Page 2 of Surrender
So this American acting like she doesn’t know me puts me on the defence and not because that’s my position on the pitch.
“Who do you think I am?” I ask, my tone a blatant challenge.
Her smile is pinched, like she’s agitated but trying to hide it. “Are we playing a guessing game right now?”
I narrow my eyes cautiously. “No, but I wouldn’t mind playing Twenty Questions.” I shove myself against the counter so my chair swivels to face her straight on. She’s even more striking than her reflection. A green ring loops around her pupils and turns her pale brown eyes into a stunning forest-like colour.
Her inspecting gaze drops to my legs, concealed beneath a pair of jeans. They slide up my white cotton shirt before landing on my face. A flicker of regret shadows her eyes as she replies, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for games, Mr. Harris.”
“So youdoknow who I am,” I reply knowingly.
She inhales and takes a step forward, looming over me in her black stiletto boots. “I asked for your name because I’m styling three soccer players for this ad campaign, and I wanted to be sure I have the correct one.”
“We’re called footballers over here, Sweets.” I shoot her a cheeky wink and add, “And you just called me Mr. Harris quite confidently, so why bother asking at all?”
“Because I don’t thinkfootballersneed their egos stroked any more than they already are,” she retorts, her tone even and firm. “And I don’t like how all the athletes I work with around here don’t introduce themselves. I find it rude.” Her hand moves to cover her mouth like she’s trying to stop herself from saying anything more.
A smile lifts my face as her cheeks flush pink. This woman is beautiful and stronger than she gives herself credit for.
My response is light-hearted—a tone I don’t give out to just anyone. “By all means, Miss Montgomery, don’t hold back.”
“I told you to call me Sloan,” she replies while rubbing her hand against her forehead.
I’m annoying her. I don’t annoy many. In fact, most people are constantly kissing my arse and trying to get something out of me, so this is a fun change of pace.
“I’m sorry,” she acquiesces, looking over her shoulder. “I’m a bit stressed. The photographer is rushing me because the lighting outside is perfect, so we really need to get you dressed—”
“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” I interrupt and her wide eyes snap to mine. “You’re right. It is rude not to introduce myself. My name is Gareth Harris. Please call me Gareth. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sloan.”
I reach out to shake her hand. With a puzzled look, she slips her delicate hand into mine, her face heating as we touch. It’s clear that I’ve taken her completely off guard. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being lumped into the same category as all the other footballers in this area. This woman is just trying to do her job, and she probably gets a lot of shit from people like my teammates. Especially because she’s stunningly beautiful.
My thumb brushes over a ring on her finger. I glance down and a surprising jolt of disappointment rushes through me when I see that it’s a wedding ring.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” Sloan replies. Shaking off her initial shock, she looks behind her again. “We really do need to get you dressed, and I need to check a few things out with you first.”
I release her hand and grip the armrests of the chair to stand, bringing me nose-to-nose with her. In her heels, she’s just a couple inches shorter than me. Since I’m six-foot-one, that puts her around five-eight or so.
“I have a note in your contract that says you have fabric requirements,” Sloan states, but her voice sounds far away as the smell of her sugary sweet perfume invades my nose.
My body tremors involuntarily from the unwelcome memory the scent evokes. It’s an image of my mum making pancakes in our family’s Manchester flat we lived in when we were kids. My youngest brother, Booker, is only a few weeks old in a bassinet beside her. Vi is holding up toys to him, completely unaware that he’s not old enough to care about toys yet. The twins, Camden and Tanner, are wrestling on the floor in the dining area. And before I can snap out of it, an image of my dad walking up behind my mum and tickling her sides barrels in. Mum squeals and turns around to thump him with the spatula. The happy scene makes my stomach churn.
It was nothing like that at the end.
“Gareth?” Sloan’s voice is louder, like she’s been trying to get my attention.
I shake my head, the foggy memory rolling away as fast as it came in. “Yes? What is it?”
“Are you all right?” She steps closer, concern evident on her face, but the smell hits me all over again.
“I’m fine,” I bark and step back, trying to regain control of my own bloody mind. “Let’s just get on with it. Do you have a rack of clothes? I can usually pick out what works best for me.”
She frowns at my tone. “Is it a tactile defensiveness you have?”
“Tactile what?” I sigh with annoyance because I don’t want to talk about my texture issues. This is why I hate endorsement deals and anything that requires styling. People try to make all the decisions for me and I don’t like being controlled. If my manager didn’t keep pushing me to do them so much, I wouldn’t bother.
I move past her and glance around the studio for the clothing options. “Just point me in the direction of the clothing and we’ll get this over with.”
“Mr. Harris.” Sloan says my name with such firmness, I can’t help but turn on my heel to face her. She clutches the iPad to her chest and narrows her gaze. “I’m the stylist on set today, and I’m trying to understand your needs better. Then I can execute the clothing request.”
