The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)
Colleen Charles
Foreword
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Chapter One
Douchebag.
Of course women don’t work as hard as men. They get it right the first time.
Eloise inhaled so deeply she had to clamp her eyes shut against the wave of lightheadedness that enveloped her. They’d been sitting at this table for less than three minutes and the dickhead had already insulted “the weaker sex” twice.
Insufferable.
Ryder Martin fidgeted with his tie as he waited for the hostess. Probably intimidated, as he should be. Why the hell had she agreed to a date with someone she worked with in the front office? Damn Kylie and her recriminations about having some semblance of a personal life. If she wanted to go on dates with arrogant blowhards, she would.
She didn’t.
Eloise prided herself on her confidence, her poise and her considerable grace under fire. Even away from her comfort zone, away from her stellar marketing prowess, she came across as all business.
And not one shred of monkey business. Not in years.
And if Ryder Martin didn’t like it, he could go f*ck himself since he wouldn’t be f*cking her anywhere but in his misogynist dreams.
“Well?” Ryder said as the hostess seated them, an eager and pathetic look lighting his handsome features. Almost like on Pavlov’s dogs. Fine. She’d throw him a bone.
“This is nice.” Eloise smiled a polite smile that she didn’t allow to reach her mint-green eyes before scanning the menu. They ordered cocktails and the calamari. Ryder seemed to stare at Eloise more than anything else, his breath coming out in frantic little pants.
“So,” Ryder said, and Eloise forced herself to glance at him over the top of her cocktail glass as he made annoying small talk. Perhaps after this, they could discuss the weather. “Everything I’m seeing leave the kitchen looks delicious.”
“I agree,” Eloise responded, but only because she had to. “I’ve never been here before. It’s amazing how many great places there are in Rochester.”
“I know.” Ryder smiled as he exhaled. So he thought she’d shed even a small amount of her protective, icy shell, did he? Probably patting himself on the back in victory. Hmm. That wouldn’t be happening until hell dripped icicles. At least not with him. “I’ve been here a few times with the guys.”
Ryder and Eloise both worked for the Rochester Riot, a professional hockey team. Eloise was Director of Community Relations while Ryder worked in operations. Everyone knew that Ryder had missed his chance to get drafted into the NHL and had resigned himself to working for the club in a different capacity. And he let it show. First rule of business. Never divulge your weakness. But this guy hadn’t gotten that memo.
In contrast, Eloise’s career had taken off and she’d been blessed with a meteoric rise in the organization since landing the job right out of college.
Unlike him.
And she tried not to rub it in. Really, she did.
“What do you think about the new construction?” Ryder asked, and she stifled a groan as the conversation veered to shop talk.
On the rare date she indulged in, Eloise wished things could naturally deviate away from work. She sighed when she realized it wasn’t going to happen. Their boss, the Riot’s new Owner and Chief Operating Officer, Sheehan Murphy, was building a high-end VIP bar called Murphy’s Finest as an addition to the Rochester Arena in which to promote his family’s famous brand of Irish whiskey, and Ryder seemed intent on exploring every nuance of the new project.
“I think it’s his business, not mine,” Eloise replied briskly. Cold and frosty again. Not letting the spring thaw last long.
“What about the laborers?” he countered, clearly wanting to impress her with his business knowledge. Yeah. Business 101. Didn’t he know she had a masters from Carlson? “They’re putting up a stink about him hiring from inside instead of through the union.”
Eloise glanced up at Ryder and grimaced. Didn’t he understand the plight of a blue-collar worker? His dad had been a pipefitter for Christ’s sake. “Listen, Ryder. It’s their right as union employees to be offered work in the city.”
Ryder’s fingers nervously returned to straightening his necktie. He cleared his throat before speaking, as if the offensive article of clothing constricted his airflow. “Actually,” he said, “that’s not completely true. The contractor has the right to tender the job in a competitive bid process. It’s not a city project.”
“It’s on city land,” she reminded him. “The infrastructure has to be maintained by the municipality, ergo, civic union employees.” Eloise interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on the table. “Like I said, none of my business. Or yours.”
She tried to shut him down with her reply, but she could tell he’d gotten his hackles up. Through narrowed eyes, he regarded her. Planning his next move. Next turn of phrase. Strategizing. He opened his mouth to fire back when the server arrived with their cocktails and appetizers, interrupting their conversation.
Thwarted again.
She covered a smile with a napkin. A man should know better than to get into the ring with Muhammed Ali when they’re a second class version of Joe Frazier.