she wasn’t a pretty girl. He hadn’t said it, but he might as well have. “So if I looked like her, then I’d be the one with the job?”
“No.” Trey rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows, as if stalling to search for the right words. “Charli, I think you’re great. Your sports knowledge is unparalleled. But the group didn’t find you easy to watch. It’s not about looks as much as vibe. Viewers want a guy with an air of authority or a real girly girl. Not…”
“Me.” The tomboy. The girl who felt more comfortable in a locker room than a nail salon. The ugly-duckling daughter who wasn’t worth sticking around for.
He met her eyes. “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
Trey did look like he felt like shit about it. And at least he hadn’t pulled punches. She’d rather hear the truth than some manufactured attempt to make her feel better. Even if the truth had sliced and diced her.
She rubbed her lips together, willing herself to keep it together. “What about the weekend anchor position coming open next month?”
He sighed, tilting back in his chair. “Obviously, you have the right to apply for it. Pete already put his name in for it, too. But I can’t see there being a different outcome. The same criteria are going to apply.”
“I’ve got to get to my desk,” she said, standing, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in her pants. She needed to get out of there before she cried like some loser.
Trey rose as well. “Beaumonde, don’t let this get you down. There are behind-the-scenes positions that pay more than the on-air ones. With your skills, you’re going to move right up the chain.”
The gritted teeth smile she gave him made her face hurt. “Right.”
“And—”
She raised her hand, cutting him off. “Stop. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. “Of course you are. You’re the toughest woman I know.”
And therein lay the problem.
She walked out of his office, the tattered threads of her childhood dream unraveling at the seams with each step.
Maybe her mother had been right to laugh at her.
“Get down from there,” Grant said, using his most authoritative tone. “Now.”
Charli’s cat licked a paw and gave him a glance from atop the cabinets that seemed to say, I’m sorry, were you talking to me? Because I couldn’t give a shit. Grant grunted. The damn feline had gotten himself stuck up there and anytime Grant climbed up to get him out, Tom hissed and swatted at him. He didn’t think he could find a Tom Brady he disliked more than the quarterback version, but this cat was moving up the charts.
This was ridiculous. Grant had horses that would approach at his subtlest signal. Had owned dogs he’d been able to train in a matter of hours. Hell, he could walk over to The Ranch, snap his fingers, and a line of subs would be kneeling at his feet in half a second. But this cat—this cat was topping him.
He picked up the food bowl he’d set out earlier and shook it in Tom’s direction. “Come on. You must be hungry.”
God knows the cat had emptied all the contents of his stomach in that carrier on the way over. Grant’s truck was never going to smell the same.
The front door squeaked, and Grant peered through the pass-through to find Charli stepping inside. She closed the door behind her, set her bags down, and then sagged against the solid wood, shutting her eyes and running her hands over her face.
The simple despair of the move sent all his worry sensors going off. The cat forgotten, he headed out of the kitchen and into the lamp-lit living room. “Hey, you okay?”
She startled, her lids flying open and her hand going to her chest. “Grant.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He crooked a thumb at the kitchen. “I had stopped in to check on the cat.”
“Oh.”
He took in her red-rimmed eyes, her pale cheeks, and moved closer. Tentatively. He wanted to touch her, to protect her from whatever it was that had put her in this state, but knew that would be a supremely unwise move. “Did something else happen?”
She pushed off the door and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I’m fine.”
“Well, obviously something’s upset you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but can we not talk about this?” She grabbed her bags, took a wide step around him, and made her way toward the kitchen.
His jaw flexed as he held back the demand to know more. He’d said he’d give her space and already he was itching to push her for information. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off his instinct to control the situation, and followed her into the kitchen. “I’m not trying to pry, but I need you to be an open book when it comes to any strange things happening, any threats, any information that may help us figure out who’s after you. That’s why you’re here.”
“I get it. But there’s nothing to report. I’ve had a long day. I’m tired. My boss is a dick. End of story.” She set her canvas grocery bags on the counter and started unloading things. “I want to have a glass of wine, watch some mindless TV, and go to bed.”
“No television in here.”
“What?” She sounded truly horrified but didn’t turn around.
“People come here to relax and get away, not to watch Lifetime movies.”
“Fabulous. Guess I’ll be watching on my computer then.”
He grabbed the bottle of the merlot she’d set on the counter and grimaced when he read the label. “Darlin’, I can’t let you drink this. It’s crap.”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “It’s fine. It was on sale, and I’ve had it before.”
He unscrewed the top and sniffed. God-awful as he expected. He tilted the bottle over the sink and poured. “You’d be better off drinking grape soda.”
“Hey!” She turned around and made a grab for the bottle, but most of it was already swirling down the drain. “I spent ten bucks on that.”
“They robbed you. I’ll bring over a bottle of my own stock. I promise you it’s worth more than ten bucks and will go down a lot smoother.”
She slammed the bottle down on the counter and shot him a look that could wilt flowers. “Goddammit. You
