Page 1 of Tempting the King

CHAPTER 1

Emee

“No more hockey players!” I shout into the air above my keyboard. “I hate to generalize, Milt, but really, they are the worst, worst clients.”

It’s crazy to think I have professional hockey players as clients in the first place. I pinch myself every day, wondering how I ended up here.

Not here as in sitting cross-legged in my velvety mint-green office chair, inside my posh office on the ninth floor of a fairly bougie building in midtown Detroit’s revival district. But, from a 1958 single wide with a childhood devoid of hugs, to becoming a professional cuddlist.

The irony is thick as syrup.

Yeah, it’s a thing. A cuddlist.

A lucrative thing as well.

I adjust my phone so it’s sitting at a right angle to my keyboard on the glass top of my lacquered white desk, then blow at a speck of lint on the screen, clicking my mouse, analyzing and adjusting my schedule.

5:15 am Wake

5:15 – 5:30 am Use restroom, brush teeth, moisturize face, take morning supplements

5:30 – 5:45 am Sunrise yoga, drink twenty ounces of water

5:45 – 6:05 am Shower, towel dry hair, try new frizz taming product

6:05 – 6:30 am Gratitude journal, pick out clothes, get dressed, make bed

And so it goes. Organization calms me. When I know what’s coming, I feel in control.

Milton, one of my undergrad professors turned friend and colleague, sighs on the other end of the line. He’s been my biggest champion as I started my practice, and even co-signed on this office space. The building is brand-new, and the leasing agency never would have taken a chance on me without his backing.

The building is so new, in fact, mine is the only occupied office on my floor right now.

“Come on, Emee,” he says. “The league pays well. Think of that thirty-acre listing in Metamora you showed me at lunch the other day. I’m trying to help make your Martha Stewart dreams come true. I want you out of that slum lord hovel you’re in.”

It’s cliché, but after reading Anne of Green Gables as a little girl in the tin can we called home, I always dreamed of living on a farm. I thought that’s where happiness lived. Combine that with my obsession with all things Martha Stewart and I’m on the hunt for my own Turkey Hill.

But, even with my generous per-session pricing, the dream farm that just came on the market requires a down payment that my bank account isn’t ready to support.

Thanks in part to my inability to say no to my brother.

With a degree in kinetic psychology, there was a high probability I would be waiting tables before settling in bitterly as an underperforming suburban real estate agent. So, I’m grateful for where I’m at.

But impatient.

“Milt.” I keep my voice even, applying a coat of Tart Cherry lip gloss, rubbing my lips together before continuing. “The last player you sent me kept burping and…well, something far less appropriate than burping. Let’s just say, he needed to lay off the chili.”

“I’m begging you. This guy’s got a two-game suspension which is still under review, and could be up to five games if he doesn’t show proactive steps toward anger management. Between the two of us, I’m sure we could get him back after only missing two games. Maybe three.”

He sounds stressed, and although I respect him, I also know he’s a mad fan of the Detroit Blades. And, I owe him. Big.

“What did he do?” I ask, ticking away on my keyboard, arching my back, working to break the habit of slumping when I’m at my desk.

“Well, most recently he took umbrage with a hand gesture from a member of the opposing team and proceeded to knock out four of his teeth, as well as punching the referee attempting to stop him. Off the ice, last week he rammed a guy’s car in the parking lot of Lucky’s Steakhouse. Seven times. Apparently, the guy parked his Hummer across three spaces at the front of the restaurant, including one of the handicapped spots.”

“Sounds charming.” I say my lips tucking into a frown, looking out the window with a stab of jealousy at a helicopter circling a high rise, wondering if one of my billionaire clients is inside.

I bet whoever is in there could buy their own Turkey Hill a hundred times over.

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