My (Mostly) Secret Baby - Penelope Bloom Page 0,75

her embezzling scheme was uncovered.

“Read it again,” Chelsea said. She leaned back in her chair to sip her morning coffee with a wide smile. “Just one more time, please.”

I smirked, then cleared my throat. There was an image of Trish shielding her eyes as she hurried out of her former offices while being swarmed by reporters at the top of the article. “Trish Jameson, a leading agent in the world of professional sports, was charged with felony embezzlement this week as evidence of her wrongdoings mounted. Jameson’s clients have fled the agency in droves, including big names and recent signees Tia Klein and Trevor Castle.

“Details are still to come, but for now, it appears that Trish Jameson’s time as one of the top agents in the country are certainly over. In the coming months, we’ll know if her actions will land her a lengthy prison sentence, fines, or both.”

The article continued to go into detail about some of the allegations, but the part Chelsea wanted was the top.

“It feels so good,” she said. “Am I a bitch for relishing in the idea of her getting her ass handed to her?”

“No,” I said. “You also wouldn’t be a bitch if you were happy to learn that Tia and Trevor are having trouble finding an agent after those anonymous stories about sexual harassment leaked.”

Chelsea grinned into her cup. “I still have no idea how those got out.”

It had been over a month since Chelsea came to work for me at Rose Athletics. The weather was turning crisp more often, and Luna’s giggles and growls were starting to become part of the soundtrack of my evenings and mornings.

It felt different, and it felt good.

So fucking good.

It was late and Chelsea had joined me on the balcony of my apartment for a glass of wine. She wore a thin floral print dress that, like everything else she ever put on, seemed too sexy to be fair. I hooked my hand around her waist when she got up to look over the balcony and pulled her into my lap.

I kissed her neck, smelling the scent of her shampoo and that intoxicating, indefinable aroma her skin always had. She let out a little moan, leaning into me and running her hand through my hair.

“I think I love you.” I hadn’t planned to say the words. I hadn’t even dwelled on the fact that I hadn’t told her I loved her before. But the moment I heard it aloud, I felt each syllable like it was sinking deep into my chest.

She turned her head, eyes searching mine. “You’d better know if you’re going to start throwing around statements like that.”

I grinned. “I do. I love you, because if I didn’t, there’s no way I would be able to put up with you.”

She swatted at me but closed her eyes and leaned into my shoulder. “Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“You’d better say it,” I warned. I stood, picking her up with me. “It’s a long way down.”

Chelsea widened her eyes, laughing. “You absolutely would not throw me to my death. It won’t count if I’m only saying I love you to save my life.”

“Say it,” I warned, inching closer to the edge.

In a robotic voice, Chelsea said, “I. Love. You.”

She tickled my armpits, which was a weakness she’d unfortunately discovered, and wormed her way out of my grasp. She stopped at the sliding door and gave me a taunting smile. “There’s something I want to tell you, but I have to ask for a favor first.”

“What?”

“You need to say, ‘I am a grumpy butthole and I only recently took some of the stick out of my ass.’”

“Why would you want or need me to say that?”

“It will be therapeutic. Now say it.”

I glared.

“Okay, fine. Just tell me you love me again. But if you say you think you love me I’m going to throw you off the balcony. So choose your words carefully.”

“I love you, Chelsea. Even though I—”

She stepped toward me and pressed her fingers to my mouth. “Nope. Stop while you’re ahead. And I love you too, you grumpy asshole.” She pulled her hands back and kissed me. “Even though…”

I picked her up, interrupting whatever she’d been about to say with her laughter.

40

Epilogue - Chelsea

I ran my hands across my shiny new desk, smiling. There was even a nameplate on my desk that read: Chelsea Cross - Agent.

That’s right, bitch. I was an agent now. Certifiably badass. Top of the food chain. The—

My door swung open.