Page 5 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Now? What about lunch? I’m grilling burgers. We’ll save the steak for dinner.”
I shake my head. “Unlike you, I don’t need to eat six pounds of meat a day to keep up my strength. I’ll survive. Meanwhile, if I want my new business to survive, I need to get to work.”
“You work every day?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you do it, Pink? Why did you leave your job to start a business? It’s ruining your life.”
I heave a sigh. “What are you talking about? It’s not ruining my life. It’s a dream come true. You worked hard to get to where you are, didn’t you?” I stop and lean against the end of the kitchen island, petting Curly’s abundant soft fur. Why I’m indulging this man’s questions, I have no idea. I should ignore him and get on with onboarding my new client. I promised a full financial and tax prospective by Monday.
He scoffs. “I love my so-called work. I’d play hockey every day even if they didn’t pay me.”
“Ah. But they do pay you. You’re a freaking millionaire. So what’s wrong with me wanting to join the millionaire club?”
“That’s why you do it? For the money?”
“Duh-uh?”
“I never pegged you for the mercenary type, Pink.” His forehead pinches together like he’s really disturbed and I can’t help laughing.
“What the fuck, Aiden? I’m an accountant—of course I’m in it for the money. It’s all about the money.”
“Didn’t you ever want to be something else? Didn’t you dream of being a ballerina when you were a girl?”
Shock hits me and it shows on my face before I can hide it. He didn’t know. He was only talking little girl dream stereotypes. He has no way of knowing I once wanted to be a ballerina. But he’s far too observant and the insufferable grin tells me he caught me.
“You did want to be a ballerina. You took lessons. How long?”
I lift my chin, refusing to be shamed, I own my ballerina dreams. “Eight years. There’s nothing wrong with girlhood aspirations and I worked my ass off.”
“I’ll bet you did,” he says, sounding real, admiration peppering his voice. He leans into me, too close. Close enough to smell the mint of his toothpaste and the spice of his aftershave and the heady male sweat of his stupidly muscled body.
“Why didn’t you pursue it?”
I wave a hand and back away. “Understudy ballerinas don’t earn enough money to pay the bills let alone become millionaires.”
“Money. Why don’t you just find yourself some rich—”
I throw my hands up though I’d rather smack him. “That’s it. I’m through with this conversation.” I turn away fuming and mutter, “Male chauvinist.”
“What’s that?” He follows me.
Stopping abruptly, I turn. “You’re a male chauvinist. Did it occur to you that I might want to earn my own money?” Unlike my mother. Not that she isn’t worth her weight in gold. Guilt explodes in me. My skin heats up and the creep of blushing warmth rises up my neck. Fuck.
“Weren’t you earning a good living at that big accounting firm you worked at?”
“Not millionaire money.” Why am I bothering with this conversation?Why is he?
“So is it worth it to give up all the fun in your life to—”
“Did Chelsea and Maggs put you up to this?” Curly squeaks in my arms and I realize I’m squeezing the poor puppy. I take a big breath and release her to the floor, holding onto my computer. I need to get to work to meet my deadline.
“No,” he says. “I figured it all out on my own. One good look at your pale skin and I know you haven’t been out all summer.”
“Is that right? Well so what. I’ve been inside my new office with my executive assistant and two accountants at 60 State Street in Boston.” Did I just say that? As if I’m trying to compete like a kid on the playground bragging that my bike is better than his?
He grins. Of course he does.
