Sweet Talk Boxed Set (Ten NEW Contemporary Romances by Bestselling Authors to Benefit Diabetes Research plus BONUS Novel) (14 page)

Leila frowned and shot her gaze back over to Lloyd, who was walking over to Jackson’s desk with his passive aggressive tone and
juust
this side of sulky pout forging the path before him. 

Yeah…Lloyd wasn’t exactly good at covering up his true feelings when the green-eyed monster was biting his ass.  Jackson was used to it.

Though Lloyd had returned to saying nice things about Jackson to Leila, he thumped him on the shoulder between his praises with a heavier-than-usual hand.  In short, he was being a big-ass baby.  For the most part, Lloyd was a good boss, but he liked his glamorous perks.  And it just burned his balls that Jackson was the only one from the network that had been invited to tonight’s star-studded charity dinner.  Lloyd and the other producers had even tried to call the event coordinators to see if their invites had been lost in the mail.

They hadn’t.

Why the snub came as a shocker to any of the producers was a mystery to him.  None of them cared one iota about all the many youth outreach programs the NFL has spearheaded across the country.  Really, the producers weren’t big on any cause that wasn’t mutually beneficial for them in some way.  They weren’t bad guys or anything, and Jackson liked them well-enough, but there was a reason he didn’t consider any of them friends.

“Jackson is like an encyclopedia of stats and plays, which makes him a hit with the coaches and players” continued Lloyd, in the tone of voice he used when he was about to be a bit of an asshat.  “Little known company trivia for you, Leila-dear, but Jackson is actually famous for his game predictions, too.  In fact, he’s so accurate, we all call him the weatherman.”

Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes.  That moniker annoyed him to no end, and Lloyd damn well knew it.  Sure, they didn’t report on the weather at their network, but they were in the same business; they all knew why weathermen preferred to be called meteorologists.  There was a science behind meteorology, which determined the forecasts that weathermen broadcasted. 

Jackson’s determinations of likely game outcomes were no different.  There was a science involved.  Yes, he could make ten times more analyzed determinations than most analysts, but he didn’t just pull ‘predictions’ out of a crystal ball.  It took perspective and calculation.  Not magic.

Of course Lloyd kept going on and on equating Jackson’s predictions to ‘psychic abilities,’ his booming Southern voice now reverting back to its original state of harmless but oblivious, loud and tunnel visioned around the network’s bottom line, which, he conceded, Jackson’s predictions had always helped in terms of ratings.

Meanwhile, Leila was currently repeating his aggravating nickname under her breath, as if tasting it for herself. 
Weatherman
.  He watched her mouth quietly shape each syllable in an unconsciously seductive way that was making him damn thankful for the sports coat he was wearing at the moment. 

Then with the last syllable still lingering in the air, she released a small smile of amused approval that damn near lit up his whole freaking office.

“Sunshine,” Jackson murmured, low enough that he knew his voice would only carry to her ears.

Leila blinked over the word, her gaze questioning.

Jackson grinned and declared quietly, “If you’re going to call me the weatherman, I get to call you sunshine.”

My sunshine.

Where that errant, completely foreign thought came from, he had no idea.  But he liked it.  And he liked that sweet little quick breath she’d taken in as well, which caused her lips to part slightly like a snapshot from a wet dream.  While those soft, tawny eyes of hers were…

Now positively spitting fire at him.

Hell, he liked that, too.

Hands on her hips, she looked ready to object—wildly—to his ‘naming’ her, but Lloyd’s next statement effectively caused her to do a dispositional one-eighty.

“…Jackson even predicted the Vipers’ unexpected win over the Outlaws in last year’s conference championship game.”

Just like that, her entire mood seemed to shift. 

And this time, her swift inhale wasn’t inadvertently x-rated.  But it was
loads
more interested.  And her eyes were now filled with glints of grudging respect.

She was impressed. 

Interesting.

Jackson tilted his head feigning a lack of memory over the game prediction Lloyd was referring to.  “You mean the one where the Outlaws’ quarterback pressured out?” he asked, deliberately choosing to misremember his own analysis of that game, and go with popular—inaccurate—opinion. 

