Page 41 of The Confidentiality Clause
I watch her through the flames. Her focus is on the s’more she’s building, but I know she’s listening.
“Because it’s important to me.”
“Why?” she repeats.
I stare at my browning marshmallow and think about her question. One word shouldn’t be so powerful. Thoughts speed through my brain like cars on a racetrack.
“It’s hard to nail down a single reason,” I admit. “But one that comes to mind is when I played hockey in college, at the best school in the country”—she shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything about our rivalry—“I saw a lot of the older players get drafted. Even went to a few of the watch parties. Some of the best players would have terrible agents. They’d either get awful deals or be transferred to teams they hated. When I saw that, I decided to help make sure players were taken care of and were placed where they deserved.”
“That’s an admirable desire,” she says. “I don’t think that’s your why, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re giving up too much for a flimsy reason.”
“And what about you?” I keep my eyes on the fire, spinning my marshmallow around. “What’s your why?”
“I don’t need one. I like finding buyers their perfect home or commercial space. Knowing I helped make them happy makes me feel good, but I’d never give up time with family for it.”
I open my mouth to defend myself. She holds up a hand to stop me.
“I’m not attacking you. I don’t want to argue. If you can’t see it yet, that’s okay. You will eventually.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenge.
She meets my gaze, the fire reflecting in her eyes. “I’d rather hope you do than imagine that scenario.”
I frown and drop my attention back to the fire. Why does she think so strongly that she’s the right one in this fight? It’s like she has blinders on and refuses to see beyond what she wants to. We have great moments together, but I don’t know how long this can last with the tension of my choices versus her disapproval hanging over us. Because she’s bound to snap one day when she realizes I’m not giving up on this dream.
I hope she sees my side before that happens.
Chapter nineteen
Brock Jones
“Slater, my man, it’s great to see you,” I say with a grin as I walk up to the bar.
Sitting on a stool two sizes too small for him is Burt Slater, one of the most successful agents in the business, and also my mentor. He throws an arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. The scent of expensive aftershave makes my eyes burn.
“You’re looking good, kid. Not as good as me, but hey, you’ll get there one day.” He laughs, turning a few heads with the boisterous sound.
I hop up next to him and signal the bartender. The woman nods in acknowledgment while making a drink.
“How have you been?” I ask.
He types on his phone as he answers me. “Busy–-you know how it is. Got a new yacht last week though, she’s sleek. Named her Michelle after my ex-wife, because she’s powerful and could crush anyone in her path.”
I wince. “I didn’t know you and Michelle got divorced.”
That’s his third wife. But I don’t come to the man for life advice, just business.
The bartender comes over and I order a beer. Yes, it’s only early afternoon, but I know Slater won’t let me hear the end of it if I don’t order a drink. He hates to drink alone.
“Did my assistant not send you the party invite?” He sets his phone down with a sigh. “I was hoping not to have to fire this one.”
“I haven’t accepted many party invitations lately,” I tell him, in hopes of saving his assistant’s job. “My secretary might have declined on my behalf.”
Slater takes a swig of dark brown liquid–probably whiskey, if I had to guess. “Makes sense. You must be busy. I’ve seen your name on just about every athlete. Seems like they either go with you or me.” He laughs again, his beer belly shaking with the movement.
