Page 13 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“For transparency. This is an invitation home. It’s rented, not available for purchase. It’s meant to be temporary for temporary situations.”
Something about that statement made sadness creep into me.
“But,” he continued. “In the event that temporary becomes more… we can choose a house together, and still, it’s on me.”
And just like that, the sadness was sucked away from me and yet, I didn’t understand why I cared.
“You’re so sweet. Have I ever told you that?”
He bent down to kiss me when my watch beeped. “Hmmm… times up.”
I slipped out of the way of his kiss, exiting the house and strolling to my black car. At the back door, my driver opened the door, and I glanced back at the front steps to see Christianstanding there, watching me with the intensity of a starved animal.
“Get us back on route, Jeffrey,” I said to my chauffeur.
“Yes ma’am.”
I winked at Christian, and he winked back, and for the rest of the evening, nothing else could occupy my thoughts.
Chapter
One
CHRISTIAN
Present Day
Forest Park stretchedbefore me in the pre-dawn darkness, empty except for the occasional streetlight casting long shadows across the jogging path. My Nike Zoom Alphaflys sprang forward against the pavement, while I remained focused on my speed as adrenaline pushed me past my limits.
Mile three. My GPS watch glowed against my wrist, these numbers took me further, faster than they did earlier in the week. The St. Louis Stretch was in a few months, and training had become my sanctuary. But even here, my mind strayed to the Davidson deal I’d been working so hard to solidify for my client.
Forty-seven million dollars was on the table, and in the high-rise of a St. Louis boardroom, top executives were deciding whether to accept the terms I’d spent six months crafting. Every clause, every contingency, and every seemingly minor detail had been negotiated.
My black Under Armour compression shirt moved with my body like a second skin, designed for performance but feeling more like armor this week. The burn in my calves was the signal that I’d gone too far on this run, but if this was the marathon, slowing would mean losing, stopping would mean quitting, and with that in mind, I pushed harder, legs pumping as I hit the incline near the boathouse.
The path curved ahead, and I knew every crack in the asphalt, and every root that had pushed through to create an obstacle. This was my domain at this hour—before the city woke up and demanded pieces of me I wasn’t always ready to give.
The earbuds I wore played nothing but the sound of my own breathing and footsteps. Music would have been a distraction, and distraction was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not today with everything riding on a phone call that would either validate six months of my life or send me back to the drawing board.
My father’s voice echoed in my head as I rounded the next bend:
“Valentines don’t accept defeat, Son. We find another way.”
That was easier said than done, especially from a man who built his career on making people laugh. It was harder to live by when you were staring down opposing counsel who seemed determined to nickel and dime your client into submission.
Mile four. The GPS watch beeped, and I glanced at the time: seven minutes, twelve seconds. Not my best pace, but consistent. Consistency mattered more than speed in marathon training.
I thought about Dexter Davidson, my client, and the way his jaw had tightened when Lumina Entertainment’s initial offer came in thirty percent below market value. Twenty-three years in professional baseball, and they wanted to lowball him on what could be his final endorsement deal. But not on my watch.
The compression shorts I wore kept everything locked in place as I increased my pace, pushing through the fatigue thatalways hit around mile four and a half. This was where most runners gave up, where the body started sending signals that it was time to stop. But marathon training made me push through those signals and find the place beyond comfort where real progress lived.
My phone sat secured in the armband against my bicep, silent for now but ready to deliver the verdict that would determine whether I would spend the weekend celebrating or strategizing our next move. Lumina had until nine AM to respond. After that, we’d withdraw the offer and explore other options.
Sweat began to bead on my forehead even with the early morning cool temperature flying around me.
I hit mile five and quicker than I’d hit mile four, which meant I was in my zone. I started running marathons three years ago, needing an outlet from my daily negotiations while wanting to make a difference in the world.
The path ahead stretched into darkness, lit by strategically placed lamps that created pools of yellow light every fifty yards. I’d run this route hundreds of times, but it never felt routine.
