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Stay (WAGs #2)
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Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never even met?
Hailey Taylor Emery has a hunch that her favorite client at Fetch—an anonymous virtual assistant service—is actually hockey star Matt Eriksson.
Although it’s against the rules for her to check his file, she’s 95% sure she spends at least part of each day texting with her lifelong crush and catering to his every need. Still nursing a wounded heart thanks to her recent breakup, Hailey is perfectly content with some harmless online flirting… until she has to meet her client. Face to face. Cue: utter panic.
Matt Eriksson is no stranger to heartbreak. He’s still not over the destruction of his marriage, and it sucks to be the only guy on the team who knows the truth—that hockey and long-term relationships are a toxic mix. He barely sees his kids, and dealing with his ex makes him feel insane. The only person in his life who seems to understand is someone who won’t show her pretty face.
But it’s nothing that a pair of fourth row hockey seats can’t fix. Hailey can’t resist the offer. Matt can’t resist Hailey. Good thing he doesn’t have to. Fire up the kiss cam!
Warning: Contains rabid hockey fans, misunderstood dick pics, hockey players at the opera and exploding ovaries.
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It’s All In the Grip
It’s a busy day in the offices of Fetch, Inc., but I finally manage to duck out of the office for an espresso around two. And when I return, carrying my cup toward my private office, I spot Tad the Techie knocking on my door.
“I’m right here,” I call out.
The tall, baseball-cap-wearing tech whirls around. Every time I see him he’s wearing that Toronto hockey hat. I wholly approve, since I’m the team’s number one fan.
“There you are,” he says, looking a little startled. His eyes come to rest on my espresso cup. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to take a coffee break before I have to leave.”
“Oh, sorry!” I scan my overworked brain, trying to recall a meeting I might have scheduled with him. I come up blank. “Got my cup already. Is there anything you needed to tell me about the servers?”
He blinks. “Servers are fine.”
“Phew.” I open my office door and walk past him. “So, I’ll, uh. See you next week?” He’s a contractor and not our employee, so I only see Tad on a semi-regular basis. Nice guy, though.
“Sure thing! Have a good one.”
I don’t even make it to my desk before I’m interrupted by another voice, this one belonging to my friend and employee, Jenny Dawes. “Hailey!” she cries from the doorway. “There’s two new action items in your queue.”
That was fast. My coffee jaunt took less than ten minutes. “Can I assume they’re interesting if you’re here to tell me about them?”
“Check your screen!” she says with obvious glee.
I nudge my computer mouse to bring the monitor to life. There are two new items in my queue, and they’re both interesting. In fact, one of them gives me an inappropriate thrill.
That’s exactly how glamorous my life is these days—a potential complaint is the highlight of my day.
Since I’m the co-owner of Fetch, Toronto’s premier virtual assistant company, only the most critical client requests cross my desk. These fall into two categories: clients who are naturally problematic, and clients who spend a lot of money on our services. The two newest action items contain one of each.
“Well?” Jenny prods. The smile on her face is downright giddy.
I sip my coffee. “I haven’t clicked on either of them yet. Come over here if you’re so curious.”
She very wisely closes my office door. Gossip isn’t the sort of thing we want my co-owner Jackson to overhear. Working with my ex-husband is already complicated enough—I don’t need Jackson thinking that I’m a bit too focused on one of our clients.
Jenny practically skips around my desk so she can see the screen. “Who are we going to open first? Mr. Dick or the one from your future husband?”
“You’re hysterical.” I take another sip and stall for a moment. It’s really not okay that I have an active fantasy life involving one particular client. And it’s worse that I’m so transparent. “I’m opening Mr. Dick first. His came through two minutes earlier than the other one. Company policy.”
Jenny sighs. “It’s high time we got someone to remove that stick from your ass. And then spank you with it. I wonder if your favorite client is naughty in bed?”
My traitorous brain has all kinds of dreamy questions about that client.
Focus, Hailey! Thou shalt not perv on clients.
As a point of discipline, I click on the other request first—the one from a client who’s given himself the unfortunate username of MrEightInches.
His username isn’t even the reason we call him Mr. Dick. This dude earned his nickname by managing to include his crotch in every photo he sends over. A month ago, our employees began flagging his requests as not-safe-for-work, which is why they now come directly to me or Jackson. Or Jenny if the two of us are unavailable. We don’t want to make any of our Fetchers uncomfortable.
Jenny and I think Mr. Dick is most likely harmless and definitely hilarious. So we often snicker together over his rather blatant attempts at getting our attention. Today’s request is titled: guitar tuner battery.
Sounds boring enough. But we know better.
When the photograph he’s sent resolves on the screen, Jenny snorts loudly in my ear. “Wow. This one might make the top ten list. It’s all in the grip, right?”
Sure enough, the photo is a prizewinner. The guitar tuning device has a rounded…head. There is really no other word for it. Mr. Dick has positioned his hand in his lap, palm up, his fingers gripping the tuner suggestively.
As if that isn’t enough, his actual, er, member is clad only in a thin pair of nylon track pants. As always, it looks really happy to see us.
“Good articulation of the glans today,” Jenny observes. “Our man is an excellent photographer. He really uses the sheen of that fabric to maximum effect.”