer. “Equal parts arsonist and fireman, every little boy’s dream.”

I sound much more confident than I feel, I think, wondering if I’m visibly flushed.

Knox takes another step toward me, just inches away now, his hand lifting like he’s going to reach out, brush my arm, or maybe grab it and swing me into another of those blistering, searing hot kisses of his. I can feel myself leaning forward, like I’m being pulled by a magnet, unable to fight this . . . 

“Shelby, I’m so sorry,” says Jackson, walking in from the backyard. Both of us jerk backwards like we’ve been struck by live electric wires. Knox manages to make it look smooth, running a hand through his hair. I just trip awkwardly into the kitchen counter like a dork.

“I was just on the phone trying to manage this disaster,” my brother continues, oblivious. “I’ve gotta get over to my Morningside site to put out a fire.”