Event planning the team summer party for the San Francisco Sabers had been a stroke of luck. The owner’s assistant had gotten her card from the usual team planner, who was booked solid on the date they wanted to have the party.
It had taken four months of nearly nonstop work, but as Tara took another turn around the ballroom, she nodded in satisfaction. They’d pulled it off. From the glittery yet understated NFL team decorations to the amazing food to the bar setup to the incredible band, it was perfect, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.
Tara mingled, earpiece tucked unobtrusively in her ear so she was only seconds away from hearing about a disaster, answering any questions, or getting help if someone needed it. So far, all the crises had been minor ones. She monitored bar stock, checked with catering to be sure the food was hot and plentiful, and meandered in and around the crowds. No one complained, and the smiling faces all around her told her everyone was focused on what they should be focused on—football and having a good time—which meant she could take a step back and simply observe.
The band was kicking, the crowd was thick on the dance floor, media was in attendance taking pictures of the star players, coaches were giving interviews, and for the first time that night, Tara exhaled as she leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that showcased the beautiful city.
“Why aren’t you out there dancing?”
She lifted her gaze to the six and a half foot hunk of gorgeous man in a tux who’d stepped up in front of her. Black hair, striking blue eyes: she knew exactly who he was—Mick Riley, San Francisco’s star quarterback, and her savior from earlier today. She’d been so rattled after having gotten lost in the basement of the team’s practice facility that it hadn’t even registered who he was until the elevator had taken her to the top floor. Okay, not just rattled, but a little tongue-tied. Who wouldn’t be when faced with a shirtless, sweaty, gorgeous hunk of muscle? God’s gift to women. Good Lord, he’d looked sexy. Unfortunately, all she could do at the time was ask for directions.
Idiot.
But then her synapses had fired, and she’d realized who she’d been talking to.
Mick Riley. The Mick Riley. Everyone who lived here knew who he was. Everyone who watched football knew him, too, no matter where they lived. His endorsement contracts put him on every television in America, and probably overseas, too, hawking a variety of products from deodorant to power tools. He was an icon, the all-American success story. And damn fine looking, too.
“We met earlier today,” he said.
“Yes, we did. And thank you again for the directions to the office.”
“You’re welcome. So, you’re a guest here tonight?”
She offered up a smile. “No. I’m not a guest.”
He arched a brow. “Party crasher, huh?”
She laughed. “No, I’m the event planner.”
“Is that right? You did a good job.”
Oh, man, she was getting warm all over. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”
“Not that I know a damn thing about throwing a fancy party, but I like to eat, and the food was good. There’s plenty of name-brand booze behind the bar, and the band is kick-ass.”
Okay, her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “Thank you again.”
Now if he would only say all those things to Irvin Stokes, the owner of the team. That would go a long way toward cementing her future.
“How late do you have to work?”
She tilted her head back and frowned. Was he hitting on her? She scanned the crowd, going blind from all the stunning female beauty in the room, many of whom had their gazes trained on Mick. Surely Tara was just misjudging his politeness for something else.
“I stay until the last person goes home.”
He laughed, and the dark husky tone skittered down her spine. “Honey, you could be up all night, then. These guys know how to close down a party.”
That’s what she expected, why she’d told the hotel they’d want the room for the entire night and guaranteed overtime for the band and extra staff for catering and the bar. “I do what needs to be done.”
“And you look fine doing it. How come you’re not wearing one of those butler outfits or a white apron?”
“I’m just the event planner. Everyone else does the real work.”
“So you get to dress up, supervise, make sure every play goes off without a fumble.”
“Something like that.”
“And look good in case someone wants to talk to you about booking a party.”
“Perceptive, aren’t you.”
“And they say football players are dumb.”
She liked this guy. He was funny and smart, but she still didn’t understand why he was talking to the help when the cream of the crop was here.
“I should probably move on,” she said.
“Someone beeping you in your earpiece or screaming for help?”
“Well ... no.”
He scanned the ballroom. “Something on fire somewhere or some high-strung chef in need of a Valium?”
Her lips quirked. “No.”
He moved toward her and took her hand, then slipped her arm in his. “Then you don’t really have to move on, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Good. I’m Mick Riley.”