Page 8 of Touchdowns and Temptations

“Try,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I wouldn't want to embarrass myself in front of the new bosses.”

“Then keep your measly salary of ...” I open the documents. When I see the number next to his annual salary, I gasp. “Ten million dollars?”

“I wanted at least twelve million,” he counters.

“Of course,” I scoff, managing not to roll my eyes. “Noah, that's insane. Your contract is for five years, you get millions in bonuses, and you're the only player who gets an extra bonus if you win the Super Bowl. Which, as you know, you haven't won yet. You can't ask for more than that.”

“Why not?” he counters.

I seriously wonder which one of us is the supposed professional.

“Because it's too bold,” I reply bluntly. “Do you know what the employees make? Maybe two thousand dollars a month. That's what your shoes cost.” I point at his black oxfords. “Your salary is more than enough. Besides, you'll look greedy when we try to negotiate new contracts, and you'll fall out of favor with the fans and the bosses. Then they'll boo you and question you. What do you think the Foxes bosses will do to you?”

“Hm.” Noah looks pensive and rubs his chin. “Maybe you're not wrong.”

“Really?” I ask, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Yes!” he replies, rubbing his huge hands over his face. “Maybe my salary is enough, but you have to understand that I'm skeptical. This collaboration is not what I want!”

He looks at me and his gaze goes right through me.

I don't understand his problem. I can do the job just as well as someone who has been in the business for thirty years. Maybe even better because I'm quicker to see the ravages of time. But Noah doesn't seem to see it that way.

“Why?” I ask sourly. “Because I'm not fifty, I don’t have over thirty years of professional experience and I can’t show you a list of my clients. Just so you know, I'm no worse than they are.”

“I'm not saying you're worse,” he replies tense. “You're young and inexperienced.”

“And how am I supposed to gain experience if everyone I meet thinks like you?” I shake my head. “If you don't want to work with me, that's fine with me, but be honest about it.”

Noah doesn't say anything again but stands up and runs his fingers through his hair. He paces up and down my office, which really annoys me. I'm not here to convince a spoiled quarterback to work with me. He has to want to, and if he doesn't, I'm afraid I can't help him. “Mr. McCarter,” I correct myself. “It's not a problem for me, but we need to talk about it clearly now.”

“And we’re back to ‘Mr. McCarter’ now?” He grins at me, and I can't help but grin back. Noah is right. It's stupid of me to call him Mr. McCarter again.

“All right, Ms. Corse,” he says with a grin. “I'm really interested in working with Corse Sports Management, but I remain skeptical.”

I puff out my cheeks and tilt my head back.

“We're not going to get anywhere like this,” I conclude.

“Go out with me,” he says suddenly, and I start to laugh.

“What?”

“Go out with me,” he asks again. “Tonight, you and me, dinner.”

“Why?” I ask, my eyes following him. Noah smiles and licks his lips with his tongue.

God, that’s sexy.

“Because that's what I wanted to ask you at the bar. If you'd go out with me and I'd get your number.”

Now he has completely surprised me. This has nothing to do with a professional business meeting.

“Uh.” I'm at a loss for words. “I can't do that because I don't have a private relationship with my clients.”

“Then the decision is made,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I want the date. Without it, there will be no collaboration.”

“You're kidding?” I gasp and stand up.

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