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toward the one
    person who, at the moment, best epitomized life's arbitrary inequities: Jack Stillman. Clod-hopping his way through life and
    having the Tremont business laid at his feet because he was a man and a former sports celebrity simply wasn't fair.
    Remembering Lana's words, Alex set her jaw in determination. Perfect record be damned. The infamous "Jack the Attack"
    Stillman had already dropped the ball—he just didn't know it yet.
    Chapter 4
    « ^ »
    " D on't drop the ball, Jack."
    Derek's words from much earlier in the workday reverberated in his head. In the middle of the crisis with the IRS guy, Jack
    had somehow explained away Tuesday's presence—later he'd given her a fifty dollar bill and told her not to come back—and
    he managed to convince Derek that he had everything under control, including the Tremont's presentation.
    Jack swore, then tore yet another sheet from his newsprint drawing pad, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder
    with enough force to risk dislocating his elbow. His muse had truly abandoned him this time. Three-thirty in the morning, with
    no revelation in sight. Forget the printer—this presentation would have to consist of raw drawings and hand-lettering.
    If he ever came up with an idea, that is.
    "Think, man, think," he muttered, tapping his charcoal pencil on the end of the desk, conjuring up key words to spark his
    imagination. Clothes, style, fashion, home decor . He needed a catchy phrase to convince people to shop at Tremont's.
    Shop till you drop at Tremont's spot.
    If you got the money, honey, we got the goods.
    Spend a lot of dough at Tremont's sto'.
    Okay, so he was really rusty, but at least it was a start.
    He sketched out a few unremarkable ideas, but a heavy stone of dread settled in his stomach—this was not the best stuff that
    had ever come out of his pencil. The tight little bow of Alexandria Tremont's disapproving mouth had dogged him all evening.
    The woman obviously didn't expect much and, despite his efforts to the contrary, that was exactly what he was going to deliver.
    Dammit, he hated wanting to impress her … not that it mattered now.
    Pouring himself another cup of coffee from a battered thermos, he raked a hand over his stubbly face and leaned back in his
    chair. Jack winced as the strong, bitter brew hit his taste buds at the same time a bitter truth hit his gut. He was washed up.
    Being at the top of his game—no matter what the arena—used to come so easily, and now he was struggling for mere
    mediocrity.
    His college football career had been a joyous four-year ride of accolades, trophies and popularity—a young man's dream
    that afforded him unbelievable perks, including as many beautiful women as he could handle, and enough good memories to
    last a lifetime. But for all his local celebrity and natural talent, he hadn't even considered going pro, partly because he didn't
    want to put his body through the paces, and partly because he'd simply wanted to do more with his life, to strike out and
    experience new settings, new people. And frankly, he'd always hated doing what was expected of him, whether it meant
    playing pro football or working for the family ad agency. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he missed striving for
    something beyond having enough beer to wash down the native food of wherever he happened to be.
    But inexplicably, the yearning that had lodged in his stomach the previous day had permeated other vital organs until he
    could feel it, see it, breathe it—the need to achieve. The need to make something out of nothing. The need to prove to others
    that he could hack it in any environment. The need to prove to himself that he still had his edge. And, he admitted with the kind
    of brutal honesty that comes to a man in the wee hours of the morning, Alexandria Tremont played a startling role in his
    reawakening. Just the thought of the challenge in her ice-blue eyes brought long dormant feelings of aspiration