She brushes a kiss on my lips. “Some days I still can’t believe it’s real.”

  “And I’ll spend a lifetime showing you how real my love is.”

  She threads her hands through my hair, and we kiss, kneeling on the floor of the roller rink.

  When she breaks the kiss, she lifts her hand and gazes at her ring. The way I see it, even if I don’t have a ring, there’s no reason she shouldn’t.

  Besides, there’s always next year.

  FINAL EPILOGUE

  Violet

  One year later, I walk down the aisle at his mom's home in Sausalito. We hold our wedding on the deck overlooking Richardson Bay, all of San Francisco in the distance. There, I marry the guy I’ve crushed on for more than two decades. He’s my love and my best friend. Plus, he makes me pancakes and he makes me happy. Sometimes, life just works out better than a crush. So much better.

  THE END

  Did you enjoy getting a tease of the flirtation between Jones and Jillian? Find out what happens when the star receiver needs to rehab his rep and turns to the only woman who can help… but fighting their desires is the toughest play of all. MOST LIKELY TO SCORE is available everywhere! Just turn the page!

  But wait! There’s more! I wrote a brand new sexy sports romance in the Ballers & Babes world! Be sure to preorder TWO A DAY and indulge in some dirty talking, sex challenges, sex hacks, text mishaps, surprise twists and a forbidden romance between a player and the sexy woman in the executive suite!

  Be sure to sign up for my mailing list to be the first to know when swoony, sexy new romances are available or on sale!

  MOST LIKELY TO FLIRT

  Dear Reader:

  As I was revisiting these characters five years after writing them, I enjoyed Jones and Jillian so much that I wanted to spend more time with them. As part of my revisions of this novel I wrote a prequel for Jones and Jillian and reframed some of their earlier interactions to update them better for the current times. I hope you enjoy Most Likely to Flirt, a brand new prequel that leads into the romance of Jones and Jillian. Their story is best enjoyed in order, so start here! If you’ve read Most Likely to Flirt on its own, jump ahead for the rest of the story in Most Likely to Score!

  Xoxo

  Lauren

  1

  JILLIAN

  I’ve always been competitive. In school, in skiing, and definitely in public relations. Add in the fact that I do public relations for a professional football team, and you’ve got the makings of a perfect job for me. I’ll go toe to toe with any of the guys on the grid iron when it comes to having a competitive streak a mile wide.

  That’s why this email from Sporting World excites me. In my office overlooking the city of San Francisco, early on a summer morning, every competitive bone in my body lights up as I read: We would love for you to make your pitch for the players to consider for our annual Body Issue. This is one of our most sought-after issues in the magazine. A chance to showcase the glory of the human body in artful poses. We have twelve slots available for athletes.

  The last few Body Issues of the world’s most popular sports magazine have featured some of the most iconic photos in sports. World-class athletes in the nude, but angles and shadows covering them up. I’ve never landed an athlete for a cover shot. But maybe I could this year? First though, I’ll have to nab one of the coveted twelve slots before a cover is even an option.

  Excitement stirs in me and I pop up from my desk, pacing to the window, staring at the city. I’m imagining our fifty-three-man roster. Picturing different guys posing on the field, or in a studio. I nibble on the corner of my lip as images of the athletes fly past me.

  But they keep returning to one in particular.

  One charismatic, photogenic man.

  I know who’d be best. I’m positive I have just the right guy. I hope my boss agrees though.

  I march down the hall to her office. Knock on the door. “Do you have a few minutes? I have an idea to run past you.”

  Lily Eckles ushers me in, all red hair and energy as she gestures to the chair across from her desk. “Of course. Anything for you, Jillian. What’s on your mind?”

  I sit nice and straight. “The cover of the Body Issue. I think we can land it if we pitch just the right player for it,” I say, tasting the possibility.

  Lily’s eyes light up. “Who do you have in mind? Harlan would be so great,” she says, enthused.

  Our running back is a solid choice. “He’s super charming,” I say. With the lush locks and a sunny disposition Harlan would be terrific.

  But . . .

  “Or are you thinking about our quarterback? Everyone loves Cooper,” Lily adds, clearly enthused too.

  “He’s the city’s golden boy,” I say. After his whirlwind romance with his high school sweetheart last year, he’s captured all the hearts. There are other guys too.

  But there’s one in particular that I have in mind. And I’m about to say his name when a little kernel of worry rises up in me, lodges in my mind. Am I about to pitch Jones Beckett because I’ve had a crush from afar on the wide receiver?

