Page 19 of Sealing the Deal

The relief must show on my face because she adds quickly, “But we’re doing this my way.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly. “Your way.”

She levels me with a glare. “I’ll attend the playoff games with you. And any official events you need to show your face at. I’ll tell you what to say, what not to say, and what you’re doing that pisses the fans off.” She’s not done. “And I want a contract.”

“OK,” I reply.

“In writing. That says you’ll sign over the deeds to my bar if I help you. No loopholes. No fine print. No clever billionaire tricks.”

I reach into the leather folder beside me, pull out the exact contract she’s describing, and slide it across the table. It’s a one-pager my lawyer drew up last night after we’d rushed through the purchase of the buildings owned by Flic’s landlord. The contract is short and simple. Flic helps me for the next four weeks and the deeds to The Hay Barn are hers. There are two spaces at the bottom waiting for our signatures.

Her eyes narrow. “How did you know I’d ask for this?”

“It’s my job to anticipate what someone’s next move will be,” I reply. “I would’ve given this to you earlier if you’d said yes then.”

She grumbles something under her breath about not being a chess piece, but snatches the contract, reads it carefully, then signs her name with a decisive stroke before pushing the pen toward me.

“How did you do all this so fast?” she asks, sounding more pissed than impressed.

“I have a team of lawyers on my payroll and a big bank account. It expedites most things.” I sign my name next to Flic’s and hand her the contract to keep. “Done.”

She slides the paper into the pocket of her jacket and fixes me with a look like she’s not sure whether she’s just sold her soul. Then she takes a deep breath and levels me with the same look she gave me at the bar, when she called me a rookie.

“You should ask the team to hit their socials and urge the fans to hold off on organizing more protests. I’ve already spoken to Jake and Chase, and they’ll post direct to the Red Zone tonight. The rest of the team should follow their lead if one of the Huberts calls them directly. They’re still part-owners, and while the fans are frustrated with them right now for selling to you, the players have deep respect for the Hubert family. The focus should be on the hope for the wildcard game on Saturday. There’ll be time for protesting later.”

I snatch up my phone to text Donny. Why am I not surprised the best piece of advice has come from a bar owner instead of anyone on my publicity team? “That’s good advice. Thank you.”

“I’ll stop pushing for protests, but don’t expect me to start kissing your ass on the Red Zone, Grayson. It’s my reputation on the line now, too. And I don’t want to be made into a meme of being eaten by a T-Rex.”

“You saw that one?”

She rolls her eyes. “The entire world saw it.”

“Have you got someone who can cover the bar on game days?” I ask.

A note of worry passes over her face. Or maybe it’s reluctance at the thought of handing over the keys of her kingdom to someone else. After a pause, she says, “I can ask someone I used to work with. He owes me a favor. It’s not like you’ve given me time to interview anyone new.”

“Perfect,” I say.

She scowls. “I wasn’t saying that like it was a good thing.”

“Still perfect,” I reply, deliberately unfazed.

Her eyes narrow again. “Here’s something for free—stop wearing suits that cost more than most people make in a month.”

I look down at my outfit. Tailored charcoal trousers, white shirt, open collar. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“They scream ‘New York billionaire.’ People hate that.”

I almost laugh. “I am a New York billionaire.”

“Exactly.” She gestures pointedly at me. “Stop dressing like it.”

“So, our first outing is to a department store,” I counter. “When are you available this week?”

“I’m not your mother, Grayson. Buy your own damn clothes.”

I bite back a grin. “Fair point. So—Saturday. My car will pick you up before the game.”