“I’d have said yes so I could see you every day.”

  “Good. Now get to work. I’m going to find some musicians to snap photos of now. I’ll see you after work,” I said.

  “I’ll see you after work,” he echoed, then followed the nurse and the patient into the job that he alone could do.

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny

  * * *

  Jess

  * * *

  I married him anyway six months later. Sometimes you just know when it’s right. Besides, when you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you’d be stupid to let a little thing like an ocean, or a passport, or a nationality stand between you.

  We said I do at the L.A County Courthouse. We said it because we wanted to. Not because we had to. But because we were ready.

  I wore a white sundress and carried a bouquet of daisies. He wore slacks, a white button-down, and the cuff links I’d given him. The ceremony lasted all of two minutes, and then the justice of the peace pronounced us husband and wife. We signed the marriage certificate, and then we walked out of the courthouse into another perfect day. The sun was dropping in the sky, tipping near the horizon. We were living together now. Anaka had moved into her own place, and William was working hard at the hospital. Medical school was insane, and we didn’t see each other much, but we made the most of our time together. We had time together. That was the best part of all.

  “You made me an American,” he said, holding my hand as we walked down the street.

  “You made me happy,” I said, squeezing his hand in emphasis, as I smiled at him.

  “You’ve done the same for me.”

  “There’s only one thing we haven’t figured out yet, William,” I said, as we headed to his motorcycle a few blocks away.

  “What’s that?”

  “Since I’m giving you the thing you want most, I’m going to insist you take my name now that I’ve made you a citizen.”

  He laughed. “But that’s where you’re wrong, Jess. You’re what I want most in the world.”

  “Then you’re mine forever, Mr. William Leighton.”

  “Mrs. Jess Harrigan,” he fired back at me.

  “We can keep this up for a long time.”

  “Like, say, forever?”

  “Yes, forever,” I said, looking at him and loving the playful glint in his eyes.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, then stopped walking and pulled me in close. “And now I’m going to kiss my bride.”

  As the sun began to set, we kissed on the Los Angeles street for a long, long time. When we pulled apart, he smiled that boyish smile I adored. “So what happens next?” he asked.

  “I think this is where they roll the credits.”

  “And after the credits?”

  “Nobody knows what happens then,” I said.

  “We should find out.”

  “Actually, I think I know what happens.”

  “What happens?”

  “They live happily ever after and eat ice cream.”

  “Then hop on my bike, wrap your arms around me, and let’s go to the ice cream shack.”

  When we arrived at the beach, I ordered chocolate with a chocolate shell, and took a big bite. It tasted delicious. So good, in fact, that I shared it with my husband.

  THE END

  * * *

  If you enjoyed STARS IN THEIR EYES, you’ll probably get a kick out of Jillian and Jones’ story in MOST LIKELY TO SCORE! This sexy forbidden romance between a star athlete and his publicist is available everywhere!

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Jones

  * * *

  I’m buck naked.

  I often am.

  I’m not an exhibitionist. I simply find I don’t have a need for clothes most of the time, unless I’m on the field or at a public appearance. Obviously.

  Pretty sure I was one of those naked kids. You know the type. Runs around in the sprinkler in his backyard in the buff. Streaks down the hallway with nothing on. Oh wait, that was me in college, too, and I did that stunt on multiple occasions. So often in fact, I was nicknamed Flash. I was fast. Still am. Like a motherfucking silver bullet.

  Right now, I’m all in with the birthday suit attire, the costume for the annual Sporting World body issue.

  Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. I do have one thing on—my Adam’s fig leaf comes in the form of my hands holding a strategically-placed football to cover the goods.

  The pigskin is doing its part to make this photo printable in the magazine, though all the shots of star athletes in this issue are in the nude. A tennis player will lob a ball, the racket covering her breasts and her lunge obscuring other not-safe-for-work parts. A swimmer will glide through crystal waters, the angle ensuring it’s not a triple-X centerfold shot.

  The photographer with the ponytail and lip piercing snaps pictures of me and asks for a smile.

  I oblige.

