Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(23)

“Yes, yes, we were,” I murmur, my cheeks flaming at the memory of Brent in his bed, his washboard abs and huge biceps on display—as well as another huge thing making an appearance—as he leaned back against the headboard.

“In fact,” Brent goes on, “our meeting occurred under the craziest of circumstances. Ms. Shelburne here had somehow found her way to my b—”

I lift up and smack the file down on the table, making everyone jump. Well, everyone except for Brent. He’s too busy chuckling, even as I state in a rather loud voice, “Okay, I think that’s enough idle chit-chat. I’d like to get started on what’s expected of me.”

Jock and the director share a confused look, but then Mr. Dolby just shakes his head and says, “Everything is outlined in the contract you signed before Mr. Oliver got here. But the main thing is we’re expecting to see a lot of one-on-one time spent between you and Mr. Oliver. I can’t stress that enough.”

I hear Brent mumble, in a most lascivious way, “One-on-one time sounds good to me.”

I resist the urge to throw the file at him.

“Due to the extreme amount of travel involved throughout the regular season, which isn’t that far off, we’ll be making arrangements for you to go everywhere the team goes. You’ll fly on the team plane, Ms. Shelburne, with Brent. You’ll also stay at the same hotel as the team—”

“She’ll have her own room, I hope,” Brent interjects.

“Of course she will,” Mr. Dolby replies dryly.

“Good.” Brent nods, his damn whiskey-colored eyes trained on me and dancing with mischief as he adds, “I’m only thinking of Ms. Shelburne’s safety. Like, what if she were to wander into one of the player’s rooms? Maybe even mine, God forbid. But it could happen. She seems to have a very bad sense of direction. As I was trying to explain earlier, before I was so rudely interrupted,”—he smirks over at me—“when I first met Ms. Shelburne she had inexplicably wandered”—I will kill you, I will kill you, I try to convey as I glare over at him—“out to the back deck of my home.”

Phew!

Jock, his Botox-ed forehead barely creasing, gives Brent a what-the-hell-are-you-rambling-on-about look. But Mr. Dolby doesn’t appear amused.

“Mr. Oliver, I’m sure Ms. Shelburne will be fine. Hotel layouts aren’t that confusing. Can we stay on topic here?”

Ha, take that, smartass.

“Sorry,” Brent says, his eyes focused on me, not the director.

Wait. Is that remorse in his eyes? Is he apologizing for f*cking with me at this meeting? Maybe he’s not so awful after all.

Maybe.

I guess I’m about to find out.

After we review more of my duties, I’m informed that during the times the team’s in Vegas—and that includes starting today—I am expected to live at Brent Oliver’s property.

“What?” he says. “Like in my house?”

“Yes,” Mr. Dolby confirms.

“You can’t be serious,” I chime in.

“This is crazy,” Brent grumps.

“I think a hotel room of my own would be more appropriate,” I add.

“Absolutely not” we are told, first by Mr. Dolby, and then by Jock.

Brent continues to bitch, and his boss says, “For Ms. Shelburne to be effective she needs to be close to you. Her living in a hotel room, miles away from you, would be of no help. We need her in your house, monitoring your drinking, watching your diet and training guidelines, keeping tabs on any drug use—”

“I don’t ever do drugs,” Brent snaps.

If that’s true, it’s one less thing to worry about.

Mr. Dolby goes on. “Okay, but there are other concerns. We don’t want you distracted by women.”

“She’s a woman,” Brent interjects in a pouty voice.

The director glares at him, and I hear Jock murmuring, “This is what the team wants, Brent. There’s no use fighting it. Just keep in mind that it’s not forever.”

That reminds me to ask Mr. Dolby, “How long is this assignment expected to last? I was told up to possibly four months.”

“Or more,” he replies, to my dismay. “We have plans to revisit this discussion in December. If all’s going well at that point the contract will conclude. If things aren’t to our liking, there could be an extension. In the meantime, as outlined in the contract, we’ll expect timely updates.”

Still stuck on the fact that my last day with this * is sixteen long weeks away, I murmur, “December, no…”

Am I really going to be stuck with Brent Oliver till Christmas?

“Yes, Ms. Shelburne,” Mr. Dolby says, “December. You’re all ours till then. Is there a problem with that?”

I must be professional. I must be professional. “No, no problem at all.”

I make a mental note to lock up all my panties.

The rest of the meeting passes by in a blur. I nod to questions that require an affirmative and shake my head for any nos. But mostly I sneak peeks over at Brent. He’s busy doodling on the folder they gave him. Since he’s paying me no heed, I have an opportunity to check him out.

Unfortunately for me, he truly is a hot specimen of raw maleness. It wasn’t simply my drunken state last night or hangover mirages this morning that had me viewing him in that way.