Playing for Keeps (7 page)

“Actually, I’d like to just meet you at the Ashton again. In the bar.”

“That should sound romantic,” he murmured. “But I’m guessing something’s wrong? Trouble at work? If it’s that Frank guy—”

“It’s not. I mean, not Frank. And not romantic. Can you just meet me?”

“Sure, but if you want some privacy, we can use Murf’s office. He’s in Dallas, and I’ve got a key.”

She winced. Murf’s “office” was a suite, meaning it had a bedroom. And bed. “I don’t want to mislead you, John. This is a serious talk. No flirting. No joking. Just me talking and apologizing. And you listening.”

“Did Lager Storm dump you? Or dump me?”

“No, but that could happen. To me, I mean.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to do this on the phone.”

“Right. Come straight to Murf’s place. I’ll be there ahead of you, making coffee. And we’ll figure this out, whatever it is. We’re friends, Erica,” he reminded her.

She smiled at the unexpected word. Friends. It felt right, and made sense. He could easily get women, but making a real friend? Even for someone like him it probably didn’t happen every day.

And it certainly didn’t happen for her.

“Thanks, John. I’ll see you at three.”

• • •

Johnny kept his phone in his hand, puzzled and just a little frustrated. She hadn’t sounded like herself, and while it didn’t make sense, he had a feeling he was about to be dumped.

He wasn’t sure why she had to come all this way to tell him, but it gave him a second chance, didn’t it? Maybe he had freaked her out with the schoolteacher/Baby Aaron jokes. Or the downer story of the car crash that killed his mom and brother. Or maybe he had just made too many jokes about the effing raincoat.

He could fix that.

Nodding, he instructed his phone, “Get me Murf.”

His agent picked up on the first ring. “Hey, bud. What do you need?”

“Are you in town?”

“Yep.”

“How fast can you leave?” Johnny gave a rueful laugh. “No offense, but I need the suite tomorrow. So if you could go to Dallas for a few days, catch up with the wife and kids, I’d appreciate it.”

“Tell me this isn’t about Erica McCall.”

“It’s not about Erica McCall,” he repeated dutifully.

“Is it the schoolteacher?”

“Shouldn’t you be packing?”

“I always have a bag ready,” Murf reminded him with a chuckle. “My clients have monster muscles, so if I screw something up, I get out quick.”

“Good planning.”

“You said tomorrow. So I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Good enough?”

Johnny felt a surge of loyalty toward the guy. He was a millionaire twenty times over, was turning down clients left and right, juggled complicated contracts night and day, and still acted like it was a game. And like Johnny was the most important player in it. “Thanks, Murf. Let me know when I can return the favor.”

“According to my bank statement, you just did. That bonus for zero interceptions was sweet. Keep it up and I’ll even break the news about the ad—and the girl—to your dad.”

Johnny laughed, knowing how frightened Murf was of Aaron Spurling. “There’s no news about the girl, so just go home. I’ll see you in Phoenix for the game, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Just have fun. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,” he murmured, adding cheerfully, “Thus ends the nagging.”

Johnny hung up, vaguely annoyed by Murf’s attitude toward Erica, but what did it matter? If her voice on the phone was any indication, things were over before they even started. Luckily he had been in this position before, losing mightily, but that didn’t mean the game was over, especially if it was a game that could make or break his season.

Like this one.

• • •

The plane ride went smoothly, mostly because Erica rode in first class. The pricey ticket came out of her own pocket, since she didn’t dare charge it to the Caldwell Agency. It would skew her budget for months but she didn’t care. And it ultimately served a business purpose, since Steve Adler forwarded the newest version of the print campaign for her input during the flight, and she perused it diligently.

They had decided to go with Steve’s winter-wonderland theme for the magazine ad layout for the time being but would switch over to a gorgeous shot of Johnny after the Super Bowl, so he could advise men everywhere not to be douches. Meanwhile, the winter scenario was stunning. The blizzard, the horses, the neon Lager Storm sign in the distance offering sanctuary and good times. It actually made her heart ache, knowing that she never could have envisioned so romantic a scene.

