Page 6 of Blindside Sinner

Falling for the same trick again? Putting myself at some asshole hockey player’s mercy for a scrap of his famed attention?

Yeah, that’s a hard pass.

Vivian shakes her head, that condescending sympathy filling her eyes. “You say that, but Beck is a millionaire playboy. He knows how to get women to do what he wants.”

Just then, an assistant comes bustling through the door, hands me a half-inch thick binder filled with pages still warm from the printer, and bustles right back out.

“Just remember,” Vivian adds, “that he’s off-limits for anything other than a platonic working relationship. So look all you want, but don’t touch. It’s written in your contract. Right there.”

And so it is. Page 3. In plain black ink, the contract states that“an inappropriate relationship with the party known as Beckett Daniels is grounds for immediate dismissal, under penalty of…”

I go cross-eyed trying to suss out the legalese. But the intent is pretty damn obvious.

Fine by me. As much as I hate being told what to do with my body and my life, sleeping with Beck—or, God forbid, falling in love with him—would be catastrophic to my plans.

I make myself a promise then and there: I will stay far, far away from Beckett Daniels.

“It won’t be an issue,” I swear.

Vivian scrutinizes me for a long few seconds. Then at last, she nods. “Glad we’re on the same page. Read up and I’ll take you to your new home. Get ready to see Oz, Dorothy.”

With a mix of excitement and dread, I pull the pages to me and start reading.

3

SLOAN

It’s not even noon when I pull my beater of a Camry through the wrought iron gates behind Vivian’s sleek BMW. It’s hard to judge the house from here. I just get an impression of huge windows and an obscene amount of space for one measly hockey player.

Vivian is waiting by a side door, tapping her foot impatiently. I park and hustle to her, then follow her up a winding set of stairs.

“Voilà,” she says as she opens the door at the top of the landing. “Home sweet home.”

I try not to let my inner peasant show. The living room alone is at least twice as big as my current hovel.

Every fixture is top of the line and practically untouched. The kitchen is an ocean of gleaming granite and the bathroom has an honest-to-goodness clawfoot soaking tub that is screaming my name. The bedroom boasts a walk-in closet big enough to house Cassie’s shoe collection, which is saying something, because that girl canshop.

“As you can see,” Vivian explains, “it’s already furnished. It’s your space, so decorate it more or don’t, I don’t care. If you need or want anything else, use the company credit card I gave you, but keep the budget low.”

“Exactly how low is a low budget?” I venture to ask, fingering the sheets on the bed. If I have to deal with a manchild twenty-four/seven, I’m going to need my beauty sleep.

Vivian purses her lips. “Ten thousand?”

My eyes widen. I’d been expecting at least two zeroes less.

“Or whatever,” she continues. “If you need more for a new mattress or something, just let me know and I’ll get it approved. Most stores around here will rush a same-day order for this address, so you could get everything you need by the end of the night. I put some local stores in your phone in case you need them.”

“What’s Beck going to say about new furniture coming in and out?”

Vivian waved the concern away like it doesn’t matter. “He’s at practice and then he’ll be out of the house tonight for a meeting with an energy drink company. They’ve been begging to sign him for an endorsement deal, so he’ll probably come home ready to party after landing them.”

“Is that a good thing?” I ask distractedly. I’m focused on the cozy little window seat overlooking the backyard. It would be the perfect place to curl up and read on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

“It’s a million-dollar deal,” Vivian says. “He shoots a commercial or two, keeps their drinks close in the locker room photos, and it’s money in his pocket.”

A million dollars to drink a Red Bull?Jesus H. Christ.Must be nice.

Vivian turns and points at another door. “That’s the entrance to the main house. You’re connected to it always, but the house is obviously Beck’s domain outside of working hours. Think of it as your office.”

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