19. Olivia

CHAPTER 19

OLIVIA

T here's a rap on my office door. I take a breath, draw myself up as tall as I can, and say, "Come in."

The door squeaks open. I've been meaning to have that oiled for ages but I only remember when somebody else comes in. "Miles," I say with a smile. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," he says. "Even if it wasn't my pleasure, it's not like I have a whole lot of choice, is it? Technically I'm doing part of what I'm employed to do."

"So now you care about your contract?" I say, raising both eyebrows as high as they can go.

He shrugs. "Only when you're involved." My eyebrows stay utterly motionless. That is decidedly not true. Miles has never ever done anything to make my life easier. Or at least that used to be the case.

To my relief, these days, he really does seem to be acting more like a normal person. Maybe I should feel like I'm being taken advantage of. But somehow, I don't. Somehow, despite everything, anytime he lets me down, he makes it back up to me. Anytime he has to put on his act, he lets down his guard a little more with me.

I just wish he'd learn to let down that mask more often for everyone else. I wish he could be brave enough to show everyone who he really is.

Anyway, it's not like we sleep together that much. Sort of.

"So, interview, yeah?" he says, sauntering into the room and dropping down into the seat on the other side of my desk without even being asked.

"Interview," I say, parroting him in agreement.

"What's it for?"

"Well, we're coming to the end of our star player's contract, so we thought we'd run a story about how you found your experience over here. Plus, you have been scoring really good goals lately, so it'll look good for everyone."

"Oh, I see," he says, leaning back in the chair with that ridiculous face he makes when he's pretending to be upset, all huge eyes and pouting. "I'm just a publicity stunt."

"Cheer up," I say. "Surely you should be used to that by now."

He shrugs. "I am. But I have a soft, sensitive side that nobody else sees."

He leans forward over my desk, his expression turning into that familiar one of attraction, and I flick him away with my fingers. "Enough of that. Let's get to work."

I pull out my phone and place it on the desk, pulling up the recording app so I can hit the red button. Miles stares down at the numbers ticking past. "This is on the record?"

"What? You thought I was just going to remember all your answers?"

"Well… I guess," he says with the desperation of someone who hasn't given any thought at all to this interview.

I shake my head in despair and decide to move on to the questions. "What has been your favorite thing about Miami?"

"The girls," he says without hesitation, but a beat later his face twists into something that I think must nearly be an apology, and he adds, "But for real, the people have all been great. The Macaws have been so welcoming, and everyone here is so friendly. People just don't smile as much in Britain as they do round here."

"So, the stereotypes are true. You guys are all incredibly grumpy."

"Me, no. Most other people? Absolutely, yes."

He starts leaning over the desk again, his hands creeping forwards as if he's reaching towards mine, about to get distracted by whatever fantasies of the office he has. I move on, sitting up straight and putting my hands in my lap. I'd at least like to finish most of this before he gets distracted. "Now, in the last couple of weeks, you've scored some really epic goals. Do you want to tell us about how you get ready for a game?"

"I run ten laps of the pitch, lie down with my shirt off for twenty minutes, then pick a girl in the crowd to pretend to be in love with. It's that simple, really." He stretches up, cradling his hands behind his head as he speaks, taking an easy kind of tone, like he's cool as a cucumber. So much for that sensitive side.

I roll my eyes at him, but I can't help a feeling of fondness creeping in. If he'd been acting like this with me when I first knew him, I would have found it intolerable. But I've gotten used to his jokey ways, and I know enough about him now to understand the subtext behind what he's saying. He's being sincere in his own way. He just has to hide it behind seventeen layers of what he would call charisma, but anyone else would call arrogance.

I start reading the next question on my list. They've been prepared by Tim, and I didn't have time to do more than just glance over them all, so the next question takes us both by surprise. "When you first came to the Macaws, your stats weren't that great. But since you've been here, they've only been going up and up. Has it been hard coming from a team where you're considered one of the worst players to one where you're considered one of the best?"

"Are you calling me shit or trying to ask me if I think the Macaws are bad?" He frowns hard, offended on behalf of his teammates. "Because they're not. These are great guys. They play tight. They all know each other — and we keep winning to prove that we're good. Would they still be good in the UK? So what if they don't have the experience to hit the Premier League? You play it slightly differently over here anyway, but at the end of the day, football is football, and honestly, you'd have to be so unbelievably shit to make me not enjoy the game."

