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Right. Sure. Whatever. My brand strategist can help me figure that out next week. It’s not like I’m going to run home and do homework for the next week. I have shit to do.

Except…I really don’t. It’s the offseason. I have a few appearances to make, but otherwise, my time is my time.

I should ask Ivy for her number. I should do…something. I’m not known for my patience, and biding my time until next week doesn’t particularly feel like something I want to do.

But I’ll figure it out. I’ll spend more time at the practice rink. I’ll work out.

I’ll figure out how to beat West at his little game.

I give Ivy one last long glance, and her eyes follow me all the way out the door. I stop by to see the receptionist, and there’s a recurring client opening at ten in the morning on Tuesdays. I book the recurring spot through September fourteenth, the week before training camp starts. After that, I won’t be able to stop in to see Ivy once a week. With any luck, I’ll have her stopping in to see me instead.

The week crawls, and I’m no closer to figuring out how to get Ivy Bradley to marry me when I walk back into the office six days later.

Everleigh begins the meeting in the same conference room we met in last week. Ivy is here with her coffee, and she looks…well, fucking radiant. She’s stunning in another blue dress, this one a royal blue with a cut that showcases just the tiniest bit of cleavage and leaves far too much to my overactive imagination.

“Good morning, Mr. Maddox,” Everleigh begins. “I’m going to leave the two of you to it. I’d like Ivy to work on your intake form, and I hope you gave some serious consideration to the questions we discussed last week. Ivy will report directly to me, but she’s all yours, and you will be her only client in addition to her assistant duties with me. Any questions?” Her tone is clipped, and it’s almost…fun to see her squirm. She’s pissed, and it’s because of me. She’s been sitting on this for an entire week, probably getting more and more angry about all of it.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I find it…fun.

I shake my head, and she walks out of the office. Ivy and I are mercifully alone for the first time ever.

She glances at me a little awkwardly for a beat, but I see it there. The worship. The attraction. The heat. All of it. All still there, even a week later.

She focuses on unlocking the tablet that’s been sitting beside her, and she taps around. “I’m just accessing our intake forms,” she murmurs.

I debate whether to tell her the truth or keep riding along with the little fib I made up last week, and as she turns all professional sexy on me, I go with the latter.

“We have your personal information from the online form, but talk to me about objectives. We know you’re launching a tequila brand, but what is your role, and what does success look like to you?” she asks.

“My role?”

“Are you the company owner, or simply an investor?”

“Owner.”

She taps in my answer. “All right, what would make this product a success in your eyes?”

I think fast. “Seeing it alongside my cherished 1942 on the top shelf of every bar in Vegas.”

“Mm,” she says, and the sound is practically a moan. My cock twitches. “What’s the current stage of your brand?” she asks.

“I’m sorry?” I say, not sure what she means.

“Is it in production? Ready to hit shelves? Or are we still in the concept stages?”

“Concept.” So, yeah, maybe I should’ve checked in with my lawyer over the last week. Or at least put some thought into what the fuck I’m doing.

“Okay.” She glances up at me, and she narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to get a read on me. Maybe I’m not as good of an actor as I think I am. She clears her throat and returns her eyes to her iPad. “Who’s creating the product?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Okay, let me rephrase. For a tequila brand, are you distilling it yourself, partnering with a distillery, or white labeling?”

“White labeling?” I ask.

“Taking over a brand that already exists.”

“Oh. Uh, I don’t know. Probably the white label thing.”