Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
When I stepped back out into the open space by Greta’s desk, I let out a deep breath and put my hands on my knees as if I’d survived running through a maze full of creepy-crawlies.
“Everything alright, dear?” Greta asked with a knowing smile.
“A little heads-up would have been appreciated,” I muttered.
Her eyes sparkled above her reading glasses. “Aw, where’s the fun in that?”
“You hired a PA?”
She nodded. “You remember April Samina from the travel department?”
I pictured the young, energetic woman and knew right away Greta had made the perfect choice. “Fine,” I said with a dramatic huff. “I know when I’m outshined and outmatched.”
“It’s always good to maintain your dignity as you depart the field, darling,” she said with a sniff. “Even after a historic loss.”
“I want my pasta salad back,” I told her with a laugh, standing up straight and trying to stretch the tension out of my body. I’d brought her an extra tub of it to take home for her husband.
She grinned. “Too late. I ate the whole thing, even Reggie’s portion.”
I snorted and began to twist at the waist, but I ran right into a delicious-cologne-smelling beast.
“Oh, fuck,” I blurted, windmilling my arms in an effort not to keel over.
Strong hands grabbed my sides and held me upright. I glanced up into Tiller Raine’s stormy-gray eyes and tried not to get a stupid crush on a cocky rookie football player which meant I jumped back with a choking grunt sound and almost fell over again.
The edge of Tiller’s mouth turned up the barest amount. I glared at him. “I’m fine, thanks,” I snapped before reminding myself this person was now my boss.
Tiller’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Mikey. You don’t need to like this,” he said in a low voice. “And I don’t need to like this. But we both have a job to do, so let’s just focus on the job. Got it?”
For some reason, that hurt. I wanted to be allowed to dislike him for no reason, but the same didn’t apply to him disliking me.
“It’s Michael, actually,” I corrected, even though absolutely zero people used my full name outside of doctors and government offices. “And yeah, focus on the job. Fine.”
How many times could I possibly use that word in one day?”
“Fine,” he repeated with a nod.
“Yeah. Fine.”
We stared at each other for a few beats before Tiller seemed to snap out of it and reached into his pocket for his keys. He pulled one off the key ring, and I tried not to notice the ancient worn leather fob that looked like it belonged in some kind of museum. My dad had mentioned Tiller’s old truck. I didn’t want to notice endearing things about my new boss. Therein lay madness.
“Key to the apartment,” he said gruffly, handing it over. “I’ll get a copy of the house key made and bring it over to you after practice.”
I noted his use of the word practice instead of calling it as work like the old-timers did. Rookie. “Thanks,” I managed before remembering what I’d been hired for. “Any allergies, picky eating, or health issues I need to know for your diet?”
He shook his head. “Whatever is fine.”
Great. Fine. I’m sure I could narrow down the choices from about ten thousand options. No problem. “So… I’ll just… throw together anything?”
Markus had joined us at this point and decided to weigh in with a big annoying clap on Tiller’s shoulder. “He’s a pretty laid-back guy. It’s what makes him such a team player. Isn’t it, Raine?”
Team player or annoyingly unhelpful?
The great Tiller Raine gave us a sum total of one word in response. “Sure.” Which suited me just fine. This time I’d made myself a promise. No sleeping with jackass ballplayers. No sleeping with players of any kind, in fact. And absolutely no sleeping with my boss.
1
Tiller - Five Years Later
“Did you take your fish oil supplement?” Mikey asked. I’d learned early on that, despite his hopeful claims the day I hired him, the man didn’t actually answer to Mike or Michael.
“Yes, dear,” I muttered, shoving shit into my duffle. I was running late to practice, and for some reason I couldn’t get the bag to close.
“Don’t call me that. You do know I’ve already packed your stuff, right? That’s why the bag won’t close. You packed stuff on top of what I’d already packed.”
I glanced up at him. Mikey stood leaning against the doorjamb to my bedroom. He wore faded plaid pajama pants and an oversized Riggers T-shirt he’d most likely stolen from my ridiculously large stash if he hadn’t gotten it from Coach. I remembered the first year he’d worked for me when we’d been diligent about ignoring each other for the most part. He hadn’t come in my personal area of the house, and I hadn’t gone anywhere near his garage apartment. But it didn’t take me too long to realize he actually had come into my personal space since he was the one who did the laundry.