Page 2 of Off Limits: The Firsts
The total package.
But if first impressions are any indication—the arrogant lift of his eyebrows and cocky set of his shoulders—I already know he’s going to be like every other total package I’ve worked with before. Great to look at but a bore to work with. Conceited and one-dimensional. If it’s not about him, he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I hope I’m wrong, or else this is going to be a long three months. Not only that, but I’ve admired his career over the last few years and would prefer to keep admiring the man I perceived him to be, too.
“On my back?” he rephrases his question before I can recover from my thoughts, and takes a step closer. “On my stomach?” He stops and scrubs a towel over his face so that his dark brown hair sticks up every which way, yet somehow it only adds to his appeal.
Give him a chance, Scout. He’s baseball royalty. Besides, he might not be that bad. Does it really matter if he’s a conceited jerk? There’s still a contract, a set timeframe, and he’s still your client. So, chop-chop. Get to it and do your job.
“Uh,” I say as I glance down again, trying not to let that body—the hard, damaged, perfection of it—scatter my thoughts and undermine my professionalism.
“Uh?” he repeats, as those multicolored eyes of his laugh at a joke only he seems to understand.
“Sorry, you distracted me.” Once the words are out I realize how they sound, giving the implication that his body is the culprit.
“Distracted?” A lift of his brows. A ghost of a smile.
I start over. “I’m the new PT the club contracted to help get you back on the field.”
“The club hired you? I thought they were hiring Doc . . . and you’re definitely not Doc.”
“Doc’s the one who assigned me to your case.” My tone is defensive, my soul sagging under the weight of why I’m here and he’s not.
“Doc Dalton, Doc?” Disbelief tinges his tone.
“Yeah, Doc Dalton, Doc. I’m his partner.”
“Partner? Doc’s notorious for working solo.” He narrows his eyes and studies me unabashedly for a moment. The silent scrutiny has me shifting on my feet, and just as I’m about to speak, he chuckles under his breath at something I’m obviously not privy to. “Which one of the guys hired you?”
“Your general manager. Cory Tillman.”
“Cory?”
“Yes. Cory.” Why is this so hard for him to understand?
“And she even has the name right,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, only furthering my confusion. “Nice try, though. My bet’s on Drew or Tino. They covered all of their bases with you, didn’t they?”
What in the hell is he talking about?
“Not that you care, but I don’t need my bases covered. I’d really like to get started.”
“No.”
“No?” Is he being serious?
“You think I’d let just anybody touch my arm?”
“Excuse me?” The insult hits me harder than it should. It’s one I’ve learned to expect—the assumption that I can’t be as good as Doc—and yet my temper still lights. “I assure you my touch is every bit as magical as Doc’s is.” Asshole.
“I’m sure it is,” he murmurs, drawing the words out, while his eyes roam down the length of my body. The look in them—one of pure male appreciation—sets my nerves, already tinged with temper, abuzz. And I don’t want them to be abuzz. I don’t want them to feel anything when it comes to him and how much of a prick he is proving himself to be right now.
“Try it on someone else, Hot Shot. Your charm isn’t going to work on me.”
“My charm?” I love the little startle to his head. The one that says he’s not used to being called on the carpet.
“Yeah. The ‘I’m a cocky bastard’ charm. Do you really get women when you act like that?”
“I wasn’t aware I was trying to get a woman.” His eyes lock onto mine. There’s humor in their hazel depths, but all I feel is stupidly hurt as if he’d just rejected me, when I didn’t want to be wanted by him in the first place. “And for the record, it works all the time.”