  “Love it,” Christine says emphatically, her lips and that metal hoop in the bottom one the only parts of her face visible since the lens covers the rest. “How about a little tough-guy look now?”

  Because tough guys hold footballs in front of their junk.

  “This is my best badass pose,” I say, narrowing my eyes and staring at the camera like I’d stare at the secondary of the Miami Mavericks.

  “Oh yes, more of that, right, Jillian?” Christine shouts to the other person here in the studio with us.

  That person is Jillian, and she hasn’t looked my way since I strolled in here and dropped my drawers. Damn shame.

  From her spot leaning against the far wall, the team publicist answers in a crisp, professional tone I know well. “Exactly. We love his tough-guy face.”

  She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

  I keep working it for Christine, doing my best to make sure my blue eyes will melt whoever is looking at the picture when the magazine hits newsstands and Internet browsers in another few weeks.

  It’s an evergreen kind of issue, since the body edition is one of the most popular. Gee, I wonder why. I’ve no doubt this shot of me with a football for my skivvies will quickly surpass the previous most-searched-for image of yours truly—the game-winning catch I made in the end zone in the Super Bowl two years ago.

  But, to be fair, there’s another shot of me that’s searched for maybe a tiny bit more. I like to pretend that shot doesn’t exist.

  “The camera loves you,” Christine croons as the snap, snap, snap of the lens keeps the rhythm.

  “The feeling is entirely mutual,” I say, pursing my lips in an over-the-top kiss.

  Christine laughs. “You are my favorite ham in all of sports, Jones. That’ll be a perfect outtake for our website.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” Jillian chimes in. “Make sure to send me a copy for social, please.”

  “Absolutely,” Christine answers.

  I sneak a peek at the dark-haired woman by the wall, that silky curtain of sleekness framing her face as she smiles a bright, buoyant, outgoing grin at the photographer then drops her head back down.

  Damn.

  Jillian Moore is one tough nut to crack.

  I’m nearly naked in front of her, and she hasn’t once looked my way.

  As the woman behind the lens shoots another photo with my favorite ball covering my favorite balls, Jillian doesn’t even spare another glance.

  I’m going to need a whole new playbook to get this woman’s attention.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  Jillian

  I won’t look down.

  I repeat my mantra over and over, till it’s branded on my brain.

  This might very well be my biggest challenge, and I mastered the skill of eyes up many years ago.

  But now? As I stand in the corner of the photo studio, I’m being tested to my limits.

  I’m dying here. Simply dying.

  The temptation to ogle Jones is overwhelming, and if there was ever a time to write myself a permission slip to stare, now would be it. An excuse, if you will. For a second or two. That’s all.

  The man is posing, for crying out loud. He’s the center of attention. The lights shine on his statue-of-David physique. Michelangelo would chomp at the bit to sculpt him—carved abs with definition so fine you could scrub your sheets on his washboard, arms that could lift a woman easily and carry her up a flight of stairs before he took her, powerful thighs that suggest unparalleled stamina, and an ass that defies gravity.

  I know because I’ve looked at his photos on many occasions. In the office. Out of the office. On my phone. On the computer.

  In every freaking magazine the guy’s been in.

  It’s my job to be aware of the press the players generate.

  But it’s not my job to check out his photos after hours; however, I partake of that little hobby regularly. He gives my search bar quite a workout.

  Still, I won’t let myself stare at him in person, not in his current state of undress. My tongue would imitate a cartoon character’s and slam to the floor.

  If I gawk at him, I’ll start crossing lines.

  Lines I’ve mastered as a publicist for an NFL team.

  It’s something my mentor taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. Lily Eckles escorted me through the locker room my first day on the job and said, “The best piece of advice I can give you is this: don’t ever look down.”

  I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?

  When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.

  Everywhere, there were dicks.

  It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.

  The truth of pro ballers is simple—they let it all hang out all the time, and they love it.

  So much so that the running joke among the female reporters who cover the team is that with the amount of swagger going on in the locker room when ladies are present, the TV channels should all be renamed the C&B networks.

