Page 6 of Drawn to You

He ignores me and hikes the backpack over his shoulder.

“What’d you put in this thing, bricks?” he grumbles.

“Nope.” I give him a big smile. “It’s the body of the last guy who pissed me off.”

He shakes his head. “So you’re a comedian, too.”

“When you work in publicity, you have to have a sense of humor.”

He leads the way down a concrete-floored hallway in the basement level of the arena. Now that he can’t see me looking, I let my gaze wander. The definition in his shoulder and arm muscles shows through the lightweight long-sleeved gray shirt he’s wearing.

This guy is a walking cliché. All he needs is a blond trophy wife with an aesthetically pleasing IG account of couple’s photos hashtagged #myperson and #myworld.

It’s only three months. Fewer if they don’t make the playoffs. I can put up with anything as long as it has an end date.

I follow him onto an elevator, where he scans a badge and presses a button. When we step out, we’re in a small, nearly empty underground parking deck.

“This is me,” he says, pushing a button on a key fob to unlock a black Range Rover. “Don’t let the cat run loose in my car, I don’t want hair all over it.”

So charming. I force myself to stay quiet because, technically, he is a JG client. Whether I like him or not, I have a job to do.

As soon as we’re both in the car with our seat belts buckled, he checks the rearview mirror, backs out of his parking place and gives me a pointed look.

“If that thing pisses on my furniture, it’s going to the shelter.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Touch my cat and I’ll stab you in your sleep, asshole.”

“Christ,” he mutters. “This is going to be the longest three months of my life.”

“Let’s both hope your team chokes and you don’t make the playoffs.”

He scoffs and tightens his one-handed grip on the steering wheel but says nothing.

Smart. The less Dane Foster and I talk to each other, the better off we’ll both be.

CHAPTER THREE

Josie

We ridein silence until Dane stops at the gated entrance to a modern limestone building with landscaping that looks straight out of a gardening magazine. He turns to speak to me as the gate goes up after scanning a sticker on his lower windshield.

“Don’t share my address or any details about me with anyone,” he warns. “Don’t take any photos inside my home. My privacy is important to me.”

I smile to myself, thinking about all the photos people may have taken of him handcuffed to that park bench. God willing.

“Our agency has higher-profile clients than you,” I say lightly, though in reality, the Mammoths are top tier. “My job is to help ensure your privacy, not violate it.”

“Keep it that way. I don’t let many people inside my home.”

The building is located just outside the city, the long driveway leading to an underground garage. The lighted garage has four wide doors, one of which Dane opens by pressing a button near his rearview mirror.

The garage is big enough for two cars, and a dark-gray Jeep Wrangler is parked inside. Dane pulls up next to it, parks and exits his car, grabbing my bag from the back seat.

I hold Mr. Darcy close, concerned he might jump out of my arms and hide. We take a small door out of the garage and Dane pushes some buttons on a keypad, closing the garage and locking the door.

An elevator takes us up to a tiled foyer with four doors, modern art displayed on the walls. Dane enters a code into a keypad and opens the door, stepping aside so I can enter first.

Now he wants to be a gentleman? It’s a little late for that. I walk into the apartment, which is bright and open. The windows run from floor to ceiling, some of them extra wide to maximize the view of the Minneapolis skyline.

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