Page 1 of The Wedding Deal
Chapter One
As human resources manager of the San Antonio Mustangs, Charlotte’s job was to manage the humans who worked for the NFL team, and her history of doing so in a calm, firm-yet-kind manner was impeccable.
But then Lance Quaid happened.
Charlotte hugged her notebook, folders, and the book she’d grabbed off the bookshelf in her office tighter to her chest, her heels clacking out a steady rhythm on the hardwood floor.Just what I needed. To go from a stable work environment where I finally feel like I’m on top of my game to having to deal with the ego and unpredictable moods of a former quarterback, who’s obviously too used to people worshipping him instead of keeping him in check.
The guy had been the owner of the Mustangs for all of one week, and he’d already stacked up multiple complaints, as if he was determined to break as many records for that as he had on the football field before an injury cut his career short.
Being well versed in all things football, along with having a freakishly good memory and a penchant for stats, simply thinking his name called up his info sheet.
Lance Quaid: former quarterback of the Tennessee Titans. Six foot four, two hundred twenty-five pounds, round-one pick ten in the draft. Sixty-five completion percentage and once voted offensive player of the year. He came from football royalty, made a huge splash from his very first year in the NFL, and played solidly for six years until an ACL injury took him out.
Charlotte had no idea what he’d been doing for the past three years, but when his grandfather—and the previous owner of the Mustangs—had passed away, Lance had inherited the team. And she, in turn, had inherited the stubborn, privileged, foul-mouthed pain in the butt.
This is what you’ve been trained for.Her footfalls grew more determined, her chin lifting another inch. Unfortunately, it didn’t magically untangle the knot of nerves that’d formed in her gut at the thought of the confrontation. Growing up, change meant something was about to suck even more, and she wasn’t a fan. She liked structure. Give her predictable any day.
But changes inevitably happened, and she was doing her best to deal with it while wishing she didn’t have to.
Owning the team doesn’t mean he’s above all the rules.People who felt the rules didn’t apply to them irked her, and then there was common decency, which Lance Quaid had apparently never heard of, either.He has to figure out how to practice restraint and learn some respect, especially when it comes to talking to coworkers.
And it was her job to remind him of that.
Her stomach dive-bombed as she neared his office, a sarcasticlucky mebreaking into her internal pep talk.
She’d already put off having this uncomfortable conversation with him for too long, telling herself she needed to attend to emails and other paperwork first. Because how exactly did one go in and tell their new boss that he was…well, wrong? The complaints had come flooding in immediately after Mr. Quaid took up the helm, and while it was technically her job to listen to them, she’d sort of cursed how accessible she’d made herself. Before now, her most challenging tasks had been keeping up to date on ever-changing laws and double-checking payroll while trying not to feel a pinch of jealousy over the bloated salaries compared to her modest one.
A quick glance at her watch told her the big staff meeting was in thirty minutes, and she simplyhadto talk to Mr. Quaid before then. To say the transition in ownership had been rocky would be an understatement. Everyone was still grieving a bit—a pang rose up, one she quickly tamped down—and that exacerbated the situation, too. Honestly, things had been on the grim side for the Mustangs for a while. After several lackluster seasons, including the last one where they hadn’t won a single game, they were quickly turning into the joke of the NFL.
But that was a different problem for a different day.
A section of her hair fell forward as she glanced at the door, the brown fringe obscuring the stainless steel knob for a moment.Just forget who he is and who he was and talk to him like you would anyone else.After all, she’d had to reprimand countless employees for breaking the rules in the seven years she’d worked here. In all but a few cases, the people involved corrected their bad behavior, and the work environment was better for it.
She sucked in a big breath, transferred the bulk of what she was carrying into her left arm, and rapped on the door, nice and loud.
A muffled “come in” filtered through the wood, and she opened the door and stepped inside the large office. Nothing had changed. The windows still boasted a nice view of downtown, the large flat screen TV was tuned to sports highlights but on mute, and every dark wood surface gleamed. Two cushy chairs that looked like they were meant for giants sat facing the large desk, and awards and trophies from decades ago, when the team had won a fair amount of games, were in a large glass case that lined the far wall.
The scent was different, though. Woodsy and masculine, not a hint of that spicy cologne that Mr. Price had worn. The pang she’d smothered returned and morphed into a sharp twinge she couldn’t as easily ignore. He was really gone, the man who’d taken a chance on her at a time she was afraid no one would. Sure, he’d been a tad dismissive of the few ideas she’d lobbed his way during meetings, but his kindness more than made up for his old-school ways. It hit her all over again that he would never stop by her office to ask how her day was going or toss her one of those hard caramels he always kept in his suit pocket.
Lance Quaid glanced up, the full impact of his blue eyes hitting her. “Did we have an appointment…?” The vague hand gesture he added made her realize he needed her to fill in her name.
Of course he didn’t remember. He’d met a lot of people over the past week, so she tried not to take it personally. Tried not to compare him to his grandfather, who made it a point to catalog every staff member’s name, no matter how big or small their position with the Mustangs. It wore a little shine off the famous ballplayer, too, which would make it easier to be firm. “Charlotte James. I’m the human resources manager.”
“Right.” He ran a hand through his nearly black hair, although the strands were short enough it didn’t make a mess of it. Guys had it so easy. A dab of hair gel and they were done, whereas she had to use three-point-five products, decide whether to go curly or straight before her hair refused to do either, and the lightest breeze or hint of humidity could destroy all her efforts in two seconds flat. That was the nice thing about a pretty pair of shoes—they always looked good, and since she was a short woman in a world of tall men, they also gave her a few inches’ boost. “Sorry,” he said. “This past week’s been a bit of a blur.”
“Understandable.” Time to get on with what she came here to do. “While I didn’t make an official appointment, Mr. Quaid, there are—”
“Lance. Please.”
She wished he hadn’t interrupted, since it’d been so challenging to just start that sentence, but she could roll with it. “Fine. Lance. There are a few things I need to talk to you about before the meeting. There’ve been…complaints. About you. And the way you talk to people.”
One dark eyebrow arched, but the slight twist to his lips made him appear more amused than worried. “I’m sure there have been. Gotta break a few eggs and all that.”
While she’d wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, he didn’t seem to be taking this seriously. And people weren’t eggs; they were human beings with valid feelings that shouldn’t be cracked and discarded. She highly doubted Mr. Omelet-Maker had ever worked in an office before stumbling into ownership. Sure, he knew the game, but there was so much more that went into it. She’d been born and raised a Mustangs fan, and she’d hoped the new owner would care about the franchise and work hard to make it better. She didn’t want to have to say “there’s always next year” from now until the day she died.
To keep her fan side in check, she focused on her business side and strode closer to the desk, her noisy footsteps getting swallowed up by the tacky black and white rug you could lose a zebra in. “For instance, it was inappropriate last meeting when you told Coach Hurst that the only first down he’s completed lately is shoving his head that much farther up his ass.”
Lance chuckled.Chuckled!“One of my better ones.”
