Home > Books > Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(11)

Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(11)

Author:Sara Cate

“Listen…” I say carefully.

“Do you have a moment to talk?” he asks, cutting me off.

“Of course,” I stammer.

Turning around, I look for Shelley, the owner of the rink and an old friend of my mom’s, but she must be in her office or out back having a cigarette. Instead of going on break, I gesture toward one of the old plastic booths against the wall. He nods and takes a seat, and it’s hard not to laugh at the sight.

Beau’s dad is huge, bigger than I noticed yesterday. He must be six-three with wide shoulders and a broad body. Like a…muscly dad bod. If that’s even a thing.

He also looks ridiculous in the booth because he must be a bajillionaire who hasn’t stepped foot in a roller rink or sat in a booth in his entire life. I’m sure if he takes women on dates, it’s on a yacht or to Montenegro, not to a cheap roller rink to eat pizza and drink beer. That’s far more my reality, which is fine. I mean…dates to Montenegro wouldn’t be terrible, but it’s just a sliver out of my league.

“What can I do for you?” I ask as I take the seat opposite him.

He opens his mouth and then shuts it, and it dawns on me that he’s about to bring up something that could be mildly uncomfortable, and I’m already dreading that it’s going to be about what happened yesterday. Especially after looking through everything on his website.

I quickly save him the discomfort. “If this is about yesterday, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine.”

“It’s not about yesterday,” he replies. “At least, not really.”

“About Beau then?”

His attention piques and it feels like our conversation takes a hard left the moment his son is brought up. “Have you spoken to him?”

My shoulders fall and I tighten my lips. “Mr. Grant, I told you. We broke up. I’m not going to talk to Beau anymore…”

It feels like a harsh line to deliver, but I think he needs to understand that Beau is out of my life for good. I can no longer be a lifeline to his son.

Something in him deflates, and his brow furrows as he leans back in his seat. Then he just comes out with it, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Ms. Underwood, I’d like to offer you a job.”

For a split second, I get excited. A job? A real paying, adult job. Something I would actually want to put on a résumé. No more corn dogs or antibacterial shoe spray.

Then I remember what I found last night—what he thought I was there to do, and heat floods my cheeks. “Oh…”

He clears his throat. “It’s a secretary job, Ms. Underwood. A regular secretary job.”

“Oh,” I repeat, this time with less hesitation. I keep my eyes completely averted from his gaze. “So…”

“Do you have a question?” he asks after a long awkward moment.

“There won’t be any…kneeling in this job?”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No kneeling. Mostly paperwork.”

I clear my throat, still keeping my eyes on the walls, the rink, the skaters…literally anywhere but at the handsome and intimidating man on the other side of this table.

He crosses his arms, furrowing his brow. “Is there something else you want to ask me, Charlotte?”

The way he says my name sends tingles up my spine. It’s the only reason I don’t correct him. No one calls me Charlotte. It’s Charlie and has always been Charlie since I was about eight years old.

It’s the only reason I finally draw my eyes toward him, letting our gazes meet. He’s so handsome, it’s almost hard to look at him, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. In fact, he almost seems to stare at me longer than is generally accepted.

“Did you think I was a…prostitute?” I ask, hovering over the table and whispering the last word, as if anyone could hear anything while “Groove is in the Heart” blares over a strobe lit rink.

He leans forward to match my position, his watch clanging against the linoleum table. “No. I didn’t think you were a prostitute.”

We simply stare at each other for a moment, both of us hunching over the booth and our faces so close, it probably looks like we’re either sharing dirty secrets or about to kiss.

“Are you going to expand on that or make me use my imagination?” I ask when he doesn’t give me any more information.

There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes as he licks his lower lip and leans away from me. “I think I want you to use your imagination. What exactly are you imagining?” That sounded flirtatious, but I don’t call him out on it. Instead, I answer his question.

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