“We have you fully booked for media in the two weeks leading up to the grand opening. In fact, Mode de Vie wants to do a big lifestyle feature on for their October issue. The interview will be in June, and they requested a photoshoot at your apartment. Is it going to be ready by then?”
“Yeah, Angus beef is fine.” Blake watched two contractors assemble the stadium-style seats in the special events section of the bar. The heavy thud of hammers hitting nails and the screechy whine of high-powered drills filled the air. Blake loved those sounds. It was the sound of shit getting done, of success and hard work; it was also the one area of his life that hadn’t gone to hell.
His chief of staff glanced up from her clipboard with a frown. Patricia Hart was a lot of things— competent, assertive, organized to a fault—but she was not tolerant of people slacking off. Not even when that person was her boss.
“We moved on from discussing the food ten minutes ago. We’re going over your media schedule now. Get it together, Blake.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, half-amused, half-annoyed. “How much do I pay you to talk to me like that again?”
“A lot.” Patricia’s smile dripped saccharine. “Now, about your apartment. Is it going to be ready in time for the Mode de Vie shoot? The interview is the third week of June.”
“I think so.”
“You think so or you know so?”
Blake scowled. Patricia was his best hire and an indispensable part of his team. He came up with the vision and strategies; she implemented them, and he paid her a crap ton of money to do so. She also kept his ass in line and didn’t take shit from anyone.
But sometimes, he wished he’d hired someone a little more accommodating.
“I know so.”
I hope so.
Farrah told him the apartment would be finished in July, taking into account potential contractor issues and shipping delays, but that was if there were contractor issues and shipping delays.
“Good.” Patricia ticked something off on her clipboard. “That’s all for today.”
With her auburn waves and endless legs, she could moonlight as a model. Blake recognized her beauty, but even if she weren’t an employee, it did nothing for him. He was a black hair, brown eyes, smart mouth kinda guy.
“Great. Call me when the liquor distributor comes back with a quote. I don’t want a repeat of New Orleans.”
Both Blake and Patricia grimaced when they remembered the jackass distributor who’d charged them three times the standard price for two dozen cases of shitty well liquor. Their New Orleans manager had signed the contract in a haze of grief after losing out big in Vegas the previous weekend, and by the time Blake and Patricia found out, it’d been too late.
“Of course. It won’t happen again.” Patricia eyed him cautiously. “You’ve been distracted lately. Is everything ok?”
Blake’s eyebrows shot up. He and Patricia didn’t discuss personal matters. Ever. Theirs was a professional relationship—a great one, but professional nonetheless. She did her job, he paid her, and that was the way they liked it.
“Yeah. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
Correction: he had one person on his mind. All the damn time. Blake replayed his and Farrah’s near-kiss the way he used to replay tapes of his old football games. He studied them, analyzed them, broke them down frame by frame until he could pinpoint every mistake, every unconscious tic and tendency, and every player’s strengths and weaknesses.
After replaying his night with Farrah on a loop for two weeks straight, Blake was sure of three things: 1) her body wanted him; 2) her mind shunned him; 3) her heart was terrified of him.
He felt it in the heat of her skin against his, saw it in the glint in her eyes, and heard it in the rapid thud-thud-thud coming from inside her chest.
In his quest for Farrah’s heart, her mind was his enemy and her body was his ally. And what do you do with allies? You butter ‘em up, give ‘em what they want, and keep them on your side.
That would be a helluva lot easier if Blake were anywhere near her body. Farrah hadn’t spoken to him since she ran off into the night. His calls rolled to voicemail, and she returned his messages via curt texts instead of calling him back. She also refused to meet him in person, saying she was still getting quotes from contractors and didn’t have any updates for him yet.
Blake kicked himself for pushing things too far, too fast. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d been terrified that Farrah was telling the truth. That she was over him. He could handle her hating him, but he couldn’t handle her treating him like he was just some guy she used to date. Because the opposite of love wasn’t hate; it was indifference.
So, he’d pushed her. Forced her to show her hand and admit, if only to herself, that she may not love him anymore, but he still affected her. Short term, it gave Blake satisfaction to see the heat in her eyes. Long term, it was a fucking terrible strategy. The more Farrah was aware of her attraction to him, the more she would avoid him.
Case in point: the past two weeks.
“Understandable. This is a big opening.” Patricia snapped back into chief of staff mode. “Is there anything else you want to go over.?
“No. That’s it. Thank you.”
