I preferred a bit of breakfast. Especially in comparison to the unexpected, milk-related surprises from before I weaned her. After one awkward meeting with my father, his biggest client, and a good dose of postpartum hormones, I decided to keep a spare bra and shirt in the office. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought to pack a fresh skirt.
At least my day was almost over…or it should have been. If Cole had been amenable, the trade waiver might have been signed and I could have picked up Rose before dinner. So much for saving an hour’s worth of baby-sitting charges. Mrs. Potter was an excellent nanny, but she didn’t come cheap.
I brushed my fingers through my hair. Nope. The rain created an instant frizz. That just wasn’t fair. The downpour destroyed a modern day miracle—this morning I actually straight-ironed in peace while Rose distracted herself with her toys. A whole four minutes of frantic heat that only burned me twice while I smoothed both sides of my hair before Rose tossed out the binkie and gnawed on a shoe.
Now my curls re-inflated and ballooned. They were natural. They were angry. And they were…expanding. If I let it get bad, the rain shower would have transported me back to the 70s.
All the more reason to peel out of Rude McDouchey’s mile long driveway and head home.
But the folder containing his paperwork rested next to me, and the rain turned sleety as soon as the key hit the ignition. Not a safe drive. And at least Rose was still with the nanny…
If nothing else, Dad had ordered me to force Cole to sign the waiver at any cost. Of course, he’d also wished me good luck with an amused snort when I took the case.
I stared at the imposing mansion. It wasn’t like Dad had any faith in me. Half of a master’s degree in French Literature didn’t give me much of an edge in…anything. But after the baby was born, Dad found me a place at his office. If I could get Cole to play nice, I’d make a name for myself in the agency.
Who better to prove that brains could prevail over brawn, even in professional football?
How tough could this one man be?
I bundled my curls into a pony tail and bolted to his front door. Cole Hawthorne couldn’t hide from his future in the league forever.
I punched the doorbell again, but, this time, I didn’t take my finger from the button. The chimes dinged, donged, and dinged again. The ringing buzzed louder.
“Ignore that, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said.
But I jammed the button a little too hard. It depressed completely, cracking in two and falling inside the casing. I yanked my hand back as the components sizzled and shorted out.
Uh-oh.
The ding didn’t dong anymore. Instead…it wailed. A high-pitched, murderous note that screamed like an insomniac, teething baby with a fever and no binkie.
Somehow, I doubted the house would calm down with a nice juice box and rendition of You Are My Sunshine.
The screeching crackled, and the sound cut out.
I breathed a premature sigh of relief just before the doorbell also shorted out the alarm system. The ding-dong and whooping wail of a security siren and the ear-piercing buzz of a fire alarm roared through the house. The ungodly melody shook the mansion’s hundreds of windows.
Oh, I really hoped this castle didn’t come with a dungeon.
Time to bolt.
I kicked off my heels and prepared to run.
Too late. The scratch of the door ground against the stone frame. That whine wasn’t the scrape of a door that opened very often. Probably for good reason.
I clutched the folder with his papers and dropped my shoes.
Why the hell hadn’t I run when I had the chance? Then again, I had visions of the linebacker chasing down my car and ripping it apart with his bare hands—ala Tyrannosaurs Rex style. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t tear me to shreds. If I was unlucky…
He’d answer the door without a shirt.
I stared at the god-like man looming in the doorway.
Cole Hawthorne was a beast.
A monster.
A huge, lumbering slab of muscle and rage.
And he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my life.
He gripped the door, and every muscle in his upper body rippled as if he debated on whether he should slam it or wood-chip the slab into splinters with his fists. A still moment passed, and he wiped his face with a towel. He left the beads of sweat trickling over his broad shoulders and pecs.
I