Still, she instinctively saw that the angle was wrong. Steve deserved better, so she struggled to put her finger on the problem all the way to Denver, where she had a brief stopover. Then the
eureka
moment struck and she alerted him to her pivotal issues: they needed more blue in the forest, to contrast with the red of the neon sign. And those horses should be wearing wider, jauntier bands of silver bells. It was a composition challenge. Minor, sure. But he was so close to perfection, why not go all the way?

Especially because the couple cuddling under a fluffy coverlet were pitch-perfect. So in love. And so focused on each other, she doubted they even needed the blanket. Which was probably a flaw too, come to think of it. If the ad wanted to convince folks these adorable wayfarers needed Lager Storm to keep them warm, the agency had a fail on its hands.

So she added that to the list. But in her heart, she wouldn’t change a thing about that couple. They could sell anything. Even beer. And even to guys. Because Erica had to believe men and women wanted the same thing. Not just fulfillment from their chosen paths, but love, pure and simple.

And the couple in that sled reeked of it.

They’re actors,
she reminded herself wistfully.
They don’t even know each other. Or at least, not yet.

Her imagination stirred as she pictured those two performers—probably strangers—going for drinks after the photo shoot. Hot chocolate? Brandy? Did it really matter?

The stars above were aligned for them.

But for Erica? The stars were shitting left and right.

• • •

A few hours later, her plane landed in Portland, and after a brief cab ride she was once again standing at the door to Patrick Murphy’s suite. And once again she was intimidated. Why hadn’t she handled this on the phone like a normal person? Why hadn’t she rehearsed her lines rather than working on the winter wonderland scene? And why oh why hadn’t she worn pants? Sherry would have worn pants. Men would have worn pants. And Erica had almost worn them too, but had been concerned Johnny Spurling would see that as a sign of weakness. A sign she was afraid to appear before him bare-legged.

So she had worn a severe black skirt and a prim blouse. It was too late to put pants on now, especially since she hadn’t brought any with her and had no idea where to find a Macy’s in this godforsaken town. So she just took a deep breath, raised her right hand, and knocked.

As if he had been lurking on the other side, he swung the door open wide. And for the longest moment they just stared at each other. And even though Erica regretted her drooling, she could see he was as guilty as she.

Chapter 4

If possible, he looked more amazing than last time. Darker hair, darker eyes, his black polo shirt making his arms seem even bigger than the sexy green one had. And jeans instead of khakis, because business casual just wasn’t casual enough for what he intended to do in the next few minutes.

She suddenly hated her prissy outfit and wished she could strip it off. Replace it with the trench coat of his dreams. And while she struggled to remember why the skirt was correct and the raincoat was wrong, wrong, wrong, it simply didn’t compute. Nothing did. Nothing except his gorgeous body and hopeful expression.

Then he took her by the hand, pulled her into the suite, closed the door, and moved in, body against body, igniting every nerve ending from her earlobes to her toes.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “I forgot about this.”

“I didn’t,” he assured her, grappling her close and lowering his mouth to hers.

“Johnny, please.” She pushed on his chest, but only halfheartedly, especially when she felt how solid it was. “I’m here to talk. Remember?”

“Yeah, but you’re so God damned pretty.” He cupped her chin in his hand and insisted, “I’ll do whatever you want, Erica.
Any
thing. We’ll make this work, I promise.”

She wanted to kiss him.
Needed
to kiss him. To feel his mouth on hers, his tongue tasting, his body coaxing. The sexy phone chats had done their work, priming her to an unexpected breaking point. She needed this. And so did he.

And maybe after their talk they could satisfy this curiosity a little. Indulge in a good-bye kiss and really make it count.

But she didn’t dare do that yet, so she pushed him away more firmly. They would talk, and then they’d see. Maybe he’d be so annoyed he wouldn’t want to touch her, much less kiss her. But if he wanted a parting gift as much as she did? It would be amazing, and she’d never regret making the trip in person.

So she told him firmly, “That coffee smells good,” and skirted past him to the table.

He didn’t say anything in response, but rather, went to the alcove kitchen at the far end of the room and returned with two steaming hot mugs. “You want cream and sugar?”

“No, thanks.” She never drank it black but wasn’t really a coffee lover, especially when her stomach was already filled with butterflies. So she just accepted the cup, sniffed it appreciatively, and set it on the table.