Two pairs of confused brow furrows looked back at him.

Lloyd frowned.  “I thought you said it had something to do with the corners and the timing, and all that other position data you’re always going ‘Rain Man’ about all the time.”

Jackson barely heard him.  Because suddenly, and with no filter whatsoever, admiration, appreciation, and a touch of something hotter ignited Leila’s gaze.

Holy hell.  Just as he thought.  The woman knew way the heck more about football than he even suspected.  Most folks didn’t have a clue why that win had happened.  So either Leila was a closet analyst with a memory that rivaled his in obscure NFL offense and defense data.

…Or she was something far more special.

He’d bet good money it was the latter.

He shook his head in amazement.  Unbelievable.  Somehow, Jackson’s smart, yet still pretty clueless, boss had managed to hire a woman who not only knew her stuff when it came to football stats, but could also scorch a man to within an inch of his hard-on with the likes of that sizzling hot look she’d directed his way a second ago.

Now all Jackson had to do was figure out why she was being a bald-faced liar about it all.

***

By this point, Leila Hart was barely paying attention to what her new boss was saying.  For a guy who didn’t seem to know his helmet from his jockstrap, he sure did like talking.

Unlike the silently amused Abercrombie model standing beside him.

Jackson Gray.

She’d caught sight of him yesterday after she’d filled out all her hiring paperwork down at Human Resources.  And as it turned out, he was even
better
looking in person.

Figured.

The man being assigned the task of babysitting her, of course, had to look strikingly similar to the same pretty-boy NFL quarterback who’d messed up her fantasy football team last season, causing her the lowest post-season standing she’d had in the three years since she’d begun playing with the big boys and the six-figure grand prize winnings. 

Eighth place. 

Ouch.

Yes, she was well-aware that most folks never even
smelled
the national leaderboard in the country-wide leagues.  Still.  The loss was a raw, open wound that continued to throb. 

It wasn’t just because she’d lost out on the hefty post-season purse, which had been earmarked for the down payment on a house she’d had her eye on for the past few months. 

It wasn’t even because she’d had to suffer through getting ribbed by the guys for the first time
ever
. 

No, the loss stung her pride more than anything else because…well, because she’d been proven wrong. 

About football.

And that nonsense just plain didn’t happen to Leila Hart.

Or rather, it never happened to her secret online alter ego L.J. Hart, a.k.a., the one and only good thing that came out of her parents naming her Leila Jane.

Seriously.

If the major players she’d managed to beat over the past few years in the three biggest online fantasy football leagues only knew that not only did she
not
have a pair of testicles, but that her usual fantasy football attire at home on her computer consisted of honest-to-god homemade pink fuzzy bunny slippers made by one of the old biddies from the small town she’d grown up in…

Goodness, she’d never live that down.

She didn’t even want to
think
about what would happen if they found out she had
seven
sets of cute as can be fingerless hand-knit gloves decorated as different woodland animals, complete with some variation of a giant pompom or a tassel as their tails…crafted out of chunky, rustic yarn that she and her grandmother had sheared, spun, and color-dyed themselves.

When Leila had first left Utah for grad school—to move a grand total of thirteen hours away the next state over—her grandmother had reacted like she were moving to the moon.  She’d mother-henned her for an entire year, requesting visual proof that Leila was in fact keeping warm with the slippers and gloves almost nightly.

Yes, even in the summers…since Leila had showed her crazy side by getting a place with—gasp—central air conditioning.

Her fault for teaching the ole battle axe how to Skype, really.

God, she missed her. 

Her grandmother had been the only relative she’d felt close to in her entire family.  They’d had very little in common, but had got along famously.  So for that reason, even though she had absolutely no desire to return home to Utah, the nostalgic slippers and gloves had become a permanent fixture in her daily existence.

Heck, even the thought of the comfy little things had her smiling and wiggling her fingers and toes.

…Something that didn’t slip past Jackson, apparently.  If his lips-to-toes scan of her, and resulting amused expression, were any indication.

