“Look, I know you’re mad at me, but—”

“Stop.” She holds her palm up to my face. “Just go.”

I exhale a long breath, resolving to deal with her another day, when things have mellowed out. Maybe after she settles in a bit, makes some new friends.

Grabbing my things, I hop down from the car. “Have a good day, Elle. I love you.”

She turns up the radio before I’m finished. I shut the door and watch until her taillights disappear down the street.

I’ve completely ruined her life. Screwed her up in the worst ways, and I have no one to blame but myself. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I won’t cry. Not today.

New year. New career. New me.

I suck in a deep breath and hold my head high. Being a mess on the inside doesn’t mean I have to be a mess on the outside. Putting on a show is something I’ve mastered. And even though I earned this job, having applied online and interviewed over the phone, everything in me says I’m not good enough. My stomach churns with anxiety.

Stop it. They think I’m worth hiring. It’s about time I believe I am. Or at least fake it until I feel it.

After one more strengthening breath, I push through the double doors. Heavy metal music pumps from speakers in a modern lobby that smells like expensive furniture and rubber mats. Multiple flat screen televisions flicker with clips from UFL fights, one in particular showing different knockout punches on a loop. I cringe at the violent hits and turn my eyes to the reception desk.

A pretty girl with strawberry-blond hair, who looks to be in her twenties, greets me with a tight smile.

Shoulders back, chin up, think confidence. “Hi, I’m Layla Moorehead. I’m here to meet Mr. Gibbs?”

She blinks at me with big hazel eyes. I watch while she looks back and forth between a piece of paper in front of her and her computer screen. Her eyebrows slam together.

This isn’t good. Mr. Gibbs should be expecting me. Am I in the right place? I slide my eyes back to the door where the words “UFL Training Center” are painted in bright orange on the glass.

Yep, this is it.

Maybe I should pull up his last email on my phone. I could have gotten the date wrong. I shift, move my purse strap to my other shoulder, and begin digging for my phone. The cavernous depths of my purse seem to have swallowed it. I push deeper, and suddenly the bag is weightless. Before I know what’s happening, my purse and its contents clack against the treated concrete floor.

“Crap.” I watch as my water bottle and several other personal items roll across the floor in every direction.

Broken purse strap. Lovely start to my day.

I kneel down and rake my things into the bag, making sure to shove the tampons in first before anyone sees them.

“Seriously? Is this really happening?” My voice is soft, but its high pitch must reveal my frustration. “Stupid purse.” I get down on all fours to retrieve a runaway lipstick that rolled under a nearby couch. Cheek to the floor, arm outstretched, I feel under the couch. My fingertips barely touch it. Come on, just another inch. I push my arm farther beneath, my shoulder hitting the base of the couch. Almost got it—Ah-ha!

“You alright down there, Mouse?”

I freeze at the sound of the deep, booming voice behind me. How must I look from this angle? Ass up, head down. I practically groan at being caught in such a ridiculous position.

Lipstick in hand, I scramble to my feet. “Yep, I’m good.” I hold the lipstick tube out and push my glasses up on my nose. “Just lost—” Holy huge guy. My breath catches in my lungs as I face off with the owner of the baritone voice.

He’s at least a foot taller than me. His legs are so long that the white stripes running down the sides of his warm-up pants seem to go on forever. My eyes linger on the fabric, which is baggy and clingy in all the right places. My face instantly heats as I move my eyes from his legs to his chest. A grey long-sleeved thermal shirt accentuates his broad upper body, his muscles straining against the cotton.

“You forgot this.” He flashes a crooked smile that softens the hard angles of his jaw. His high cheekbones are set below the most striking pair of green eyes that whisper all kinds of dangerous. And dirty.

I clear my throat and reach for the object he’s holding—oh my gosh! I snatch the tampon from his hand, its crinkling paper sound igniting my cheeks even more. So much for acting confident. I’m a mess, and I can only pray that my glasses help to hide a little of my embarrassment. Burying the offending object deep into my purse, I consider running out of the lobby and calling in sick. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help. Wouldn’t want you to get caught without those.” He runs a hand across his upper lip, trying to cover a smile and failing horribly. “Could get messy.”

