CHAPTER 6: MOVING TO BOSTON

JAX POV

The Morning Bean Cafe is not my kind of place.

I know that before I even push open the door. The windows are large and welcoming, there's a chalkboard sign out front with a cute drawing of a coffee cup wearing a scarf, and everything inside is painted in warm, cheerful colors. There's a shelf of books in the corner and plants hanging from the ceiling.

It's the kind of place where people probably know each other's names and the barista asks about your day and actually means it.

I hate it.

But Mila picked it, and I'm trying to be... what? Cooperative? Civil? I don't know. But I'm here.

I push open the door, and the bell jingles cheerfully above me. The sound is aggressively pleasant, the polar opposite of how I feel right now.

I spot Mila immediately.

She's sitting at a table by the window, but she stands when she sees me. She's smiling—of course she's smiling—her cheeks softly blushed from the cold. She must've come straight from the office; she's wearing a pink pencil skirt and a cream blouse, with a light blue jacket draped over her arm. Her dark curls are pulled back in that sleek ponytail, and her heels are a bright tangerine orange today.

And her curves. God, her curves. The skirt hugs her hips in a way that makes my mouth dry.

I was hoping I was remembering wrong. Magnifying the memory in my head. But no. Here she is, the first time I've seen her since that disaster night at the arena, and she's so beautiful it actually irritates me.

"You're a difficult man to reach, Jax Kingston," Mila says as I walk over.

I frown, trying not to make it obvious I was just cataloging every detail of her body. "That's by design. Let's just get this meeting over with. Let me guess, you want an iced coffee?"

In line, the finance bro in front of us is giving the young barista grief about the ratio of his overly complicated drink being off. The barista is wearing a lumpy knit sweater in about seven too many colors and looks like she's about to cry.

Before I can tell the finance bro where to shove his coffee, he storms off, and Mila steps up to the counter.

"Oh my god," Mila says, "I adore your sweater."

The barista blinks in surprise. It doesn't even seem like a pity compliment; Mila's eyes are wide like the ugly sweater actually is the best thing she's ever seen.

"Thanks," the barista mumbles. "I knitted it myself."

Mila's face lights up as if she's just won the lottery. "No way. That's amazing. I've always wanted to get into knitting."

My jaw tightens as I watch Mila befriend the barista, who's gradually starting to smile again. How does she do that? Become best friends with someone instantly. She just turned this woman's whole shitty day around with a few kind words and the power of friendliness.

Maybe it shouldn't irritate me. But it does.

Somehow Mila's warmth just makes me feel my cold all the more.

"Let's just order," I say abruptly, "so we can get this over with."

They both fall silent, and Mila glances at me sideways.

"Sure." She gives the barista an apologetic look and asks for something with a double shot of espresso.

I raise my eyebrows. "Isn't it a little late for enough caffeine to kill a small horse?"

"What can I say? I have a high tolerance. Plus, I don't know how much of the coffee I'll get through before it gets thrown at someone."

"Okay," I mutter. "That was deserved."

I order a mint tea and get out my wallet before Mila can object. The two drinks total about seven bucks, but I pull some twenties from my wallet and drop them in the tip jar. I'm not a total asshole, and I feel bad about interrupting earlier.

Mila's face flickers—something confused, and then a tug of a smile.

"My favorite seat in my favorite cafe," she explains, leading us to a table by the window. "It always puts me in a good mood."

"It's fine," I shrug.

The cafe is, admittedly, nice. The dappled, fading sunlight filters through the tree outside the large window. It feels peaceful. Like something I could enjoy if I wasn't here with my obnoxiously peppy babysitter.

"So, let's talk." Mila drops a folder onto the table and spreads a few papers across the surface. "I've done a lot of thinking about what Rick said. I know this arrangement isn't what either of us wanted, but I think we can make it work."

I sip my tea, observing her. "You think if you do a good job, you'll get that promotion Rick mentioned."

"I want to get the promotion, yes. But I really do want to help you, too." She pushes a sheet of paper forward. "I've expanded Rick's original PR plan. This document outlines my responsibilities. I'll attend games, practices, media obligations, and social events."

My jaw ticks. "You want to come to social events with me?"

Great, this only gets worse. Having her watch me at games is one thing. But following me to team parties?

I value my privacy. Hell, I haven't even told my teammates about what happened with Jess yet.

She takes a sip of her coffee. "If the social event is public or team-related, yes. Being traded by your team and dropped by your agent would be a very bad season, agreed?"

Well, yeah. I can't argue with that.

"So what—your mere presence is supposed to keep me in line? What are you going to do if I get myself into trouble?"

"Just imagine I'm Rick. You'd have to be insane to spiral right in front of your agent."

"See you as Rick?" I hold back a laugh. "I don't know about that."

"Well, just try it." She points to a dotted line. "You just need to sign here."

I scan the text. Contract bullshit.

"And this is?"

"Just a formality. Rick asked me to get your signature."

"That's a lot of words for just a formality." I lean back. "Maybe I don't want to sign."

She leans forward, and I try to ignore how her scent hits me. Something sweet, like vanilla and honey. "If you don't sign off and follow this plan, you're going to get traded. That's just a fact."

She holds my gaze. Damn. I can see where her negotiation skills come into play.

She's right. Fine.

"I'll think about it," I say, standing up and heading for the door. "Let's go somewhere where I can think more clearly."

She frowns, quickly rising and downing the rest of her coffee. "Where exactly might that be?"

I shrug. "You'll see."

"Thank you!" Mila calls back to the barista as we walk out.

The bell above the door jingles again—a bright, twinkling sound like wind chimes.

It suddenly reminds me of something else, too.

The voice of one inconveniently pretty junior agent.