  All of a sudden, doubts plague me. I’ve tried valiantly to keep this annoying crush of mine from influencing any of my decisions. But the crush is merely a crush. Nothing will come of it and I can’t let it stand in the way of the right choice. Jones is the best.

  “They’re all excellent,” I say confidently. “But with his charisma and charm, Jones Beckett is perfect for it. I’d like to pitch him.”

  Her eyes twinkle and her lips spread into a huge grin. “Damn. I should have said him first. You’re right. You’re so damn right.” Then she waves me out. “Go! Make your pitch!”

  “Boss’s orders,” I say with a smile, then return to my office and put together a kick ass pitch on why one of the top wide receivers in the NFL would be the ideal candidate.

  He’s photogenic. His smiles last for days. His body is impeccable. Hell, it’s a work of art. And on top of that? He’s just one of those guys that has a certain magic to him. But a picture is worth a thousand words. And I bet I could capture a great one of him. A candid image that would say it all.

  I have just the idea. Maybe, just maybe, I can catch him any minute.

  2

  JONES

  That was a hell of a run so far. Five miles across the Golden Gate Bridge, then up into the Muir Woods as the sun rises higher in the sky. Now, I’m about to cross over the bridge when my phone trills.

  When I see the caller, I get a little spring in my step and, honestly, in my dick too. It’s our very sexy, very brainy publicist for the Renegades. AKA the woman I like to flirt with but shouldn’t.

  And yet, I still do flirt.

  Jogging lightly over the famous bridge, I accept the call. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

  “Do you still run across the bridge most mornings in the off season?”

  I grin as my feet pound the pavement and the waves curl in the waters below. “Jillian Moore are you spying on me?”

  “No, Jones. You’re just a creature of habit and superstition.”

  I faux grumble. “Guilty as charged. But I’m pretty sure you’re reading my to-do list.”

  “Do you put exercise on your to-do list?” she counters.

  “Right along with eating breakfast, eating lunch, eating dinner. I don’t want to forget some of life’s great pleasures.”

  “Meals would definitely qualify as pleasure,” she says playfully.

  “Other things do too,” I say, a little suggestive. I mean, C’mon. I can’t resist.

  “No doubt,” she says, laughing lightly but then the laughter fades. Jillian dives straight into business mode. “Well, I would love to grab a photo of you as you’re finishing your run.”

  I blink. “That’s a new request,” I say, and I’m not sure what to make of it. But I’m a go-with-it kind of guy, so I say, “Works for me.”

  “Great. Just pretend you don’t see me when I’m at the San Francisco side of the bridge,” she says then hangs up.

  Okay. I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to do that but what the lady wants the lady shall get. I tune back into my playlist, some upbeat jams perfect for running, then I cover the distance across the bridge. It’s surprisingly warm for nine a.m. As I get closer to the end of the bridge, I whip off my T-shirt, tuck it into the waistband of my shorts, then run down the path that curls around the edge of the bridge.

  And hello beauty. She told me she’d be here and yet my breath still catches when I see a gorgeous woman with jet black hair, snapping photos of me shirtless and running.

  I slow to a slow stop in front of her. “Well. I wouldn’t exactly nominate you for paparazzi of the year but that was a pretty impressive ambush.”

  She rolls her brown eyes. “It’s not an ambush. I told you about it.”

  “Fair enough. Now you’re going to have to tell me why you’re snapping photos of me.”

  She gives a coy shrug. “What can I say? I had a feeling that you would take your shirt off when you were running. And I wanted to get a fun candid shot of you to submit.”

  “All right submit for what? Color me intrigued.”

  “For our social,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Not sure why she decided she had to have a pic of me for our social today, but I won’t argue. I don’t mind when the team highlights me. Hell, a good shot should help my goals to cultivate, as my brother and my agent would say, a more positive image. And what’s more positive than my chest and abs? “Post away,” I say.

  But the shot doesn’t appear on the team’s feed that day, or the next. Other pics of my teammates working out show up. Guys doing volunteer work. News about the upcoming training camp.

  Oh well. Maybe she decided not to post it. Maybe she’s holding it. Maybe she wanted it all for herself.

  Yeah, right.

  “No biggie, right?” I say to my dog as I’m teaching Cletus a new seesaw trick in the backyard.

  He wags his tail as he follows my lead on the seesaw. When he jumps off, my phone rings. I give him a scratch on the head as a reward, then answer Jillian’s call. “Hey there. You holding onto that pic?”

  “Maybe I am. Or maybe I want another one for a story,” she says, a little tease in her voice. But the sound disappears when she says, “Will you be at the facility tomorrow afternoon for your workout?”