He looked like he wanted to pace. Or maybe take another run at her. But after a moment’s hesitation he took the seat directly across from her, just as he’d done at the pitch. “Like I said, whatever this is, we’ll work it out.”

She moistened her lips. “So I’ll just talk if that’s okay. And you’ll listen?”

“Okay, shoot.”

She sighed. “I know I’ve led you on a bit and I’m sorry. But in my defense, there really is some fun chemistry between us. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to socialize with you anymore. I loved the phone calls, and the beautiful roses—”

“The roses?” He sat up straighter. “Did I get you in trouble with those? Fuck, I’m an idiot. I just figured—”

“It was fine. Clients send flowers all the time, and it makes sense that you would too. And I really did love them. But my circumstances are complicated.” She exhaled slowly. “I’m going to tell you something confidential. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I recently settled a dispute at work. Part of the settlement was a promise that neither side would discuss the details with anyone. But you need to hear this.”

Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “This is about that Frank guy, right? He talked to Murf about it, you know.”

“Oh, God, what did he say?” Her throat tightened. “He was supposed to keep quiet.”

“Did he force himself on you?” Johnny rose out of his chair. “God
damn
it!”

“Sit down, please?” She managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing like that.”

“He threatened to fire you if you wouldn’t sleep with him? What an a-hole.”

“He didn’t threaten to fire me,” she murmured, unnerved by how much this sounded like her interview with Human Resources. “He didn’t call me any lewd names either. Didn’t remark on my body. Didn’t offer a quid pro quo. So I guess nothing happened after all, right?”

“Huh?”

She stared back at him, completely devastated.

“He obviously did
something
. Tell me what it was. Then let me set him straight.” He walked around the table and pulled her to her feet, then gathered her against his chest. “Look how upset you still are.”

“I’m not upset, or at least not with him,” she assured him, pulling free. “I just don’t like talking about it. And it’s not the point anyway. The point is, this is my big shot. A make-or-break moment for me at the agency, and there are some people—maybe lots of them—who hope I fail. That’s why I can’t see you. Or flirt with you.” She smiled in weary apology. “Can’t we just sit back down? Talk it through calmly?”

His jaw hardened, and he seemed like he was going to say something—maybe even growl something—but instead he moved back to his chair without another word.

He had a right to be annoyed, so she forced herself not to make too much of it. “It took me a while to convince anyone at the agency that Frank did anything wrong. Because like you said, he didn’t slap my ass, or offer me a promotion in exchange for sex, or call me slutty names. I’m not sure Mr. Caldwell thinks it was even harassment, but he could sense something was weird about it. And he believed me that I wasn’t just—well, making it up, or lying about how upset I was. And actually, I wasn’t that upset anymore. Not after a few days. But I just felt I needed to speak up. To go on the record.”

“That makes sense,” he murmured, as though trying to find something neutral to say.

“I almost let it drop. Then I saw him talking to a new intern—a college student—and I realized he might pull the same crap on her. Maybe he had done it dozens of times before. But no one reported it, and if they did, HR just told them to grow a backbone. So I decided to make a stand.”

“That was the right thing to do, obviously.”

She smiled. “All I wanted at that point was an official notation in his record. But Mr. Caldwell wanted a real settlement agreement, and he offered me money, or extra vacation, or some bogus assignment as his assistant on some made-up project. I should have just turned it all down, but I had heard a rumor that Lager Storm wanted to do a Super Bowl ad, and I had this great idea.” She eyed him gratefully. “Namely, you. I just knew you were perfect for it. And maybe it would be perfect for you too.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Okay, so . . .” She took a deep breath. “My plan was to take the idea to Steve Adler, since he had complimented my work several times. We can take ideas to the exec teams, but we don’t get credit. There’s not even a guarantee we can work on the campaign. The whole point of Caldwell’s system is to have a pool of raw, anonymous talent available to the exec teams. Management gets all the credit, but we in the B-pool—that’s what they call it—we get experience. And if we really shine, we’ll be invited onto an A-team someday.” She looked down at her hands, trying to banish the passionate tone from her voice. “When Mr. Caldwell offered me money, I just decided to go for it. So I asked him to let me formally pitch my idea. It was bold, and possibly stupid, but I did it.”