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Chapter One
Saylor
Why didn’t I make more than one trip? I shift the box to even out the distribution, but the weight and awkward size of the package make relief impossible. Oh, my goodness. This is horrible.
The hallway at the stadium is empty. Kudos to me for picking a time when everyone is engaged in meetings, practice, or weight training. I’ve memorized the routines of the players to avoid them at all costs. Maybe this time, I shouldn’t have tried so hard to elude them.
I stop and suck down a gulp of air and fight through the screaming pain in my shoulders and upper arms. Leave the box here and take the rest of your gear to the office and come back. It’s not like it’s a box of kittens left alongside the road. Or a bag of money.
It’s Christmas decorations. No one’s going to steal holiday ornaments. I glance in both directions. Besides, no one’s around and won’t be for at least thirty minutes. I walk to the wall and bend over.
“Are you okay?” A deep voice rumbles from behind me.
“Oh!” I screech and spin in a circle. The box sways to the side, causing my body, purse, lunch bag, and briefcase to collide with the brick wall. “Crud.” Pain shoots down to my fingertips and up to my neck as tears fill my eyes.
“Great, now you’re really not okay,” the man mutters louder, and the individual is beside me before I can register who it is. “Here, let me help.”
He grabs the box from my hands, sets it with a flourish at our feet, clasps my hand, and twists my arm from one direction to the other. Those are big hands. He squeezes and moves from my wrist to my elbow. And efficient.
I glance up and choke on my spit. Knox Tillman. Holy smokes. My face floods with heat, and my armpits drench with sweat.
Gah. Kill me now. This is why I avoid the players. I have reddish blonde hair, freckles, and a pasty complexion. The likelihood I don’t look like a cherry tomato that’s about to pop is slim to none.
It wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t embarrassed. The result would be the same, which only makes my face get brighter. Thank you, Irish genes.
“Um, that’s okay.” I jump backward, trying to dislodge his hands. “My arm is fine. It stings, but I’ll be okay.”
“You took a big bump.” His fingers continue to caress my arm through the green yarn of my festive sweater with Santa’s sleigh and eight tiny reindeer plastered across the front.
Oh my God. Ugly Christmas sweater day. Just when I thought my complexion couldn’t shift to a more prominent shade, nuclear spreads across my chest, up the length of my neck, and straight to my ears.
“It’s fine,” I say with a strangled voice and bend down, picking up the box. The contents appear intact, with no broken shards of colored glass.
“Here, let me take it.” He grabs the box out of my hands again and encircles it with one arm. “I was on my way upstairs anyway. I can follow you to Isabella’s office and drop it off for you.”
He smiles as if he’s trying to appear harmless. There’s no chance of that–not that he’s dangerous. Well, at least not in the typical sense. He’s an upstanding citizen and a talented professional football player with an impeccable reputation in the community.
But to a twenty-two-year-old girl who’s obsessed with football players–Knox in particular–he’s a whole lot of problems.
My mouth opens and closes as I stare at the hunk of a man in front of me. Broad shoulders. Bulging biceps. Brown hair and eyes. Enormous dimples. He wants to help me. Me?
Don’t be a ninny. He’s a guy. A gentleman. And you’re a dimwitted female in distress. Of course, he’s going to help.
“Okay,” I choke out, sounding like a twelve-year-old boy entering puberty. I clear my throat and pray to sound mature. “Thank you, that would be nice.” This time it comes out at a consistent pitch.
“Perfect.” He grins and winks.
I stumble, causing my hand to fly outward, and he clasps my upper arm with his free hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Mortified, but still alive–unfortunately. I brush past him, causing his arm to drop, and march to the elevator. The sooner I’m away from him, the better. This day is going down in the Big Book of Humiliating Events.
“How do you like working here?” In one step, he’s beside me.
“It’s great. Isabella is a fantastic boss, and everyone’s been helpful.” I poke the button and freeze. How did he know I work for Isabella? How does he know who I am?
Sure, I’ve seen him around, but I’ve stayed out of everyone’s way. My goal for the last three months was to blend into the woodwork.
“Let me.” His chest presses against my back as he pushes the button for my floor. The down arrow on the panel glows whitish-yellow, and the cables click to life. He rocks back onto his heels as if it never happened, taking with him the scent of sandalwood and musk.
