Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(56)

Sure you can, pal. He makes it sound like I’m Goldilocks, skipping through the forest alone. I’ve been working closely with overseas manufacturers for a decade, though. And he’s not the first dude to underestimate me.

“That’s very kind, but I’m already set for suppliers. Delivery begins in two months. Surely you realize that my manufacturing needs are already met?”

“Are they, though?” he asks slowly, his brown eyes boring into mine. “Needs change. Loyalties shift. You may find that you need the assistance of someone new.”

I feel like I’ve been threatened, and I can’t even explain why. “Mr. Smith,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster. “I hope we will get a chance to work together. Perhaps next year, or the following one. The Butler will not be my last product launch. And you are a very interesting man.” That’s putting it nicely.

“How kind of you to say so. But I believe we shall work together sooner than that. Do not hesitate to phone me if you are in need of assistance.” At that, he stands gracefully, drops a business card on my desk, and then calmly exits the room.

Rolf and I blink at each other for a moment. “What was that?” I whisper as soon as I’m sure he’s really gone.

“No idea,” he whispers back. “He’s flashy. But a little creepy, too.”

No kidding.

“Shall I summon your car?” Rolf looks at his watch.

“Yes, please. And do me a favor? Call downstairs and ask security who authorized Smith’s pass.”

“Will do.”

When I’m alone in my office again, I confront the two phone messages. It’s so tempting to call Eric back. I’d love to hear his voice, and I’d love to see him, too.

But we’re finished as a couple, so I’m not sure what good it would do.

Then there’s Nate Kattenberger’s invitation to the Hamptons. I should probably say yes. Nate has been one of my best friends for over a decade, but I’ve been dodging him lately. I’m still embarrassed about our hookup. Neither of us ever wants to be reminded of that again.

But—and this is the truly embarrassing part—during my darkest time this past spring, I was terribly rude to his new fiancée, Rebecca. I apologized profusely afterward. But I’m still embarrassed.

Let’s just say I’ve given the two of them a wide berth these past few months, in spite of the fact that they’ve both been very gracious about the whole disaster.

At some point I have to show my face again, though. Nate and Rebecca are planning their wedding, and I intend to cheer the loudest when they are pronounced man and wife.

So now I type in the URL for Nate’s charity event, just to see if I’d like to go. Raise money for the Boys' and Girls’ Clubs of Brooklyn! There’s a slideshow of last year’s event, showing hockey players on ice and on the golf course.

When the third photo slides onto my screen, though, it makes my heart drop. It’s a photo of Eric Bayer in a suit and tie, with a beautiful young woman on his arm.

The photo is a year old, of course. But it drives home the point that I don’t want to run into Eric socially. I have absolutely no interest in watching him pick up another lucky woman to take back to his hotel room.

I’ll send a check instead.

I fold Nate’s message in two and drop it into the recycling bin. Eric’s message, though. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I open my top desk drawer and slide it inside. I’m not quite ready to be his friend, I guess. The memory of his hot kisses and his sexy smile is still too vivid.

It will probably be vivid until I’m eighty-five years old. It really was that hot.

“Your car is downstairs!” Rolf calls.

“Thanks!”

I close the drawer on the message, get my bag and go.





20





Late November





Eric





I sit on the bench in the practice facility while skaters whiz past me. It’s loud in here. The sound of pucks smacking the boards is the soundtrack of my life.

It’s supposed to be, anyway. But I’m sitting on the bench with three ice packs on my knee.

My left knee. The one formerly known as my good knee.

And I’m trying not to panic.

Last night—during the overtime period—I took a hit and went down hard. But there was no big pop. No excruciating pain. I got right up again, but I could tell that something wasn’t quite right.

Afterward, I was in some pain. There was swelling, and it was no better in the morning. So they sent me for an MRI.

Doc Herberts prohibited me from practice today. He wouldn’t even let me take the morning yoga class. So I’m sitting here like a bump on a log while he talks to an orthopedist on the phone.

“Yeah, okay. Good stuff,” Doc says. “Bye.”

Good stuff. That has to be good news, right?

He hangs up and turns to me. “He agrees that it’s a minor ACL tear. Not a complete blowout. But you need a surgical repair.”

Fuck. “Soon?”

“That’s right. You’ll be back at physical therapy immediately. And off crutches in a week, probably.”

The sounds of the rink grow dim in my ears as I try to wrap my head around this. After three months of increased pain in my right knee, I was already scheduled for another round of scans and appointments with the specialist.