Chapter One

As human resources manager of the San Antonio Mustangs, Charlotte’s job was to manage the humans who worked for the NFL team, and her history of doing so in a calm, firm-yet-kind manner was impeccable.

But then Lance Quaid happened.

Charlotte hugged her notebook, folders, and the book she’d grabbed off the bookshelf in her office tighter to her chest, her heels clacking out a steady rhythm on the hardwood floor. Just what I needed. To go from a stable work environment where I finally feel like I’m on top of my game to having to deal with the ego and unpredictable moods of a former quarterback, who’s obviously too used to people worshipping him instead of keeping him in check.

The guy had been the owner of the Mustangs for all of one week, and he’d already stacked up multiple complaints, as if he was determined to break as many records for that as he had on the football field before an injury cut his career short.

Being well versed in all things football, along with having a freakishly good memory and a penchant for stats, simply thinking his name called up his info sheet.

Lance Quaid: former quarterback of the Tennessee Titans. Six foot four, two hundred twenty-five pounds, round-one pick ten in the draft. Sixty-five completion percentage and once voted offensive player of the year. He came from football royalty, made a huge splash from his very first year in the NFL, and played solidly for six years until an ACL injury took him out.

Charlotte had no idea what he’d been doing for the past three years, but when his grandfather—and the previous owner of the Mustangs—had passed away, Lance had inherited the team. And she, in turn, had inherited the stubborn, privileged, foul-mouthed pain in the butt.

This is what you’ve been trained for. Her footfalls grew more determined, her chin lifting another inch. Unfortunately, it didn’t magically untangle the knot of nerves that’d formed in her gut at the thought of the confrontation. Growing up, change meant something was about to suck even more, and she wasn’t a fan. She liked structure. Give her predictable any day.

But changes inevitably happened, and she was doing her best to deal with it while wishing she didn’t have to.

Owning the team doesn’t mean he’s above all the rules. People who felt the rules didn’t apply to them irked her, and then there was common decency, which Lance Quaid had apparently never heard of, either. He has to figure out how to practice restraint and learn some respect, especially when it comes to talking to coworkers.

And it was her job to remind him of that.

Her stomach dive-bombed as she neared his office, a sarcastic lucky me breaking into her internal pep talk.

She’d already put off having this uncomfortable conversation with him for too long, telling herself she needed to attend to emails and other paperwork first. Because how exactly did one go in and tell their new boss that he was…well, wrong? The complaints had come flooding in immediately after Mr. Quaid took up the helm, and while it was technically her job to listen to them, she’d sort of cursed how accessible she’d made herself. Before now, her most challenging tasks had been keeping up to date on ever-changing laws and double-checking payroll while trying not to feel a pinch of jealousy over the bloated salaries compared to her modest one.

A quick glance at her watch told her the big staff meeting was in thirty minutes, and she simply had to talk to Mr. Quaid before then. To say the transition in ownership had been rocky would be an understatement. Everyone was still grieving a bit—a pang rose up, one she quickly tamped down—and that exacerbated the situation, too. Honestly, things had been on the grim side for the Mustangs for a while. After several lackluster seasons, including the last one where they hadn’t won a single game, they were quickly turning into the joke of the NFL.

But that was a different problem for a different day.

A section of her hair fell forward as she glanced at the door, the brown fringe obscuring the stainless steel knob for a moment. Just forget who he is and who he was and talk to him like you would anyone else. After all, she’d had to reprimand countless employees for breaking the rules in the seven years she’d worked here. In all but a few cases, the people involved corrected their bad behavior, and the work environment was better for it.

She sucked in a big breath, transferred the bulk of what she was carrying into her left arm, and rapped on the door, nice and loud.

A muffled “come in” filtered through the wood, and she opened the door and stepped inside the large office. Nothing had changed. The windows still boasted a nice view of downtown, the large flat screen TV was tuned to sports highlights but on mute, and every dark wood surface gleamed. Two cushy chairs that looked like they were meant for giants sat facing the large desk, and awards and trophies from decades ago, when the team had won a fair amount of games, were in a large glass case that lined the far wall.