The tension in my jaw goes slack. He didn’t just say that. Jerk.

So he saw me on the floor with my ass in the air… and handed me a tampon. He probably thinks I’m some silly girl that he can push around with his good looks and that panty-melting smile. But I won’t cower to his presumptions.

I glare into his bright green eyes and straighten to my full five-foot-three, and a half thanks to my high-heeled boots, hoping to feel less intimidated. It’s impossible. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Have you ever heard of Emily Post? She’s an expert on etiquette. You might want to look her up.”

“Yeah?” He rubs his chin, making a show that he’s considering what I said. He lifts one eyebrow. “She single?”

I prop both hands on my hips and run an overly obvious gaze from his black athletic shoes to his eyes. “Maybe, but she’d only date a gentleman.”

He lifts his chin, then bites and releases his lip. “I could be a gentleman. I like role play.”

Adding sexy banter to the list of things this guy is good at, next to tampon retrieval, I make a mental note to stay the hell away from him. With an exaggerated roll of my eyes that I hope he’s smart enough to notice, I turn my back on the giant.

Clutching my broken bag, I wait on the girl to buzz me in, or whatever she has to do to get me away from this arrogant ass.

“Hmm, yeah. You’re not on the visitors list.” She shrugs like I should just grab my scraps of purse and leave.

On the inside, I’d be happy to slink away with what little is left of my pride. But my life doesn’t afford those luxuries. Not anymore. This is my only chance to move on.

“If you’ll get Mr. Gibbs on the phone, I’m sure he’ll vouch for me. My name is Lay—”

“Don’t worry, Vanessa. I got this.”

I drop my head and groan. He’s still here?

Whirling around to face him, I plan on telling him that he can go about his business and that I can take care of my damn self. But he’s standing no more than a foot away, and his eyes, which are the color of spring grass, penetrate mine. They’re intense, and… amused? He’s smiling, but only slightly. I narrow my gaze. His grin expands.

“Is there something you find particularly funny?”

He doesn’t answer, but continues to study my face. His eyes roam from my mouth to my neck and then back. What’s this guy’s problem?

I wave my hand in front of him. “Hello? Yo habla English?”

The side of his mouth lifts, and his eyes sparkle.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Not a cat.” He takes a step closer. “But I’d give it to a mouse.”

He called me “Mouse” earlier. “What the hell does that mean?” I shift my loose belongings in my arms and dig for my phone. Anything to take my attention from the man towering above me. “Look, if you two won’t call Mr. Gibbs…” Shoveling junk to the side, I search every crevice of my purse. Where is it? Ah, there it is. I yank out my phone and scroll through my contacts. “I’ll call him myself.”

My phone is snagged from my hand. “Wha—”

“He’s not who you want.”

“You just… I can’t believe you just…” I thrust my hand forward and stomp my foot. “Give me my phone.” This guy has some nerve. I wish I could smack that smile from his face.

He plops my phone into my hand. “Come with me. I’ll take you to tryouts.” His voice no longer drags with a teasing tone, but is laced with sincerity, as if he’s really trying to help.

I don’t know if I should trust him. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even… who are you?”

“Whoever you want me to be, Mouse.” And he’s back to teasing.

“Look, Mr…?” Why is he smiling? I follow his eyes to my—oh my gosh.

He’s staring at my boobs.

I cross my arms at my chest and cock my hip. “I’m here for a job.”

His eyes flare as he stares at my breasts that I’ve now propped up on my forearms for his viewing pleasure.

I drop my arms and scowl. Ugh, why do I feel naked right now?

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” he says with a deep chuckle.

“No you don’t.” I’ve barely managed to get a word in.

“Mm-hm.”

“Fine, Mr. Mindreader. Why am I here?”

“Follow me.”

I don’t like him ordering me around, but I’ve got less than ten minutes before I’ll be considered late. Maybe if I follow him in I’ll be able to find someone to help me locate Mr. Gibbs.

I slide my pile of broken purse pieces from the reception desk. “Well, aren’t you…” Impossible. Annoying. Conceited. A groan rumbles up my throat. “Fine.”

“Some women call me fine, I prefer handsome.” He walks down a hallway, motioning for me to follow. “Sexy works too, or you can call me Blake.”