Irresistible Bachelors: Books 1-5 by Landish, Lauren (classic literature books .TXT) 📗

Watching the video of the press conference with Miranda at my side, I swear I look like an idiot, albeit a good-looking one. Part of it I blame on all the flashing cameras, but the other . . . I just look plain stupid.

I turn the TV off in disgust, resisting the urge to throw the remote control across the room. “I look like a moron!” I growl, unable to believe how embarrassing I’d acted.

Miranda, who’s sitting across from me, looking sharp and crisp in her white business suit and heels, her hair pulled up into an elegant bun with dramatic makeup painted on her face, just shakes her head in pity.

She’s probably wanting to kick my ass, but I’m already suffering as it is. The interview has spread like wildfire to several major news stations, even though it was filmed as a local piece. And I’m sure I’ll be the butt of everyone’s jokes come morning. I’ll probably end up as water cooler talk among the production crew.

“I should’ve nailed it,” I lament, “but I couldn’t focus.” And the sad thing is, I didn’t even get asked about the video and I still couldn’t get it together for more than a few moments.

Good God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

But deep down, I know exactly what’s wrong.

I want more. More than one night. I want to be able to ask Brianna about her day. I want to be able to share boring ass meals with her in this podunk little town. I even want to know simple shit like what her favorite brand of shampoo is and if she has to use conditioner on a daily basis.

Jesus, Gavin, did you seriously just think that? A very real fear begins to creep up from the depths of my stomach along with a feeling of alarm. I’m so fucked.

Miranda waves her hands to get my attention. “Earth to Gavin.”

My eyes refocus on her face and I clear my throat. “Yeah?”

She points a manicured fingernail at my head. “What was going on with you today? And why does it seem I have to keep asking you this same question lately?”

“I wasn’t feeling the questions.” I lie for about the tenth time. The lie is a lot easier to say than the truth. Miranda wouldn’t understand anyway, especially if I told her Brianna and I have basically only shared one night.

But she’s not buying it, an irritated scowl spreading across her face. “Are you serious? What’s there to feel? Those had to be the easiest questions you’ve gotten in a long time.”

Miranda stares at me expectantly, waiting for a response. But I have nothing to say. Quite frankly, I’m tired of my excuses. And I know she is too.

“Are you on drugs?” Miranda asks suddenly when I don’t answer. “Is there something I don’t know that you’re not telling me?” she adds.

I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

Miranda glares at me. “Don’t play stupid, Gavin, something’s going on. It’s like you’re on another planet this week. And don’t try to blame it on the nerves. You should be used to the spotlight by now.” She leans forward, giving me a direct look. “So what are you on?”

Irritation flares in my chest. “I’m not on anything,” I growl. “It disappoints me that you would even think that. You know I don't mess with that shit. The league would be on my ass in a second if I did.”

“Well, something’s going on!” Miranda hisses. “Because what I saw today” —she shakes her head, at a loss for words— “I’ve never seen one of my clients behave this way. If it’s not drugs, I'm worried about your health.”

“I’m fine,” I answer tersely, fed up with this whole conversation. I could tell her what’s going on, but somehow, I know it will make things worse. Besides, I have a reputation I need to maintain, and admitting that I’m getting lovesick will make me look weak.

Miranda’s scowl morphs into a compassionate frown. “Can I arrange to have a psychologist stop in and give you a checkup?”

I shake my head. “Miranda, I—”

She speaks over me. “We all have tough times in our lives, Gavin. It was before you and I met professionally, but I went through a divorce when I was thirty-five. I had some tough times then, too. Talking to a psychologist really helped.”

The revelation from Miranda makes my anger dissipate like clouds on a wind gust and I relax in my seat. “I know you’re worried about me, Miranda,” I say gently but firmly. “But trust me, you don't need to bring in a shrink. I’m going to get my shit together. Promise.”

For a moment, Miranda looks like she wants to keep pressing the issue. But then she rises to her feet. “I hope so, Gavin,” she says as she makes her way over to the door. “I really do,” she adds before she walks out, “Because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

When she’s gone, I look out the window, putting my head against the cool glass and hoping that I’ll stay true to my word.

* * *

I stare down at the note in the palm of my hand. It’s strange. I’ve gotten plenty of fan letters in the course of my playing career, and more than a few of them have been from women who’ve offered me everything from their hearts to their bodies to . . . well, damn near everything.

But this sweet little note, scribbled by a woman I barely even know, is more valuable to me than any of those.

I grin as I read Brianna’s neat handwriting several times.

Seven thirty tonight. Jeans, t-shirts, and regular shoes. I’ll see you downstairs.

-B

I fold the note and stuff it in my pocket, heading down to the elevators and making my way to the coffee shop. I recognize Mindy behind the counter as soon as I open the door. She must be pulling a double