The scent was different, though. Woodsy and masculine, not a hint of that spicy cologne that Mr. Price had worn. The pang she’d smothered returned and morphed into a sharp twinge she couldn’t as easily ignore. He was really gone, the man who’d taken a chance on her at a time she was afraid no one would. Sure, he’d been a tad dismissive of the few ideas she’d lobbed his way during meetings, but his kindness more than made up for his old-school ways. It hit her all over again that he would never stop by her office to ask how her day was going or toss her one of those hard caramels he always kept in his suit pocket.

Lance Quaid glanced up, the full impact of his blue eyes hitting her. “Did we have an appointment…?” The vague hand gesture he added made her realize he needed her to fill in her name.

Of course he didn’t remember. He’d met a lot of people over the past week, so she tried not to take it personally. Tried not to compare him to his grandfather, who made it a point to catalog every staff member’s name, no matter how big or small their position with the Mustangs. It wore a little shine off the famous ballplayer, too, which would make it easier to be firm. “Charlotte James. I’m the human resources manager.”

“Right.” He ran a hand through his nearly black hair, although the strands were short enough it didn’t make a mess of it. Guys had it so easy. A dab of hair gel and they were done, whereas she had to use three-point-five products, decide whether to go curly or straight before her hair refused to do either, and the lightest breeze or hint of humidity could destroy all her efforts in two seconds flat. That was the nice thing about a pretty pair of shoes—they always looked good, and since she was a short woman in a world of tall men, they also gave her a few inches’ boost. “Sorry,” he said. “This past week’s been a bit of a blur.”

“Understandable.” Time to get on with what she came here to do. “While I didn’t make an official appointment, Mr. Quaid, there are—”

“Lance. Please.”

She wished he hadn’t interrupted, since it’d been so challenging to just start that sentence, but she could roll with it. “Fine. Lance. There are a few things I need to talk to you about before the meeting. There’ve been…complaints. About you. And the way you talk to people.”

One dark eyebrow arched, but the slight twist to his lips made him appear more amused than worried. “I’m sure there have been. Gotta break a few eggs and all that.”

While she’d wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, he didn’t seem to be taking this seriously. And people weren’t eggs; they were human beings with valid feelings that shouldn’t be cracked and discarded. She highly doubted Mr. Omelet-Maker had ever worked in an office before stumbling into ownership. Sure, he knew the game, but there was so much more that went into it. She’d been born and raised a Mustangs fan, and she’d hoped the new owner would care about the franchise and work hard to make it better. She didn’t want to have to say “there’s always next year” from now until the day she died.

To keep her fan side in check, she focused on her business side and strode closer to the desk, her noisy footsteps getting swallowed up by the tacky black and white rug you could lose a zebra in. “For instance, it was inappropriate last meeting when you told Coach Hurst that the only first down he’s completed lately is shoving his head that much farther up his ass.”

Lance chuckled. Chuckled! “One of my better ones.”

Charlotte glared at him, lips pursed. “Well, it was also against section two of the employee handbook. As was asking the guys, uh”—she cleared her throat—“where they’d stashed their balls. Or if they had any to start with.”

“So let me get this straight…” Lance leaned forward and folded his forearms across the top of the desk. “People came to you to complain about these things I said to motivate them to pull their heads out of their asses?”

“I think they considered it insulting as opposed to motivating. And just an FYI, saying ‘pull their heads out of their asses’ also goes on the inappropriate list. In addition to being on the vulgar side, to build a happy and productive workplace, we need to treat others well and help them feel safe. Try more carrot versus stick in your approach, and I believe you’ll get better results.”

The line of his jaw tightened, and his words came out clipped. “You think I don’t know what it takes to rally a team? To push them into action?”

