Page 7 of Against the Clock

“Let me just get my purse,” I croak, trying to regain control over the situation. Yeah, the situation. That, and my suddenly blazing desire.

I mean, a soggy leaf on the ground would take one look at Daniel Harrison and think naughty thoughts. If Daniel Harrison bent his big ole body down and kissed the leaf, the leaf would be shook.

Great. Now my thoughts are completely scrambled.

“What, exactly, are you working on that you need my quotes for? You’re not a sports reporter. I did some research on you.”

“No, I’m not,” I say. “I would be terrible at that.” I finally manage to finagle the screwy bottom desk drawer open and tug my bag out. I scoop up my poor AirPods, dumping them into my purse. My not fancy, not expensive, not even particularly nice purse.

I look at Daniel Harrison.

I look at my beat-up bag.

I’m not dressed up.

“Are we going somewhere fancy?” I gesture to my jeans. Sure, they’re my nice work jeans, just uncomfortable enough to be nice for casual Friday… but Daniel Harrison is in a suit.

“Not particularly, no,” he says. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I stand up, tossing my purse strap over my shoulder and tugging my oversized blazer down. “Me answering questions wasn’t part of the deal.”

His mouth twists to the side, a faint smile still there. “That’s true.”

“But,” I say, stalking past where Leslie and Bruce still gape at me, “in the interest of being a good conversationalist and an honest member of the press, I will tell you.” I wheel around, putting on my best intimidating face as I shake a finger at him. “But you have to promise to answer my questions, even if you don’t like what I’m writing about.”

It’s hard to be intimidating when faced with six and a half feet of man.

His cheeks suck in like he’s biting them to keep from laughing.

I slowly lower my finger.

“I’m a man of my word,” Daniel says, taking a step towards me, forcing me to look up at him. And up. “I’ll answer whatever questions you have for me. On… or off the record.” His eyebrow quirks up at that, and I swallow past the heavy tension between us. I think he just fired a shot with that eyebrow. I think he won our unspoken eyebrow duel.

This can’t be real. There’s no way the charm he’s turning on is for me.

I couldn’t avoid the gossip after the game, after the press conference he gave, where he all but said he would take care of me. Hell, my coworkers were dying to know what he meant. TikTok was dying to know what he meant.

I wanted to know too.

But this is probably some stupid stunt to get good publicity before the next game. To turn the tide of public attention in his favor and use me as a prop to do it.

I square my shoulders.

“I’m writing an investigative piece on the way pro cheerleaders and dance teams are treated by the franchises. From criminally low pay to outdated double-standards and even quid pro quo arrangements, professional cheerleaders are treated like anything but pros.” It comes out in a waterfall of words, faster and louder than I meant it to.

He blinks. “Good for you,” he says. “Those are some of the hardest-working people on the sidelines.”

I open my mouth to argue the point, then realize he’s made it for me.

“Exactly,” I say, tilting my chin and reevaluating everything I know about him. “Was that on the record?”

“Sure,” he says. He closes the distance between us and his hand finds the space between my shoulders, gently propelling me toward the elevator. “You really thought I wouldn’t want to go on a date with you once you told me that?”

“Uh—” A date? I try to wrap my head around that. A date?

“You’d have to try a lot harder than writing about something people should know,” he continues, like he hasn’t just run a dump truck over all my notions of what the hell is happening. Daniel steers me towards the elevator and I plod along next to him, his touch light on my back.

His hand doesn’t feel disrespectful or rude or anything but good. Heat blossoms under my shirt where his fingertips graze over the fabric until I turn around, leaning against the cool wall where it’s safe.

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