After the Hurt Read online

  The Miners, riiight. Proof positive why Lloyd was never invited to play fantasy football with any of them at the office.

  From what Jackson could gather, the inadvertently condescending way that Lloyd was speaking to Leila wasn’t what had made her start to positively spark right before his eyes. Nope, it was the man’s just plain wrong assertion that the Miners had the best defense in the conference.

  Jackson had, of course, groaned inwardly upon hearing Lloyd make the ludicrous declaration. But while he’d heard enough of Lloyd’s bullheaded “expertise” over the years to know not to even bother trying to correct him anymore, this was Leila’s first time dealing with such blasphemy. Those berry-kissed lips of hers had parted, and incredulous disbelief had made her posture go rigid as she’d mouthed, “The Miners?”

  Call him the first caveman to have seen two palm trees as a potential goalpost in a prehistoric end zone, but that right there was sexy. In context, with her graceful jawline tensed in indignation, and dainty hands fisted into tiny little hammers, she was easily the sexiest woman alive as far as he was concerned. A woman full of fire and spice who shared his views on which teams had shitty defense? Lord have mercy.

  Rather than exploding like a Fourth of July light show as Jackson had expected, however, she’d somehow managed to reel it in, gifting Lloyd instead with an eye-crinkling—albeit tightly wound—smile that practically purred, “You’re so very wise.”

  Utterly fascinating.

  Okay, so maybe he was giving her a few extra points for simply having good taste in NFL defense. But even so, the woman was positively the most interesting person he’d come across in a long while, and definitely the sexiest one he’d ever had working under him.

  Shit. Poor choice of words. His imagination was already taking that last dangerously phrased thought and—

  “Hey, Jackson. Sorry to interrupt.” Lloyd popped his head in. “Just wanted to introduce you to our new sideline reporter.”

  Jesus. Talk about impeccable timing. Another minute following that runaway train of thought and Jackson wasn’t sure it would’ve been kosher for him to stand to greet the pair as they made their way over to his desk.

  “This is Jackson Gray.” Lloyd perched on the edge of Jackson’s desk and did a quick lasso motion with his hands to direct Leila’s attention around the room. “As you can see, he’s our in-house expert on all things football. He’s the man you’ll be spending the most time with over the next few months.”

  Jackson studied Leila’s reaction to the many random gifts he’d been given by various NFL players and coaches over the years. Most folks, men and women alike, usually fussed over the rare items in the locked glass case. If you didn’t recognize at least one of the names in there, really, you had no business being in the building.

  He waited for it then. The inevitable question prying into his celebrity friendships—which swanky bars he went to with this famous athlete, or whether the rumors were true about that NFL bad boy, or if he still kept in touch with any of the Hall-of-Famers.

  …But it never came.

  Surprisingly, other than a brief impressed nod over the autographed footballs and photos—which Lloyd was drawn to like a magnet as per usual—Leila’s undivided focus was lasered in on the one wall that had nothing but the whiteboard he kept in his office to scribble player stats and game notes on from time to time.

  Well, hell.

  Jackson was a secure enough guy to know that there were some women, on occasion, who were into other men more than they were into him. Shoot, even on an off night, his two best friends, Bennett and Donovan, could walk into a club in the dead of winter and take care of heating the joint with female lust alone. Likewise, his buddies couldn’t care less if a woman was into him more than either of them. There was always tomorrow night. New playing field, new odds. No big.

  Then again, it’s not as if any of them had ever lacked for female companionship. Not as far as he could remember, anyway. In fact, whenever they’d go to hang out at the brewpub in Cactus Creek owned by their friend Xoey, she’d insist that they take extra measures before arriving to—quote, unquote—“pretty themselves down” to limit how many phone numbers they’d each get from women throughout the night. Something about her saving on bar napkins that way.

  Her exaggerated words, not theirs.

  So yeah, he’d seen women making eyes at other guys right in front of him before. He never gave it a second thought. But he could honestly say he’d never once played second fiddle to an inanimate object. Never watched a woman stare, all hot and bothered, at his football stats the way Leila was doing right now.

  Damn.

  He was in trouble with this one.

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