Charlotte ignored the instinctual flight response coursing through her and held her ground. “On the football field, yes, but office dynamics are different. I brought you a copy of the employee manual, and I’m sure that reading over the policies will help you better understand.” She slid the thin book off the top of her pile and tossed it in front of him. “Since we’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, I’ll just hit the highlights: we politely discuss differences of opinions; all employees deserve respect; and we work hard to ensure that relationships between employees are appropriate and harmonious. A please and thank you never hurt, either—kindness is catching.”

Lance picked up the manual and flipped through the pages so fast he couldn’t possibly have read a single word. It dropped back to the desk with a thud, and he placed his hand on top of it. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Charlotte.”

Something inside of her flickered at the way he’d said her name, all deep and a pinch intimate, and she quickly snuffed it out. So he had a sexy voice to go along with his drool-worthy looks, which she absolutely wasn’t going to let throw her off. In fact, she wasn’t going to think about his sexiness at all. Nope, she’d simply ignore how snuggly his crisp white shirt fit across his built chest and the way his Mustangs-appropriate red and black tie hid the fact he’d undone his top button, giving him a slightly disheveled edge. She definitely wouldn’t think about the dark scruff covering his chiseled jawline or how underrated the rugged businessman look was.

All those were merely observations she’d catalog along with everything else in her brain about Lance Quaid.

The important thing was he’d said thank you without sounding even slightly sarcastic. Even if he didn’t mean it, a lot of workplace etiquette was faking it till you made it. “Just doing my job.”

“I assure you that I’m going to straighten everything up at the meeting. That way you can get this off your plate and focus on the more important parts of your job.”

The urge to explain that employee relationships were an important part of her job was strong, but she figured it was one of those pick-your-battles situations. The biggest battle was over, and as that sank in, tension leaked out of her neck and shoulders. “Oh good. I was worried this would go a lot rougher.”

“Not at all.” He picked up a pen and spun it through long fingers she presumed came in handy when gripping a football. “I’m a perfectly reasonable guy.”

“Glad to hear it.” All that worry over nothing. She backed away from the desk, her steps much lighter with the pressure of scolding her boss officially off her shoulders. Maybe the transition wouldn’t be so bad once they all got more used to each other. She probably shouldn’t have judged him so harshly, either, simply because she hated change and was missing her old boss. “Okay, so I’ll see you at the meeting.”

He inclined his chin. “Until then.”

…

Lance strolled into the meeting room with its theater-like layout and cushy seats that faced a screen where the team often watched film. The facilities had recently been upgraded, and as much as he loved his grandpa, he didn’t understand why he’d poured so much money into frivolous things that his staff hardly deserved.

The head coach, general manager, offensive and defensive coordinators, director of pro personnel, CFO, and director of scouting sat in the front row, shooting the shit and not even bothering to look up when he came in.

There were a dozen or so other people in attendance—the specialized and conditioning coaches, who were seated in the second row—as well as a few members from the front office, including the brunette HR manager who’d stormed into his office earlier. Despite the looming meeting, he bit back a smile at the way she’d reprimanded him for his insults and vulgar language, tossed an employee handbook at him, and demanded he read it.

He wasn’t sure how he’d missed her in the blur of introductions, but his eyes lingered on her now. Her long, chocolate-colored curls contrasted her pale skin and perfectly framed her almond-shaped eyes, pert nose, and lips he’d bet were pursed more often than not. She gave him an encouraging head nod from her seat in the second row, and he walked to the center stage area of the room.

A little over three years ago, he’d been carried off the football field, and he’d known in his gut it’d been his last game, even as he tried to tell himself he could come back. He’d already had surgery on his torn ACL his senior year of high school, and instead of giving it time to fully heal, he’d pushed through the pain in order to play in college. After his second surgery, the doctors warned him that if he pushed much more, he could lose most of the mobility in his knee.

