Page 7 of Dating the Grump

I shake my head, smiling. I don’t know who the fuck the lady at the agency is, but she might just be a genius.

A little over two hours later, Rodney Ackerman, the bank manager, leads me across the bank toward her office, his goddamn shoes squeaking on the floor. The man barely reaches my chest, and he hasn’t stopped talking since I walked through the doors.

“Man, I just have to tell you,” he says, a bright smile pasted on his face. “You're doing wonders for my fantasy team. That passer rating is absolutely killer.”

“Good to know,” I mutter, my eyes already locked on Molly through the clear glass windows of her office. She hasn't seen me yet. She has her blonde head bent, focusing on something in front of her, nibbling on the end of a pencil. Fuck. I want to be that pencil.

“It's a damn shame about the shoulder,” Rodney says. “You were the best QB in the league.”

I cut my eyes at him, steeling myself for the familiar swell of loss. Oddly, it doesn’t come. For once, being reminded that my body gave out before my will doesn't piss me off. There’s a prick of pain, but it’s fleeting.

Hearing the same damn thing is getting old, though. Quick. I know people mean well, but no one wants to be constantly reminded of what they lost. And yet, everywhere I go since I retired, it’s all I hear. It’s irritating as fuck.

“Thanks,” I growl. “But a word of advice? Don't assume your heroes want to be reminded of why they're permanently benched. Most of us don't.” I nod toward Molly's heavy wooden door. “I can take it from here.”

Rodney stumbles to a stop. “Mr. Sola, I…”

“It's all good, Rodney. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.” I jerk my chin at him and stride away before he can say anything else, leaving him standing there stuttering out an apology.

I push all thoughts of Rodney, football, and my injury from my mind as I approach Molly's office door, anticipation thrumming through me.

“Come in,” she calls when I knock. Followed by a thump and then, “Oh, shoot!”

I push the door open, only to chuckle when I find her desperately trying to mop up a small river of coffee from her desk.

“One minute,” she says, slightly out of breath. “I made a mess.”

“I see that.” I don’t give a fuck about the mess. All I see is her. She looks way too beautiful in a black pencil skirt and a lacy pink blouse with her long hair up in a bun. Somehow, her lips and cheeks match her shirt.

Her office is tiny, but her personality is stamped all over it, from the personal photos lining the shelf to the small stack of books to the bronze sculpture of the Houston skyline.

My gaze lands on her computer screen. I grin when I see the photo of me pulled up front and center.

She seems to remember it at the same time. She squeals and throws her hands up in front of it, trying to hide it.

My grin grows as her guilty eyes meet mine.

“I can explain,” she squeaks, blushing bright red.

“I certainly hope so, goddess.” I push the door closed, leaning against it. “Because that's a terrible fucking picture. Matter of fact,” I say, tilting my head to try to see around her hands. “I'm not even sure that's a real photo.”

“Really?” She pulls her hands away, looking between the photo and me as if assessing for herself. “Looks real enough to me,” she mumbles and then blinks, shaking her head. “This isn't what it looks like.”

“Oh? So, you weren't internet stalking me?” I step deeper into her office.

“Okay, so maybe it is what it looks like.” She grimaces up at me. “But honestly, Hunt, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Well, this should be good.” I stride the few steps across her office, taking a seat across from her. Once I'm comfortable—leaned back, arms behind my head—I grin. “Please, tell me how it's my fault you're internet stalking me.”

“You called my boss, and I don't mean Rodney because he barely counts. I mean Jason Montoya, the owner of the freaking company, and pulled some kind of strings,” she rambles. “Imagine my surprise when everyone around here starts talking about you like you're some kind of god, but all I know is that you kiss like one.”

My cock throbs, aching like a motherfucker.

“You think I kiss like a god?”

“What? No. I didn't say that.”

“Baby, don't piss me off. I'll remind you here and now what my lips feel like against yours,” I growl.

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