Page 39 of Playing the Field

Chapter Nine

Anastasia

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” Vee asks from her perch on the edge of my bed. She’s got a wine glass in one hand and a bowl of pretzels in the other, treating the turmoil in my life as if it’s a day at the cinema.

“Oh trust me,” I reply darkly, pulling out my phone to find one of the videos. “It’s bad.”

She takes the phone from me, her eyes widening as she watches the grainy video of Graham yanking the player so hard that his jersey rips. “Good God,” Vee mutters and puts sets her dishes down so she can focus in on the screen. Her brow arches and a smirk dances across her lips. “Look at those muscles! Ana!” her dark eyes cut to me and she grins wickedly. “Did he do that because that guy knocked you over?”

I can’t keep the blush from burning a path up to my cheeks, so I just drop my face into my palms with a groan. “But before that, he acted like we’d never even met. Like I meant nothing to him except another notch in his bedpost.”

She tosses the phone onto the mattress beside me, where it lands with a dull thump. “I hate to say it, hun, but the way he reacted makes it seem you mean a hell of a lot more than a conquest.”

“That’s why I can’t go to his house tonight,” I mutter between my fingers, still unable to look my best friend in the eye. “He’s my boss now, and I have no idea what is going on inside my head. One minute I’m so angry with him, and then the next minute he’s kissing me and I want nothing more than to surrender to him.”

“He kissed you?!” Veronica shouted and gripped my wrists, wrenching my hands away from my face. “Anastasia Bellows, what is your life right now?”

“A mess,” I grumble and try to pry my arms from her grasp, but she only tightens her fingers. “Vee! He’s my boss! Not to mention he’s about twenty years older than me!”

She arches her eyebrow at me. “So? Maybe that means he’s going to treat you like a man should.” She picks up another pretzel and crunches it between her teeth. “And so what if he’s your boss? I doubt anyone would care.”

“The press would have a field day,” I mutter and snatch a pretzel from the bowl in her lap. “I’m not going.”

“Oh yes, you are!” She argues and moves the bowl to the bedside table. “You’re going because I’m not going to let you sit here and wallow in self-pity, spoiling an evening with your majorly hot billionaire boss who may or may not want to fuck you into next week.”

“Veronica!” I screech and toss a pillow at her, aiming at her face.

She laughs lightly and swats it away with ease. “I’m serious, Ana. He’s either going to talk about keeping it professional and moving on, or he’s going to make you relive your favorite night in Cape Town.”

I look down at the frayed ends of my duvet, picking at a loose thread because a large part of me is afraid that she’s right. That I’m going to relive that night and fall even harder than I already have.

And that can’t happen.

I’ve got my career to think about. Not to mention, my heart can’t take that kind of rejection a second time.

“We’re going to keep it professional,” I say firmly as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet touch the floor. “And I’m wearing sweatpants to this meeting.”

“You most certainly are not!” she retorts with a look of horror.

I most certainly did leave the house wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a very well-loved Toronto Tigers hoodie. The idea was that if I hid myself behind clothes that didn’t conform to my body, maybe there would be no distractions tonight.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The only problem was that I couldn’t put it out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried. I let out a deep sigh, my breath misting in front of my lips in the cold, night air. I decided to walk the few blocks from my flat to Graham’s penthouse in the hopes that the cold air would help clear my head, but each step closer to him just made me panic even more.

I stop in front of a battered storefront, the harsh fluorescent lights spilling onto the sidewalk through the large windows. My eyes adjust to the brightness and I see the menu plastered on the chipping brick wall.

Perfect.

I’d bring takeaway Chinese food and cheap beer. That paired with my attire should be enough of a hint.

After I get my order, I tuck the bag under my arm and start walking toward Graham’s penthouse. I can see the towering building from the sidewalk, and with every step, my stomach seems to get tighter and tighter. My teeth sink into my lower lip as I worry the chapped skin, drawing blood from the split in my lip from the altercation at the end of the game.

My eyes are drawn to a large poster illuminated on the white brick walls of the Performing Arts Studio. I stop briefly, skimming the lines of the advertisement, trying to find something else to focus on other than the building anxiety tightening my chest with each breath. “Beauty and the Beast, featuring the rising star F. Bouchard,” I whisper into the cold night air, trying to make a mental note to drag Veronica with me one night.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m trembling in front of the sleek black elevator doors that lead up to the penthouse. My fingers hover just over the call button, but I can’t bring myself to press it. The pounding of my heart in my ears is deafening as I struggle to control my breathing, the anxiety slowly eating away at my resolve.

I inhale slowly and clench my fist around the bag of takeaway, about to turn and bolt for the door without a second thought, but a voice from behind me has goosebumps pebbling my skin.