A man who looked
that
handsome in frameless glasses should
not
be allowed to have sexy, dancing eyes.  Period.  Then again, if she were taking inventory, the universe clearly went waaay overboard in handing him all the good stuff when they created his genetic make-up.

And she absolutely was not complaining.

At first glance, he simply had that classic All-American look, but the second glance was when it became obvious that he was more complex than simply handsome.  He was deep.  Everything about him made you realize there was much more beneath the surface.

But wow, what a surface it was.  She didn’t blame a girl for getting lost in that first glance for quite a while.  He had a hard-to-miss athletic build that
almost
couldn’t be contained in the swanky NFL afterparty-worthy sports jacket he was currently wearing.  Locked and loaded guns for arms that framed a spectacularly broad chest.  Short, ash brown hair that looked like he’d just sprinted over from a jog on the beach and shoved his hand through it to get it to that perfectly product-free look that made candid black and white model photos so appealing. 

And in between…  Jesus.  She would’ve pegged him as having been sculpted rather than born based on that jawline and the ruggedly sexy lines carved artfully along the muscular column of his neck.  A work of art for sure. 

Really though, the most distracting of his long list of magnetically attractive qualities was his ability to just stand there without feeling the need to say more than a few words.  Never before would she have put ‘quiet’ in the same category as sexy.  But on this man, it so very much was. 

His composed, confident presence was almost deafening.  And if she had to hazard a guess, she’d estimate that those hypnotic hazel eyes of his, with that touch of buried sadness, could likely charm the panties off of an unsuspecting woman even at ten yards away.

Yowza.
  Make that twenty.  The dangerous weapons in question were now locked on her own eyes, a rather breath-halting affair that pulled her assessing gaze away from the freaking work of art that was the man’s mouth. 

If she weren’t so darn curious about this whole ‘weatherman’ nickname, which appeared to be warranted if he’d been able to predict the Viper’s win from position stats alone, she’d have made a heartfelt request to her boss to pair her up with a mentor that was far less gorgeous.

Or at the least, someone who didn’t call her ‘sunshine.’

…In a low, darkly seductive rumble that didn’t belong in remotely the same category as mortal male voices.

Just then, a nice woman who served as Lloyd’s executive secretary stopped in to ask Lloyd to sign a few things, and Jackson took the opportunity to lean over to tell her quietly, “I have to get going.  But I’ll see you tomorrow, sunshine.  Bright and early.” 

With his closeness affecting her ability to think about anything other than how good his voice sounded in her ear, she simply nodded.  And then began to have a wildly imaginative, mildly panic-worthy daydream of him discussing football stats with her tomorrow in that mesmerizing 1-900 voice of his.

Holy crap.

Her knees buckled.

No judging.  To each woman, her own version of dirty talk.

When the low sizzle in his eyes swiftly kicked up a notch, she wondered if he knew her dirty little secret.  She stopped wondering and immediately went back to daydreaming when he leaned back in to add: “It’ll be just us two tomorrow, so be sure to bring whatever thoughts are going through that mind of yours right now.  We can take turns doing show and tell.”

Then with a quick, friendly goodbye wink that was devastatingly hotter being discharged from the lethal weapon of quietly intelligent sex appeal that was his glasses, he was on the move.

Good lord, he looked good coming
and
going.

Lloyd and his secretary followed him out mid-signature, as did Leila, so Jackson could lock up.  

“Just to warn you,” said Lloyd as Leila watched Jackson disappear down the hallway, “that guy can be quite the ladies’ man.”  His voice held none of the childishness it did earlier when he was pouting.  It was merely factual as he continued, “He’s a great guy and I wouldn’t blame you for falling for him.  But we do discourage office romances for a reas—”

“I have a boyfriend,” she blurted out.  It was a total lie.  But judging from the approval on Lloyd’s face, she’d wagered well on it. 

“Oh, well that’s good.  It’ll keep all these other yahoos here from hitting on you, as well.  The pretty ones, and by that, I mean our male TV talent, are mostly single so just let everyone know you’re taken and the whole new girl on the block thing should die down quickly.  If anyone gives you any trouble, here or out on the field, just say the word and I’ll take care of it.  I don’t tolerate that shit at all for the women who work for our network.”