When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It's the first day of my big-girl job—the kind of opportunity one should really try not to fuck up, and I'm already screwing myself by running late. After all, it wasn't just my impeccable GPA and references that landed me this gig. No, I have Brian to thank for this.
Growing up, the man was a second father figure to me. His daughter Esme and I met in elementary school, and soon enough, I spent more time at their lavish mansion than I did at my own home. I didn't care what her father did for a living when we were younger, but now, as I stare at my reflection in the body-length mirror in my bedroom, I'm more than grateful to be connected with the owner of the California Cyclones, Los Angeles's professional hockey team.
Flicking my stare over my body in the reflection, I nod in approval at my outfit—capris that hug my figure, a pair of chucks, and a black and white Cyclones jersey gifted to me by Brian himself. Sometimes, I suspect he granted me this position out of pity, but I never dwell on that assumption for too long. If I do, I'll wind up declining this job, and I need this job. Fresh out of college with a mountain of debt, any twenty-two-year-old couldn't refuse this offer. For the next two years, I'm contracted to be the team's newest photographer, and today I'm getting a chance to meet the boys.
And I'm already running behind.
Never letting my eyes drift above my shoulders, I deem the outfit acceptable and race out of the apartment. Because of this job, I can move to a swankier place further away from the city in a few weeks. The apartment I currently live in is decent, but it's not in the best section of town, and I'd prefer a quieter, suburban area rather than attempting to fall asleep to horns wailing and drunk people shouting throughout the night.
I lock the apartment door and head for the stairs, cursing when that nagging, unnecessary voice floods my head. Did you turn the stove off?Are you sure you locked the door?
Yes, I checked the stove three times after finishing my eggs, but I know how this will play out, and I'd rather not be even more late than I currently am. This checking thing happens frequently, and as much as I try to ignore it, my body seems incapable of doing so.
With my nails making tiny crescents in my palms, I sigh and re-enter the apartment to ensure the stove is off for the fourth time. Then, while I'm already tanking any chance I have at making a good first impression, I twist the handle of the front door three times in order to ease my fears.
***
As expected, LA traffic was horrendous, and I swear, it took even longer to make it through security and gain the proper clearance to get inside the stadium. Then, I had to wait while a badge was created for me. They claimed carrying this badge would make it easier to come and go from now on, but none of that information helped today because when all was finally said and done, I was almost thirty minutes late for the photoshoot.