  But when you work with men who train their bodies for hours a day, and then use those same physiques to win championships, you can’t be a woman who ogles them in the locker room.

  Can you say tacky, trashy, and gauche?

  It’s not easy, but after all these years with the Renegades, I’ve learned how to handle the locker room games.

  The guys will drop pens.

  The guys will drop bandages.

  The guys will drop trou.

  Astonishingly enough, there’s never a need to pick up a pen, a bandage, or a player’s pair of pants for them, but they’ll ask. Oh yes, will they test anyone with a pair of breasts.

  Many women fail.

  I’ve witnessed this initiation of every female reporter who’s set foot in the locker room on my watch. Last year, a new gal from an online outlet let her big eyes stray across the entire offensive line. Not only did she get an eyeful of skin and meat, each of the three-hundred-pound-plus linemen did a little dance and shimmy for her. Her face turned beet red, and the next time she appeared in the locker room, all the guys went full synchronized monty, singing, “Take it all off.”

  She laughed and tried her best to interview them.

  But their answers were straight out of the bullshit handbook and became even more ridiculous the more she giggled as they talked. She never earned another assignment to cover the team. They didn’t take her seriously after she checked them out.

  I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.

  That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”

  That piques my interest. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. For me, too, since I pitched him for the issue. Not only does he have the body, he has the personality to shine through.

  I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.

  “Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.

  “That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.

  “That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”

  I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.

  Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.” She winks in his direction, making sure he knows we’re kidding.

  “That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.

  My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.

  Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.

  Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.

  “I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.

  I glance up from the viewfinder and keep my gaze on Christine, whispering, “These shots are to die for.”

  Christine gives a knowing smile. “No doubt. I might need some for my personal stash,” she says under her breath.

  I nudge her. “Naughty girl.”

  “One of the perks of the job.”

  Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away making me catch my breath, he shifts something to his shoulders.

  I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.

  His towel.

  His freaking towel is on his shoulders.

  Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.

  Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.

  I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “You’re the ultimate ham,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.

  May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.

  “Oink, oink,” Jones snorts.

  Christine laughs. “I’m sure she means pig with great affection.”

  “I accept her compliment one hundred percent. Pigs are fine creatures,” he says. I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine. His blue eyes are the color of a lake under the summer sky. His jaw is strong and square. His hair is dark and cut short.

  For the briefest of seconds, I’m so damn tempted to let my eyes wander down his pecs to his belly, then lower still. I’m only human. I can’t help it. I want to see what was hidden behind the football. But I’ll be either disappointed or ecstatic, and since I’ll never be able to conduct a thorough investigation of any of his parts, it’s best to do what I’ve practiced for many years. I lift my chin, look away, and review the photos.

  Flipping through every gorgeous shot.

  “I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.

  It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.

  “No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” His eyes darken as he stares at me with something like heat in them, a fire that makes no sense to me. “I hope it was yours, too.”

  I blink. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?” I’ve no idea why he’s acting this way. Why he’s dipping his words in the innuendo fondue more than usual.

  He shrugs happily, tugging the towel off his neck. “Just saying, I hope it’s not too hard for you to have to be here.”

  “It’s not too hard at all,” I say, taking my time with each word, so I don’t overstep, or read something into nothing. He sounds like he’s flirting, but that’s his MO. The man has been known to toy with me on many occasions. He’s a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.

  “It’s not?” He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Hmm. I thought it was.”

  With a deadpan tone, I say, “Nothing hard about being with you. In fact, I’d say it’s a veritable barrel of monkeys.”

  He laughs, running that towel over his head, even though his hair isn’t wet. “You know what they say about barrels of monkeys.”

  “No, what do they say, Jones?”

  “They get into monkey business.” He turns, tosses the towel to the floor, and strolls away.

  Mayday, Mayday. The plane’s going down. I’m about to get a full serving of perfect booty in my ocular zone. I snap my gaze to my cell phone. Dear God in heaven, thank you for making phones. Thank you for giving us devices that are useful for distraction at moments like this. As I scroll through my messages as if they’re the height of fascinating, I try to figure out what he’s doing with his towel games.