The Last Guy

I scrub my face. “Er, what I meant was—”

She holds a hand up, seeming to find her equilibrium. “First off, I don’t have to skate by. I have a bachelors in pre-law and a masters in journalism—”

“Couldn’t get into law school?”

“And six years experience in front of a camera—”

“So do I. It’s called the NFL—”

“Get into law school?” she repeats. “As if I want to be stuck in a stuffy office all day reading briefs and clocking billable hours.”

“Good point. I probably wasted my time in law school.”

Her eyes widen. “What? Where?”

“Leland, top of the class.”

“You’re lying.”

“I thought you did your homework?” I smirk.

“Why are you smiling?” she demands with a little huff, and my slow grin widens.

“Because I’m not the dumb jock you think I am. I deserve this job. I’ve worked for it just as hard as you—only in a different way.”

She dips her head. “You’re probably right.” Her voice is defeated.

No. I don’t like this. My jaw grinds, and I’m pissed at Marv for blindsiding her like that. Stone is never this easy to best, especially in a verbal sparring match. I let my eyes cruise over her, scrutinizing her wilted shoulders and the way she holds herself as if she might break, and shit—her face scrunches up.

Wait.

Is she crying?

No, Jesus, please. Not here. Not now. Not with me.

She is. Her shoulders tremble as she sniffs and wipes her nose with her hand.

Fuck me.

Helplessness rolls over me, and my eyes roam around the room. Seeing the tissues on the counter, I grab a handful and press them into her hands.

“Shit, Stone. Did I hurt your feelings?”

She takes them and cleans her face. “God no. It’s not you. Sorry for this. I never cry. It’s been a long, craptastic day.”

“Right.” I pause. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not with you.”

Thank fuck. I don’t know how to talk to women. I’ve spent most of my life in a locker room surrounded by men.

Against my better judgment, I ease closer to her. “Look, I know we don’t know each other well, but I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

She blinks up at me, emerald eyes glistening with tears. “Of course you are. You’re Mr. Perfect, right?”

“I’m far from perfect,” I murmur quietly. “In fact, I’m drawn up in a knot right now because you’re crying.”

She smiles a little. “Really?”

I nod.

She gathers herself as she dabs at the mascara under her eyes. I watch her intently. The truth is I’m a bit fascinated by Stone. I blame it on her lips. They’re a deep pink color—naturally—with a lush bottom lip that begs to be tugged in a soft nip.

And her breasts are fucking incredible, perky and full, and I may have pictured my face there a few times—

Don’t touch those tits, I remind myself sharply.

Don’t mess with your co-worker when you’re beginning a whole new career.

Voices echo from out in the hall, bringing home that we’re two people in a one-person bathroom—which could be construed as inappropriate. Marv and I do not see eye to eye, especially when it comes to Stone, and I don’t want to give him any more ammunition. Since the moment the board agreed to give me free reign of the sports department without his influence, he’s been a little bitch.

She’s still unsuccessfully fighting tears, and I rake a hand through my hair and pace around her. Screw it. Feeling uncomfortable, I go with my instincts and walk over to her, wrapping my arms around her loosely. It’s a slight hug, sort of like I’d give a sister if I had one.

“Fuck Marv,” I say gruffly. “Want me to kick his ass?”

Her head is buried in my shoulder and moves from side to side in a no motion.

We huddle together in the small space, and I wait patiently as she takes deep breaths, seeming to calm herself. After a bit, she leans back from me, straightens her shoulders, and looks around the room as if orienting herself. “I’m sorry for barging in on you.”

“It’s nothing,” I say softly. “We can get out of here and have a drink if you want?” My eyes land on her full lips.

She stares at my beard, meets my eyes, and then flushes a deep red again. “No . . . no, I can’t.”

I heave a sigh of relief. I don’t know what crazy part of me even offered that.

She says a hurried goodbye, scoops up her purse, and practically runs out the door. I hear her bump into someone in the hallway and apologize. It sounds like the fresh-from-college reporter Savannah.

I stand there and wait for the hallway to clear as I run the last few minutes through my head. Rebecca Fieldstone has seen my cock, told me off, cried on my shoulder, and then apologized. It’s the most personal interaction we’ve ever had.

I make my way back to the den and into my private office. The contractors had just finished it a few weeks ago. Whole new offices were part of my requirements for coming onboard at KHOT. The board had agreed—not the usual for a sports guy—but then not everyone is Cade Hill. I could have gone anywhere I wanted, even SportsCenter, but Houston and this station are exactly where I want to be.

I shut the double panel door quietly and stalk toward the plate-glass window that overlooks the parking lot. I want to make sure she gets to her car without any trouble. Our office is in the nice part of downtown but there have been a rash of muggings in parking garages lately. From witness reports, police think it’s the work of the same guy or the same group of guys.

I watch her stomp out into the September night, legs flashing under her snug pencil skirt. She’s tall in her heels, about five feet eleven and curvy in all the right places, just how I like a woman.

And I’m a fucking hypocrite for thinking about her like that. I push it down. I have better shit to focus on. Like work. I need to run through the line-up for the college football games tomorrow.

Still, I stand at the window, my eyes following her.

With a fast pace, she clutches her brown bag against her chest and moves toward her little green death machine, an electric Prius. People in Texas drive trucks or SUVs, but not Stone. Nope, she’s entirely different.

She flings the door open and throws her stuff inside. Then with a quick spin, she turns back to face the red building and flips the bird with both hands.

I laugh. I’m sure it’s for Marv . . . and the fucking insultants.

Hell, maybe it’s for the whole damn system.

She climbs in her car and cruises out into traffic quiet as a mouse. It’s not the tire-squealing exit I’m sure she wants, but at least she’s saving on gas.

From behind me, my office door opens.

Two things happen at once: an irritating giggle meets my ears and floral perfume assaults my senses. I turn to see Savannah standing there. Pretty, blonde, and bouncy, she’s been sending me signals that she’s available for a quick fuck since she was hired. She’s forever popping in here for some inane reason—without waiting for me to tell her to come in.

“What?” My voice is sharp as I settle back in my chair and bring up the agenda for tonight on my computer.

“Oops, sorry, Cade.” Another giggle. “I can’t seem to figure out this door. It just flies open.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Your fiancée is in the sports den asking for you.”