He breathes out hard as he hits the end of his tirade, then adds, "As for me being the worst or the best? I'm neither. I'm kind of notorious, but I play hard. I score goals. It's what they brought me over for, and I'm in a place that I can thrive in. Of course I'm playing good. Plus, it helps that they've assigned a wonderful woman to help show me the ropes of Miami."

As he says this, his eyes dart down to my lips like he's only got one thing in mind. Knowing him, that's probably true. But he's still not finished. Looking at me in a way that can only mean one thing, he says, "I always do my best work when there's women around."

"All right, buster," I say, tapping off the recording. "You're getting yourself too excited. I do have some more questions for you, but maybe we should have a change of pace before your answers turn into total trash." I open my drawer and pull out a digital camera. I should have charged it last night; I have no idea if this thing is even going to turn on.

"Pictures?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "Are you being serious? You must have done a photo shoot before. Surely you've been interviewed for magazines at least once in your life."

"I know. I have. It's just that it's usually a professional who takes the pictures."

"Ouch," I say, rising to my feet. "Nice to know what you really think."

His mouth drops open in panic. "No, I— I didn't really mean it like that."

"Uh-huh," I say. I wonder how long I can keep him like this, apologetic and humble.

"No, I… I just… I wasn't— I just meant, well, you know," he stammers.

I grin at him, taking pity. "I'm just teasing. You're right. Usually, we do have a real photographer. But she's on holiday this week. And Tim said we need the copy for this article as soon as possible ." I emphasize every word in staccato, doing a bad impression of my boss. Miles laughs at it anyway, which makes me smile back. "So, this space isn't great for photos, but if Tim really hates them, he can wait until Sarah gets back next week."

"Where do you want me?" he asks.

I consider this for a moment. There isn't a lot of space in here, and I don't want to spend too long setting anything up, so I decide to keep it simple and point towards the blank wall next to the door.

"Really? You want to do a passport photo?" he asks witheringly. All of a sudden, he's acting like the king of style — which is rich coming from a guy who spends all day in sneakers and sweatpants.

I open my mouth and quickly close it again. "I guess I haven't really had a chance to think about it."

"You've clearly also never read a magazine, either. How can a woman in PR not know how to take a photo?"

I fold my arms in contempt, scrambling to think of a cutting reply.

Miles takes advantage of my wavering to dart forward and snatch the camera away from me, and before I can protest, says, "Hey, look, just perch here." He puts his hands on my shoulders and directs me round to the edge of the desk, encouraging me to sit up on it. I stare at him uncomfortably, not happy about any of this. "Come on, just cross your legs. Yeah, like that. Now lean backwards a little bit and drop your head. Oh, yeah, nice one."

He keeps giving me instructions, guiding me into different poses as he presses the shutter. I've never, ever felt the desire to be the one in front of the camera, but Miles's gentle direction quickly makes all my self-consciousness vanish.

"Now try going down on one elbow; maybe put your leg up a little. Oh, no, that looks silly," he flaps at me, and I huff as I obey. "Put your legs down. But lean sideways. Yes, that's perfect. Gorgeous."

A hot rush of embarrassment flows through me at the compliment. This is so not what we're meant to be doing, but somehow Miles is making me feel so special right now. I believe it when he calls me gorgeous. Even if he is just playing about, he's making my heart flutter.

"No, don't frown," he says as my internal complex starts showing on my face. "Give me a flash of that pretty smile. Perfect."

"You know," I say through gritted teeth, "most women being told they have a pretty smile by a guy like you would consider it workplace harassment."

He lowers the camera to raise both eyebrows. "And do you ?"

"I would if it was anyone else," I say. It's too raw and honest, so I quickly add, "I'm giving you a free pass this time."

"I'm much obliged," he says, bowing in what I can only imagine is a really weird imitation of a Victorian urchin.

With I sigh, I lean back on the desk again, expecting him to keep messing around with the camera, but instead he lopes back over to me, spinning so he can sit on the desk next to me. "Here, have a look," he says, pulling the pictures up on the screen.

Even though the screen is tiny and low quality, as I lean in, I can see what a good eye he's got for this. "Wow, Miles, I do look great."

"What, you thought I was lying to you?"

I take the camera and keep flicking through the pictures. Despite the office setting and the fluorescent lights and the fact I'm not at all dressed up for photos, he's managed to seat me so the little natural light I do get in here washes over my face, making my skin glow, my dark eyes pop. And though I want to make a snide comment, to diffuse any of the feelings that seem to be simmering in this room, as I lean against him so we can look at the pictures, I can't bring myself to.

"No. I wouldn't ever think that."