That almost hadn’t been enough to keep him off the field, but months after the surgery and a lot of physical therapy, he still couldn’t move as fast as he needed to, and he put what was best for the team above what he wanted. Now that his mom’s father had left him the Mustangs, he planned to do the same thing he had back then and make decisions that would be the best for the team. This was his second chance to do what he loved, and he wasn’t going to kowtow to his staff’s fragile feelings.

Seriously, what a bunch of overgrown babies.

He fastened the middle button of the suit coat he’d thrown on before the meeting and cleared his throat, impatiently waiting as the chatter in the front row gradually died down and all eyes finally lifted to him. “We’ve got a problem—a big one. Everyone’s gotten a little too comfortable, and a lot too complacent, and this whole organization’s turned into a total shitshow.”

Charlotte leaned forward, a finger in the air, and when he glanced at her, she mouthed, “Nice, remember? Be nice.” She mimicked waving something in front of her face, her way of reminding him to use the dangling carrot method, he was sure.

“It’s an unorganized mess,” he revised, and she gave him a thumbs-up, along with an encouraging smile. She had a great smile, too, one that made her cheeks stand out and softened her uber-serious, all-business edges. For a second, he forgot he was in the middle of a speech.

That’s it. No more looking her way.

She probably wouldn’t be smiling for much longer, anyway.

“I tried to give you all a chance and tell you what I thought you’d need to hear to light a fire under your asses, but instead you decided to whine and complain, and that’s not who I want for my team. You think it’s funny to have a fucking parade to celebrate a so-called perfect season without a single win? Well, now you can parade yourselves on out of here.” He narrowed his eyes on the front row. “Jimmy, Steve, Mark, Scott, John, Thomas, and Clint, you’re all fired. Thank you for your time with the Mustangs, but I’ve decided to go another way.”

Jaws dropped, and silence fell.

“Is this a fucking joke?” Jimmy asked.

Charlotte stood, a panicked gleam in her eye. “Now if we can all just keep calm, I’m sure—”

“This whole team’s a fucking joke,” Lance said. “And I refuse to be a punch line. So, as I said, the entire front row’s dismissed. Gather your things and go. Security will escort you out if necessary.

“As for the second row, you’re on thin ice. Prove yourselves or you’ll be looking for jobs with other teams as well. And if any of you’d like to resign”—he gestured toward the exit—“there’s the door.”

With his big speech delivered, he turned and strode out of the room. His heart beat faster, not from nerves but adrenaline. And okay, maybe a little bit of nerves. He had five months to restructure an entire team and have them up and running for preseason.

But he had contacts. There were plenty of guys waiting for a chance—both players and coaches—ones who wouldn’t squander it. This should’ve been done years ago, honestly. The older he’d gotten, the kinder and more sentimental his grandfather had become, and luckily Lance didn’t have those things to get in the way and cloud his judgment.

Once he was back inside his office, he reached for the whiskey decanter and glasses Grandpa Price had kept in the minibar behind his desk. Now he knew why.

The door to his office burst open and Charlotte stormed inside, none of the hesitation she’d done her best to hide during their earlier interaction. This time she was all fire and fury, and as his heart beat faster for another reason entirely, he again wondered how he’d missed her before.

The lid of the decanter clinked against the top of his desk as he discarded it. “Hello again, Charlotte. I’m guessing you came to commend me for taking care of things so thoroughly?” He shouldn’t stoke the flames, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She claimed to want professionalism, so he’d go over-the-top with it and see how much she liked it then. “I told you I’d fix it so you wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore, and I always keep my promises.”

“That’s not how… You can’t just…” She pressed her fingers to her temples and began to rub circles there. “You said you were a reasonable guy.”

“I am. I gave them a chance to get it together. Instead they complained to you about my methods and how I’d dared to demand they do their jobs, which shows me they were too far gone for second chances. And considering our pathetic record, it’s more like their fifth or sixth chance.” The only reason he’d given the coaching staff a shot at all was for his grandpa, and he was almost glad they’d failed because now he could do what he’d wanted to do in the first place. “In order to make the Mustangs a team we can be proud of, we need to start over.” He picked up his glass and tipped back the contents, sighing at the way the honeyed liquid burned and soothed on the way down—it was the good stuff. He set down his glass and met Charlotte’s gaze.

