Ford looked surprised. “Really? I thought you guys were having fun.”

“We were. We are. But lately, it seems like things are getting . . . complicated.”

“Huh.” Ford thought about that. “Because you have feelings for him, you mean?”

Brooke pulled back. “Is it that obvious?”

He shrugged matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

“Well . . . why didn’t you say anything?” she asked indignantly.

“I assumed you knew.”

“No, I didn’t know. Not until last night, anyway, when I got out of the bathtub and found him in my kitchen cooking dinner. It just looked so . . . right.”

“Having a good-looking, six-foot-four, former football star turned hotshot prosecutor make dinner while you take a bath? Yeah, I’m guessing that’s an image a lot of women would say looks right.”

Brooke shot him a wry look. “I meant that it felt right. The two of us being together.”

“So maybe it is.”

Brooke thought that over, and then shook her head. “I’ve been down this road. Three times in the last eighteen months. I know how it turns out. Things will be good, at first, but then slowly he’ll start making comments about my job, and how many hours I work. And then the comments will turn into arguments, maybe even something about my success being ‘emasculating’—”

“Who said that?” Ford demanded, cutting her off.

“Spencer. The Hipster Photographer who came before the Hot OB.”

“An even bigger douche,” Ford scoffed. “You know how Cade’s different from those other guys?”

“He’s not a douche?” she guessed.

“Exactly.”

Brooke smiled, appreciating Ford’s flash of protectiveness, before turning serious. “I like Cade. A lot. But there’s so much happening at work these days, good things, and I need to stay focused. I’m pitching to the Bears on Monday, and I should be preparing for that, or working on the other 137 things on my to-do list, and not skipping out early on a Friday to relax. Because that’s not something I can typically do, and soon enough he’ll figure that out. And I don’t want to start this, only to have Cade tell me in four months that I’m not a ‘big-picture’ girl or some other ‘Sorry, sweetie, it really is you, not me’ line like that.” She shook her head. “I just can’t hear that . . . from him.”

Ford looked over and nodded. “Okay.”

They both fell quiet, looking out at the skyline. Finally, Ford spoke. “You know you brought this on yourself by not following the Rules.”

Smart-ass. “I did follow the Rules.” Well, mostly. “But I somehow ended up here, anyway.”

And, unfortunately, she knew what she needed to do about that.

Twenty-six

ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Brooke spent the fifty-minute drive from Chicago to Lake Forest getting in the zone.

She was focused, determined not to be distracted by anything going on in her personal life, as she ran through the various points she wanted to make with Curt Emery. While her pitch varied somewhat depending on the potential client and their food service needs and facilities, what always remained constant was the fact that she one hundred percent believed in Sterling and the business they were growing.

Nevertheless, she remained pragmatic about the likely outcome of this meeting with the Bears. While Curt Emery may have been interested enough to hear her pitch, it was still a long shot given the team’s long-standing relationship with Spectrum.

While driving, her phone chimed repeatedly with a stream of chatty text messages from Ian.

ARE YOU THERE YET?

HOW’S THE DRIVE?

THINK YOU’LL GET TO SEE THE PRACTICE FIELDS? TOO BAD THE TEAM IS AT TRAINING CAMP.

I’M ALREADY PICTURING THAT SKYBOX ON THE FIFTY-YARD LINE. HA.

Clearly, Ian wasn’t as down with the let’s-remain-pragmatic approach.

Just before three o’clock, Brooke walked through the main entrance of Halas Hall, the modern glass and steel building that served as the Bears’ headquarters. She checked in at the front desk, where the security guard handed her a visitor’s badge and directed her to the elevators.

Curt Emery’s office was located on the fourth floor, along with the rest of the team’s front office. Brooke stepped out of the elevators and was greeted by a receptionist whose desk sat before a large, panoramic photograph of Soldier Field. Only a minute or so later, a man in his midforties, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, approached.

He held out his hand and introduced himself. “Curt Emery. So nice to meet you, Ms. Parker.”

“Please—call me Brooke,” she said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

He guided her down a hallway. “We’re in a conference room this way.” He smiled at her tentatively. “So about our meeting . . . this is rather unorthodox for me. As you know, we’ve contracted with Spectrum for nearly twenty years for the food service at Soldier Field. And in the interests of full disclosure, I have a good relationship with the senior manager there who handles our account.”

“I understand,” Brooke said. “I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to tell you about the things we’re doing at Wrigley Field and the United Center—and the things we can do for your organization as well. But I promise, you won’t get a hard sell from me. Not yet, anyway,” she added.