Page 31 of Mile High Coach

And there is absolutely nothing I can do now to take it back—and even worse than that, there’s not a single part of me that wants to.

The second we’re done, my body screams at me to clean up, get out of here, tidy everything back to how it should be. But Harrison moves languidly, reaching over to his desk to grab a few napkins for me, then surprising me with wet wipes.

“What?” he asks, laughing at the surprise on my face. “I’m not a slob, Lovie.”

“I never said that,” I say, folding the wipe delicately and dropping it into his trash. Everything about this should be weird, awkward—but it’s not. I pull my panties up, my skirt down, straightening and adjusting everything while Harrison picks his belt up from the floor and clasps it.

“Are you impressed?”

“I never said that.”

He laughs again, and when I clear my throat, preparing to scoop up the contract and walk out, he puts his arm out, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, narrowing his gaze. “You should come to the game tonight.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What?” I can’t stop the laugh that comes out, fusing with the word, “Why?”

Dropping his arm, Harrison shrugs, and even though my body is still buzzing from the organism I just had, I can’t help but trace a line over his shoulders, his strong biceps, his chest.

“You’re all about that data, right? How can you really get a good feel for the team if you’re not there during the games?”

I open my mouth to respond to that. There are a million things I could say—that I can observe the games from home, in a soft robe, on my couch, and collect better data without a headache from the screaming fans. That watching game film is easier because I can rewind.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just smile and say, “Okay.”

“Hi—Lovie, right?”

I blink and look up, spotting a woman who looks vaguely familiar standing at the end of the row, her eyes flitting between me and the empty seat beside me. Her strawberry blonde hair is wild with curls around her face, and her brown eyes are bright, freckles spread over her round cheeks.

And she’s wearing a bubblegum pink, bejeweled Baltimore Blue Crabs jersey.

“Yep,” I chirp, still trying to remember her name or how I’m supposed to know her.

She laughs, sliding down the row and dropping into the seat next to me, bringing with her the overwhelming smell of cherry and vanilla. Normally, I don’t like it when people smell too strongly, but it’s drowning out the scent of nacho cheese and beer, so I can’t complain.

“Maya Winthrop,” she says, sticking out her hand. “I’m in human resources.”

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, there are so many names to remember.”

“No worries,” she settles into her seat, and I realize she has a massive bucket of popcorn with her, which she centers in her lap. Glancing at me, she says, “I mean, I like to think I’m memorable, but I’m a lot more fun outside of work.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is this outside of work?”

“Games don’t count,” Maya stuffs a handful of popcorn in her mouth, shaking her head so her curls roll over her shoulders. “It’s in the employee handbook.”

“It is?”

“No,” she snorts. “But it might as well be. Nobody takes themselves seriously on game day. And, if I’m being straight with you, I came over here to protect you from that.”

“Protect me?” I frown, wondering what in the world she could mean by that.

“Yeah,” she shrugs one pink shoulder, glancing down the stands, where the other PR guy—Jared—stands, laughing loudly with some other guys. “If he saw you here, he would have sat with you and flirted the entire night. Jared gets like this sometimes—sights set on someone, and he doesn’t care how big of an HR nightmare it would be.”

“O-oh,” I don’t mean for it to, but the word comes out as a halted laugh.

Maya laughs too, looking at me with wide eyes. “What? What does that laugh mean?”

“No—nothing,” I say, bringing my hand to my mouth, shaking my head. “He’s not…he’s not really my type.”

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