Laziness was nearly impossible to overcome, but passion could be shaped and molded, and this woman had it in spades—even if he’d love to point it toward other areas of the company. “I’m hoping you’ll stick around to help me with that.”

She crossed her arms, emphasizing her curves and her frustration at the same time. “Because you suddenly have a whole mess of job postings to make that’ll result in hundreds of résumés to sort through?”

“Yes. And because of all the people in that room, you’re the only one who’s been bold enough to tell me what you thought to my face. I have a feeling you’re very good at your job.”

“Oh, I am, but I’m not sure you want to hear all of what I’m thinking.”

He poured a couple more fingers of whiskey before glancing at her. “Did you want a glass?”

A semi-insulted sound came out. “Drinking on the job? That violates section three of the employee handbook.”

He bit back a smile, because there was stoking the flames and then there was asking for something to be hurled at his head. Idly he wondered how good her aim was. “So that’s a no?”

“No, thank you.”

He lifted his glass, swirling it to keep his hand busy, even as his eyes remained on the woman across from him. “But a yes to helping me restructure the organization, I hope.”

Exasperation creased her features. Uptight wasn’t his usual type—although, it’d been long enough since he’d dated that he wasn’t sure he even remembered what his type was—but there was something about her buttoned-up manner and the way she recited the sections of the handbook that sent a flicker of desire through him.

One he quickly smothered, because he had a whole organization to restructure and he knew better than to get involved with someone from work. A big ol’ spotlight was being shined on him now that he’d taken over the team, and from here on out, he wanted to make headlines for winning games, not for ridiculous reasons.

He’d had more than enough of that to last a lifetime, and he’d be perfectly happy if he never had to speak to a reporter again.

“I need this job,” Charlotte said. “I’ve been with the team for seven years and worked my way up, and I don’t want to have to start over somewhere else. More than that, I love my job. Like I said, I’m good at it.”

“And you’ll have plenty of chances to prove that to me by posting the listings and helping me sort through the replies.” She hadn’t been wrong about him needing help with that. He’d prefer someone familiar with the organization and positions involved, but if she wasn’t willing, he’d find someone who was.

She gave him a saucy head tilt. “Oh, I have to prove it to you?”

“Sure you don’t want that drink? You seem kinda wound tight.” He lifted his glass in unreciprocated cheers, and she scowled at him. After downing the contents, he tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening the silk noose. “I’d rather not fire you, Charlotte. What I’d like for you to do is channel all that frustration, turn it into positive energy, and”—he smacked a palm on the desk for emphasis—“help me do what’s best for the team.” He gave it a beat to sink in before adding a disclaimer. “But I’m not handing out guarantees, either.”

The tactic he’d often used while on the field didn’t have her standing straighter and hopping to it. Instead his inspirational speech earned more of an eye roll. “Let me guess, there are no guarantees in football?”

“Exactly. More crying than you’d expect, though. Possibly more than in baseball.”

The corner of her lips quivered slightly, so she’d obviously understood that he’d thrown her modified movie reference right back at her. Clearly she wasn’t ready to fully give up her anger quite yet, either. “Fine, I’ll help you restructure the staff. But this doesn’t mean you’re above the rules. You can’t simply yell ‘you’re fired’ at someone and be done with them. There are forms and certain protocols, and I hope you’re prepared for severance pay requests and wrongful firing lawsuits that might be brought against you.”

“I’ll take your suggestion under consideration. But for now, I think we’d better get to work on those job postings.”

“I’ll grab my laptop.” She took a few steps toward the door and then abruptly spun around. “I really hope you know what you’re doing.”

He kept his indifferent mask in place, but he couldn’t help thinking: I really hope I do, too.