was his friend. Friendships were rare, important. Sex was...sex. She was more than sex to him.
“Right.” He swallowed hard and hauled his gaze upward to her hazel eyes. “I’ll get right on reading that after the press conference.”
“Liar,” she retorted. “You’re putting me off again. I can’t force you to read it, any more than I can make you read the messages and emails from your former female companions.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, her rigid spine still plastered to the door, blocking his exit. It had never pleased her that he’d asked her to handle things like that from his inbox. But he needed her help deflecting unhappy ex-girlfriends, preventing them from talking to the press and diverting public attention from the team to his personal life. Adelaide was good at that. At so many things. His life frayed at the edges when she wasn’t around.
Plus, he was devoting every second possible to the task of building a winning team to secure his place in the Reynaud family. It wasn’t enough that he bore his father’s last name. As an illegitimate son, he’d always needed to work twice as hard to prove himself.
And Adelaide’s efforts supported that goal. He was good at football and finances. Adelaide excelled at everything else. He’d been friends with her since he’d chased off some bullies who’d cornered her in a neighborhood cemetery when she was in second grade and he was in third. She’d been so grateful she’d insinuated herself into his world, becoming his closest friend and a fierce little protector in her own right. Even after the time when Dempsey’s rich, absentee father had shown up in his life to remove him from his hardscrabble life in the Eighth Ward—and his mother—for good. His mom had given him up for a price. Adelaide hadn’t.
“Then, I’ll resume management of the personal emails.” He knew he needed to deal with Valentina Rushnaya, a particularly persistent model he’d dated briefly. The more famous a woman, apparently, the less she appreciated being shuffled aside for football.
“You will have no choice until you hire a new assistant,” Adelaide replied. Then, perhaps realizing that she’d pushed him, she gave him a placating smile. “Thank you for understanding.”
Hire a new assistant? What the hell? Was she grandstanding for something, like a raise? Or was she actually serious about launching her business right now at the start of the regular season?
“I don’t understand,” he corrected her, trying to talk reason into her. “You need start-up cash for your new company. Even without reading your plan, I know you’ll be depleting the savings you’ve worked so hard for on a very long shot at success. Everyone likes an underdog but, Addy, the risk is high. You have to know that.”
“That’s for me to decide.” Fierceness threaded through her voice.
He strove to hang on to his patience. “Half of all small businesses fail, and the ones that don’t require considerable investment. Work for one more year. You can suggest a raise that you feel is equitable and I’ll approve it. You’ll have a financial cushion to increase your odds of growing the company large enough to secure those merchandising rights.”
And he would have more time to persuade her to give up the idea. Life was good for them now. Really good. She was an integral part of his success, freeing him up to do what he did best. Manage the team.
The voices and laughter in the hallway outside grew louder as members of the media moved from the locker-room interviews to the scheduled press conference. He needed to get going, to do everything possible to keep their future locked in.
“Damn it, I don’t want a raise—”
“Then, you’re not thinking like a business owner,” he interrupted. Yes, he admired her independence. Her stubbornness, even. But he couldn’t let her start a company that would fail.
Especially when she could do a whole hell of a lot of good for her current career and for his team. For him. He didn’t have time to replace her. For that matter, as his longtime friend who probably understood him better than anyone, Adelaide Thibodeaux was too good at her job to be replaced.
He reached around her for the doorknob. She slid over to block him, which put her ass right over his hand. A curvy little butt in a tight pencil skirt. Her chest rose with a deep inhale, brushing her breasts against his chest.
He. Couldn’t. Breathe.
Her eyes held his for a moment and he could have sworn he saw her pupils widen with awareness. He stepped back. Fast. She blinked and the look was gone from her gaze.
“I’m grateful that working with you gave me the time to think about what I want to do with my life. I got to travel all over and make important contacts that inspired my new business.” She gestured with her hands, and he made himself focus on anything other than her face, her body, the memory of how she’d felt pressed up against him.
He watched her silver bracelet glinting in the fluorescent lights. It was an old spoon from a pawnshop that he’d reshaped as a piece of jewelry and given to her as a birthday present back when he couldn’t afford anything else. Why the hell did she still wear that? He tried to hear her words over the thundering pulse in his ears.
“But, Dempsey, let’s be honest here. I did not attend art school to be your assistant forever, and I’ve been doing this far too long to feel good about it as a ‘fill-in job’ anymore.”
He didn’t miss the reference. He’d convinced her to work with him in the first place by telling her the position would just be temporary until she decided what to do with her art degree. That was before she’d made herself indispensable. Before he’d started a season that could net a championship ring and cement his place in the family as more than the half brother.
He’d worked too hard to get here, to land this chance to prove himself under the harsh media spotlight to a league that would love nothing more than to see him fail. This was his moment, and he and Adelaide had a great partnership going, one he couldn’t jeopardize with wayward impulses. Winning wasn’t just about securing his spot as a Reynaud. It was about proving the worth of every kid living hand-to-mouth back in the Eighth Ward, the kids who didn’t have mystery fathers riding in to save the day and pluck them out of a hellish nightmare. If Dempsey couldn’t use football to make a difference, what the hell had he worked so hard for all these years?
“You can’t leave now.” He didn’t have time to hash this out. And he would damn well have his way.
“I’m going after the press conference. I told you I would come back for the preseason, and now it’s done.” Frowning, she twisted the bracelet round and round on her wrist. “I shouldn’t have returned this year at all, especially if this ends up causing hard feelings between us. But I can send your next assistant all my files.”
How kind. He clamped his mouth shut against the scathing responses that simmered, close to boiling over. He deserved better from her and she knew it.
But if she was going to see him through the press conference, he still had forty minutes to change her mind. Forty minutes to figure out a way to force her hand. A way to make her stay by his side through the season.
All he needed was the right play call.
“In that case, I appreciate the heads-up,” he said, planting his hands on her waist and shuffling her away from the door. “But I’d better get this press conference started now.”
Her eyes widened
