He glanced at his computer screen, which was apparently in sleep mode, and grunted. “You’re not supposed to be on investigative trips. I hired you to do lifestyle pieces.”

“I know. And I’m sorry about being late, but I think you’ll forgive me when you hear what I saw while on my trip. I drove out to take a look at Jensen Lerner’s place. You should’ve seen the number of suits going in and out of his house.”

“Beaumonde—”

She plowed on, too excited to share the information to pause for Trey’s questions. But by the time she was done spilling all of the evidence she’d gathered, she could tell he was only half listening.

“Sounds interesting. And hard to prove.”

She clenched her teeth, uninspired by Trey’s lack of enthusiasm. “I understand that. I plan to get facts. But you know how big this could be if it’s true? If they’re cheating and boosters are really paying players, that could shut down the entire football program.”

He waved his hand, a dismissive flip of the wrist that told her he was planning to ignore everything she’d said. “Keep me up to date with what you find. But make sure you don’t lose focus on what I hired you for in the first place. Your notes on the elderly fantasy football league story lacked your usual enthusiasm and level of detail.”

She resisted the urge to shake him. She’d been hired to research what most of the office considered fluff. Feel-good pieces that filled the space between the daily score updates and hard-hitting stories the network was known for. She enjoyed her job and believed those stories were just as important to tell, but she knew she’d need to bring in more breaking news–worthy pieces if she wanted to be seen as a serious on-air contender. She craved being in the action, there on camera sharing her passion in front of a live audience instead of from behind a desk. “I brought you the facts. You know I’ve never slacked. I don’t plan to start now.”

Trey’s face softened and the vein that had begun throbbing at his temple smoothed. Suddenly, he looked like the kid quarterback she’d met her freshman year again—the guy with whom she’d attempted her first real relationship. “I know. You’re a good reporter. But this is distracting you, and I don’t want you spinning your wheels on something that will be near impossible to prove.”

She could hear the underlying message in his words—Don’t fuck things up, Beaumonde. He’d gone out on a limb to get her in this position, and his name was riding on her doing the job he’d hired her for. “Right. I won’t let it interfere again.”

She rose to leave.

“Hold up, Charli. There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

She sat back down, a little stunned that he’d used her first name. He never did that—even when they’d dated, he’d called her Beaumonde. Maybe this was going to be it. The day she’d been dreaming about. Her heartbeat ticked upward. “Yes?”

“We didn’t select you for the sideline reporter position.”

A short, emotionless sentence—one that managed to hit her like a dump truck.

She blinked, words escaping her. She hadn’t gotten it? They’d picked that smarmy-ass Pete over her?

Trey took a sudden interest in the pen he was rolling between his fingertips. “We just didn’t think it was the right fit. We feel your strengths are in the behind-the-scenes work.”

If the first revelation stole her breath, this one downright demolished her. Not only had she not gotten the position, but they didn’t think she was meant for an on-camera job? Her heart climbed up her throat and lodged there. “I don’t understand. You told me you thought I’d be a great candidate for it. And Pete froze up when we did our auditions. You think he’s better suited for TV?”

Trey shifted in his seat, set the pen down, and folded his hands on his desk. “No, we didn’t go with Pete either.”

Thoughts raced through her mind, knocking into each other, and tumbling. “Then who?”

Trey’s gaze flicked toward the door and he cleared his throat. “Uh, well…”

Oh, shit. She knew that look. He’d had the same one when he’d admitted he’d run up a gambling debt in college and had used money she’d lent him for rent to pay it off. It was the I-just-totally-screwed-you look. She followed his gaze, and realization clamored in her brain.

She gripped the arms of her chair to keep herself from leaping across the desk and choking Trey. “The blonde?”

He winced. “She’s been really successful hosting a fashion show on the web.”

“Fashion?” Her voice had gone too loud, but she couldn’t help it. “You’re going to put a fashion reporter on the sidelines? Does she even know what a touchdown is?”

“She was a baton twirler in college so she has been on the sidelines before.”

“Oh, Trey, come on.” Her head felt ready to explode. Being on the pep squad was now a qualification?

“She has good timing and a great speaking voice.”

“And big tits and legs up to her ears,” Charli countered.

His jaw twitched, though he was obviously trying hard to keep his impassive business face on. “When we showed audition tapes to a focus group and our sponsors, she got the best scores.”

“No doubt that focus group was all dudes.”

“Eighty-five percent of our viewing audience is men. And yes, men don’t mind watching a pretty girl deliver their sports information. I didn’t create that fact—it just is.”

And 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.

FIVE

“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.”