Patricia left to supervise the bar setup, and Blake swept his eyes around what would soon be the crown jewel of the Legends empire. The New York branch wasn’t going to be just a sports bar—it was going to be a destination. And it wasn’t going to be just a destination—it was going to be the hottest destination on New York’s nightlife circuit. A sports mecca spread over three stories, complete with a bowling alley, state-of-the-art recreation room, and upscale cocktail bar/nightclub.
In the cutthroat hospitality world, stagnation meant a slow, painful death. You have to innovate to stay on top of the game and beat back the hungry upstarts frothing at the mouth to take your crown.
Blake had no intention of getting dethroned.
That was why it was time to expand the Legends brand. He was keeping the casual, down-home business model where it made sense, but places like New York, Dubai, Miami, and Vegas? They wanted big, they wanted glitzy, they wanted out of this fucking world. And he was going to give it to them.
Now, if only he were on top of his personal life as much as his professional one.
Later that night, Blake made the mistake of asking his friends for advice.
“Dude, you’re doing this shit all wrong.” Justin cracked open his beer. “You gotta play hard to get. Make her come to you.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were back in middle school.”
“You make fun, but that shit works. Girls like a challenge.”
“Not this girl. Not after what I did.”
Blake already regretted bringing Farrah up in front of Justin, who was a good bartender and a cool guy but also a major pain in the ass when it came to the opposite sex. Specifically, when it came to advice pertaining to the opposite sex.
Like Blake, Justin didn’t have to work hard, if at all, to get a woman into bed. Must be the tattoos and devil-may-care attitude. Unlike Blake, he blazed a path through Manhattan’s female population with the enthusiasm of a drug addict hopped up on coke. His perception of how the whole dating thing worked was warped because he didn’t date. His love life was a flimsy string of one-night stands and casual flings.
“What did you do?” Justin’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Forget her birthday? Bang her best friend? Tell her what you really thought about her outfit?”
“No, dickhead. That would be you, you, and, oh, you.”
“Wrong. I’ve never forgotten a birthday because I’ve never asked.”
“Charming.” Landon entered the room with a fresh bowl of popcorn and a six-pack of beer. “You’re in the running to be Bartender of the Year.”
“Hey, you don’t need to know someone’s birthday to be a good bartender.” Justin reached for the popcorn before the bowl even touched the table. “I listen to people cry, dispense invaluable life advice, and supply them with alcohol to numb their pain. I’m a goddamned saint.”
“I’ll call the church,” Landon said wryly. He glanced at Blake. “You still moping about Farrah?”
Blake scowled. “I’m not moping.”
He, Landon, and Justin were watching the NBA playoffs in Landon’s decked-out den. The Celtics versus the Warriors. It was a nail biter, and a fun night with the guys was just what he needed after a long day at work.
Of course, it would be a lot more fun if his guy friends weren’t acting like jerks.
“Sure you’re not.” Landon chuckled. “This girl has got you more twisted than an episode of Game of Thrones. You should’ve seen his face when he saw her again for the first time,” he told Justin. “He just stood there like an idiot, gawking at her.”
Justin guffawed. “I’ll one-up you with the way he nearly tore my head off for just talking to her at The Egret a few weeks ago.”
“Fuck you both.” Blake tossed a handful of popcorn at his so-called friends. “And you weren’t ‘just talking’ to her.” He glared at Justin, his blood simmering again when he remembered the way Justin had eye-fucked Farrah at the bar. “You were trying to sleep with her.”
“True. But I try to sleep with everyone. No biggie.” Justin caught a kernel and popped it in his mouth, unfazed. “That was the same night you almost kissed, right? And you haven’t seen her since? I’m telling you, man, you gotta hit the brakes. Give her a chance to miss you.”
“It’s been two weeks.”
“I mean, you gotta be around her but not, you know, hit on her.”
“As much as I hate to agree with J on any of his often dubious advice, he has a point.” Landon kicked his feet up on his custom-made, expensive-as-shit coffee table. “You’re scaring her off.”
“I don’t hit on her that often,” Blake muttered. “The other night was a slipup.”
“Maybe not with words, but she feels it.” Justin waved his hands in the air. “Women have a sixth sense about this sort of thing and—oh, shit! The Celtics just scored. Up by two, baby!”
As Landon and Justin redirected their attention to the game and their mutual loathing of the Warriors, Blake pondered his friends’ advice.
What the hell. Might as well give it a shot. It couldn’t hurt. Right?
