Page 21 of Sin Bin

Dark eyes meet mine. “Is there a compliment in theresomewhere?”

“I didn’t intend for there to beone,no.”

He shakes his head with a masculine chuckle, and I swear he mutters the word “ballbuster” under hisbreath.

“What didyousay?”

“I said that I didn’t think there was a compliment.” He cocks his eyebrow, daring me toquestionhim.

I try a different tactic, mainly because I’m weak when it comes to pretending trash talk isn’t the highlight of my day, especially with Andre. “Wouldn’t want your head to get too large,” I say, throwing down the gauntlet.Take.That.

“Are we talking about my reportedly small cockagain,Zoe?”

Surprised laughter escapes me. I forget sometimes. I forget that under all that broodiness and sharpness is a man with aquickwit.

It’s hard to remember when he hardly ever lets that manshowup.

“No more talking of . . . penises.” I point at the sheet, which he’s yet to even look at. “I’ve signed you up for a few events this week. They work around your schedule and I think they’ll do you some good. The first three aren’t up fordiscussion.”

He finally drags the paper close, and I see the moment the words sink in because he lets loose a string of curses. “Hell no,” he grunts emphatically, running a hand through his messy, dark hair. His finger jabs down at the black ink, and his chin comes up so that he can glower magnificently at me. “Absolutelynot.”

“Non-negotiable. I called your agent and heagrees.”

His mouth falls open, just before he cranks his jaw shut with such force that I hear his teeth crack together. “Joe wouldn’t agreetothis.”

Watching the big and bad Andre Beaumont unravel is now the highlight of my day—no, make that myyear. Knowing that Joe agreed to this must be killing him. “I asked Joe to reconfirm via email. I had a feeling that you might throw a fitaboutthis.”

From behind gritted teeth, he seethes, “I’m not throwing afit,Zoe.”

“I’m sorry, perhaps I should use another word instead? How about ‘tantrum’?”

He blows out a big breath, then pushes back off his elbow so he’s slouched in the chair again. All he needs is a cigarette tucked between his full lips, and I’d swear I was looking at a young John Travolta, circaGrease. Minus the slicked-back hair, ofcourse.

“I’m not doing an interviewwithFame.”

“You’ve done it before,” I point out.Fameis a woman’s magazine that has popped onto the scene in the last few years, no doubt in an effort to shoveCosmopolitanout of the way. I can’t say whether their plans for world domination are working, but that doesn’t matter. Whatdoesmatter is that they are willing to feature Andre Beaumont, even with his less-than-stellar reputation. “Or have youforgotten?”

“Yes, but—” He breaks off with a sharply drawn breath. “The last timeFameinterviewed me, it was about the game.Peoplenamedme. . . ”

“Sexiest Man of the Year?” I supply, because there’s no point dancing around the issue. If he wants his career back on track, then he needs to do the grunt work. And that’s proving to the world that he isn’t a complete a-hole when it comes to the female sex. “What bothers you more? The fact that you’re scheduled for an interview with one of the top women’s magazines in the world or the topic you’ll have todiscuss?”

His palm lands with athwackon the sheet I’ve given him. “Is it really the best for my career to talk about the various ways I’ve ‘scammed women’? For the record, Idon’tscam.”

“For the record, Joe obviously thinks you need to learn some manners,” I tell him. When I notice the way his expression shutters, I forge forth and refuse to feel guilty about going behind his back to chitchat with Joe, the sports agent he’s had since he signed with the Red Wings as a rookie. Steepling my fingers, I focus on the gold watch encircling his left wrist. It looks like it costs more than my salary has earned me in the last five yearscombined.

“Listen, Andre, I’m here to rebuild your reputation.” He opens his mouth to counter that, and I head him off, already knowing he’s about to take a dip down memory lane. “We can’t change your actions in the past, but wecanwork on how you move forward. The first step is talking about your desire to be seen in a different light with a publication that will ham it up.Famewill hamitup.”

“I don’t think it’s agoodidea.”

With a semblance of patience that I don’t actually feel, I fold my hands over my knees. “Why’s that? Because you might come off as—I don’t know—vulnerable and humanforonce?”

Andre’s mouth flat-lines at that, and he shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable to have his sins exposed under the spotlight. “I can be vulnerable.” He pauses, then averts his gaze. “I’m not made ofice,Zoe.”

“Sure,” I say agreeably with a nod. “You cried after you won the Stanley Cup two years ago. But, again, I’m not talking about hockey here. I’m talking aboutyou, and the way you interact with people that aren’t decked out in pads, jockstraps, and hockeysticks.”

“You just had to add in the jockstrap bit,didn’tyou?”

I struggle with fighting off a smile and he knows it too. In a voice laden with sexual promise, he adds, “I know you, Zoe. And I know what game you’re playing at.” He points to my PR plan, then lifts his gaze to my face. “Out of every publication you could have approached, you chose this one, probably with the hope that it’ll embarrass me.” His hands rest on the desk, and he slowly unfolds his body from the chair. My chin tips up to make sure we don’t break eye contact, because if this is a face-off, I refusetolose.

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