The D-word.
This girl has divorcée written all over her. Definitely some rich housewife finalizing her papers; probably making sure she gets the ski retreat home here in Colorado as part of her end of the deal.
But no ring is good.
Finalizing her divorce is good.
Looking that damn put together is very good.
In the waiting room, I sit up a little straighter in my chair, shoulders back as I adjust my tie. She’s a nice distraction from my mood - a little ray of sunshine piercing through the rumbling storm clouds of my day.
And I could use a little sunshine right now, what with Sam lying unconscious in that hospital bed.
Sam Horn, my mentor, and the one who took me in and under his wing, even back when I was a brand new, green-around-the-edges receiver right out of college with stars in his eyes. Sam who took me in and straightened me out. Sam who was the only family I had when my whole world shattered with the crash, and Sam who put me at the head of his boardroom table when it was clear I wasn’t ever going to play ball again. Sam who I refer to as family - as Uncle - despite our lack of any actual blood relations.
It’s not as though I never thought about this day - albeit, not in exactly the same terms and circumstances. But I never expected to have his team just given to me. Hell, the man’s given me enough. A shot at the pros back when I played, and a shot at redemption when my whole life came crashing down.
Yeah, he’s given me enough.
But then, just like me, Sam has no family. Just like he’s an “uncle” who I’m not really related to, I’m a “nephew” he shares no real blood with. It’s also not like strokes and medically induced comas are something you plan for. But wills are, and it’d have been nice to know about even a part of this before it all went down. It’d be nice to have known that in the event of something like this, ownership and managerial responsibilities of the Rattlesnakes would be passed down to me.
But in the meantime, the sweet distraction sitting with her back to me and one smooth, creamy leg crossed high over the other one is enough to lighten my mood.
The hand perched by her cheek - the one without a ring - slips back into her hair, fingers twirling around a tendril as Robert talks to her with his hand like he always does. I grin to myself, imagining the doldrums of a paint-by-numbers conversation going on behind that glass.
Yes, you’ll be receiving an obscene amount of money from a man who broke his vows who I’m sure you married for money anyways. No, you definitely don’t ever have to work again. Yes, the Jackson Hole Ski condo and the pied a terre in New York City are included in your settlement.
I roll my eyes, watching this real housewife of LA, or New York, or wherever she’s from twirl her hair around her finger as Robert talks her ear off.
Why, yes, that handsome man sitting behind you in the waiting area is single and available. No, I’m sure he’s free tonight to tear your panties off and fuck you like you’ve been dying to be fucked ever since you married a man three times your age who lives at the office anyways.
My own little personal fantasy tangent gets knocked aside when Robert suddenly looks past the girl and right at me through the windows of the conference room. He smiles that cheesy smile of his and raises a hand in a beckoning motion.
I wrinkle my brow, raising one skeptical brow until he nods eagerly and beckons again.
Interesting.
I glance at my Rolex as I stand. I’m definitely still five minutes early to our appointment, and fantasy daydreams aside, I can’t actually for the life of me imagine why Robert would be inviting me into the conference room with his cute little sable-haired divorcée.
“Robert, if I’m interrupting, I can wait until-”
And that’s when she turns.
That’s when those big, gorgeous eyes - green, like mine - and those full, pouty lips turn and open wide in shock as we lock gazes.
I blink twice, staring at her and not quite believing what I’m seeing despite the fact that she really is sitting there right in front of me.
Bizarrely, my first thought is to wonder how I didn’t know that she was going through a divorce, before I mentally admonish myself for still being looped into that made-up assumption. No, she’s clearly not here to talk alimony settlement with Robert, but that begs the bigger question.
What the hell is Serena Roth doing here?
“Landon,” Robert stands, oblivious to the deadlocked look between the two of us.
“This is Serena R-”
“Roth, I’m aware.”
I can feel my pulse roaring in my ears, my heart thudding inside my chest. One look at her and I’m right back to that night back in Houston, on the roof of my hotel. One beat of her pulse beneath that golden skin in the hollow of her neck, and I’m remembering every fucking detail of the way she gasped - of the way she ran her fingertips down my back as her body trembled for me.