The Game Plan (Game On 3)

I swear to God, my entire body wants to dry heave. Somehow I manage not to. “Her designs are—”

“Copies of yours?” he supplies. “Yes, I know.”

I think I gape. I don’t know anymore because I’ve gone numb. “You know?”

Felix shrugs, takes another sip of his drink. “You’d have to be blind not to notice, honey. Yours are a bit more risky, however. You push yourself where she plays it safe.”

Okay, now I know I’m gaping. “I can’t believe this. Mine are more daring, and you’re rewarding her?”

“Honey, safe sells more. And you’ve really got to applaud her ingenuity.” He sighs again, resting his elbows on the desk. “First client I scored was done using José, my lover’s, designs. I lost a good lay but gained a business.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s business. Calculated risks, use what you know will work.” He gives me a reproachful look. “You should understand this.”

“Don’t remember taking that course in college,” I snap.

“I’m talking about your dad, sweetie. Sports agents aren’t exactly known for being above board. Frankly, I assumed you’d be more hardened. More cutthroat.”

“My dad,” I grind out, “never stabbed his colleagues in the back.”

Felix gives me a disbelieving look. I ignore it and stand. I want to quit, to tell him he can go fuck himself with one of his precious Ferragamo slippers. I want that so badly I can taste it. But just the mention of my dad has me holding my tongue. He thinks I quit at everything. Flighty Fi, always running at the first sign of trouble.

And maybe Felix will fire me now. But I’m not going to stomp off in a dramatic rage first. Straightening my skirt, I manage to collect my temper.

“I’ll be in late tomorrow. I’m picking up those fabric samples on my way,” I tell him.

“All right.” He turns his attention back to his online gossip mag. “Take your time. Oh, that lovely little sandwich shop is next door to them. See if anyone wants sandwiches. Not me. I’m skipping lunch this week.”

The faint hum of the city seeps in through the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a telephone rings. It’s nothing compared to the ringing in my ears.

Sandwiches? I’m expected to go to Elena and ask if she wants a fucking sandwich for lunch tomorrow?

“Yeah,” I croak. “Sure.”

Except I’m not asking anyone a damn thing. My hands shake by the time I’ve pulled my purse from my desk drawer and grabbed my coat off the hook.

It’s a struggle not to cry. With every step I take, the spike of my heel connects with the raw-wood floorboard and thuds in my heart. My throat is closing, a lump rising.

Get it together, Mackenzie. Deep breaths.

I want to scream so badly my stomach clenches. I swear to all that’s holy, if I see Elena’s fuckity-fuck face I will fucking lose my shit.

Keeping my head down so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone, I move toward the lobby.

The elevator dings before I’m close enough. I lift my head, ready to run for it, because I need out. But my steps stutter to a halt, shock buzzing along my skin.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Dex stands ten feet away, his big hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, his broad shoulders covered by a dark blue Henley. That steady, powerful gaze of his meets mine.

My lip wobbles, emotion pushing up past the lump in my throat. He must see my distress—the smile that’d been blooming drops.

My chest heaves as I struggle to keep my breathing normal. If I can just get to Dex, everything will be okay.

I walk straight to him, not stopping until I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face against his solid chest. The scent of cloves and oranges is stronger now that I haven’t been near him in a while. He’s warm, strong, safe. His arms surround me, hold me secure. I sag into his embrace.

“Hey,” I say to his chest.

Dex presses his lips to my crown. “Cherry. You all right?”

No. Not at all. My eyes burn and prickle. I hug him tighter, breathe him in. “I’m just…really glad to see you, Ethan.”

His chest lifts and falls on a breath, and his husky voice rumbles over me. “I missed you too, Fiona.”

Dex

Despite the fact that I play professional football for a living, I’m not a violent man. I solve problems with my mind, not my fists. I tell myself this as I tuck Fi against my side while we take a cab to her apartment. She’s trembling, her delicate hand roaming over my torso as if she needs to pet me to keep herself grounded.

And it slays me. The need to pound into someone, something, anything, surges through me in waves that I tap down by burrowing my nose in Fi’s fragrant hair and breathing in deep.

Women have nice-smelling hair, that’s a given. But something about Fi’s scent just does it for me. Pheromones. A basic biological lure that hooks one person to another. One whiff of Fi, and I’m both hard and utterly content.

“You’re here,” she whispers. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

I take another deep breath before I speak in a low voice, trying to coax her out. “What happened, Cherry?”

She stiffens against me, and I have to grind my teeth. If someone hurt her… Yeah, I’ll be resorting to violence. But then she sighs and her fingers drift over my chest, finding my nipple and stroking it over the thin fabric of my shirt. I try to ignore that touch as she tells me the whole tale.

The heartbreak in her voice tears at my own heart. She bleeds, I bleed. That’s just how it is now. Worse, I can’t fight this for her. I can’t go and pummel her shallow boss or her conniving co-worker. I can only hold her tight, press my lips against her head, and let her talk.