  “How did you know I was working out at the team facility tomorrow? You did hack into my to-do list,” I say. “Admit it.”

  “I don’t have to hack into it to know tomorrow’s Wednesday. You almost always work out of the team facility on Wednesday.”

  “Damn. You make me seem like a creature of habit.”

  “You’re an athlete. Most are,” she says. “I just wanted to call to confirm.”

  “Then consider it confirmed. And if you want to know what I’m up to today, my to-do list includes teach Cletus a new trick, walk the dog, and hang with my brother.”

  She laughs softly. “That’s adorable.”

  “You could ambush me and take some more pics,” I tease.

  “A pic of you and Cletus would be super cute,” she says.

  “We are pretty damn photogenic. See you tomorrow on the field. When you snag more pics for your personal photo stash,” I say, since I can’t seem to stop flirting with her.

  I probably shouldn’t be lusting after the team publicist. Except, I kind of am.

  3

  JILLIAN

  The email blinks at me the next morning when I wake up. A smile spreads as I read it. Then I kiss the phone. Yes! Competitive me is so damn happy. I pulled it off!

  An hour later, I consider my reflection in the mirror. Black slacks. A short sleeve blouse. My hair tucked behind my ears. A bit of lip gloss. A little mascara. Then my shoulders sag. “Stop being so obsessed with how you look when you see him,” I mutter at my reflection.

  “But if you want to look good,” I say back to myself.

  Great. Just great. Now I’m talking to myself about how I’m going to dress when I see Jones at work. This is getting ridiculous. Well, you did confirm in advance he was going to be there just in case.

  I argue back: but I was planning to wear a skirt today.

  It’s not like I’m going to wear it because I think he’ll like my legs. I change out of the pants, tug on a pencil skirt, and head to the corporate offices of the San Francisco Renegades. I march to my office, stopping at Lily’s office on the way in. The door is ajar, so I rap on it.

  “Come on in,” she says, then her eyes pop when she sees me. “You look pretty today.”

  A flush crawls up my cheeks. I hope it’s not obvious why. Can she see through me? Does she know I’m into one of our players? “Thanks, Lily,” I say as professional as I can be. Which is super professional.

  “But you always do,” she adds. “What’s going on today?”

  This is why I’m here. To share the good news from this morning. “Sporting World liked my pitch,” I say then I let a smile take over. I’m proud of my accomplishments. I picked the right guy for the right reasons.

  “That’s fantastic. I love coverage in national magazines. In fact I love coverage that doesn’t have to do with players doing something risqué. A celebration of the hard work they put in is exactly the type of press that we want,” she says.

  “And honestly we want a little more of that for Jones,” I add.

  “And however we can get it that’s what we should do,” she adds, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

  There was no need to doubt my own intentions. Jones was always the right guy for this piece, crush or no crush. But I’m glad I confirmed he’ll be working out today, since I had a feeling this news was coming and I want to deliver this news in person. I know how much it’ll matter to him. That’s why I kept it a surprise till I won the placement for him.

  I head downstairs and out to the practice field where he’ll be finishing his light workout with some of his friends on the team. I suppose I could have told him this over the phone. But he’ll be excited. And after the press trouble he’s had, it’s a joy to bring good opportunities to the man.

  That is all.

  I head up the tunnel, the same one the players go through before games, then stop at the end. He’s striding toward me. A glint in his blue eyes. A smile curving his lips. He’s so photogenic it almost hurts. He stops in front of me. “I’m ready for my closeup, Jillian.”

  The way he says that, with a little bit of heat, a lot of innuendo, warms my chest, flips my stomach.

  And worries me.

  What if I let this crush get out of hand?

  Focus on the news. Only the news. “Actually, I have something better than a picture for our social. Would you be available to do a photoshoot for the body issue for Sporting World? I pitched you and I think you’d be fantastic.”

  His smile widens. Like he can’t believe I just pulled off a magic trick. “That’s what your little paparazzi routine on the bridge was all about?” He sounds delighted with my tricks.

  I shrug a shoulder a little coquettishly. I can’t help it. I pulled it off. “Maybe,” I say, too damn pleased for my own good. “I sent it to the magazine as part of my pitch. Just a shot of you running across the bridge. Body in Motion I titled it. A player working hard.”

  He opens his arms, wraps them around me, and hauls me in for a warm hug. “You’re a rock star.”

  Oh. My. Stars.

  His arms.

  My heart.

  All the flutters.

  When he breaks the embrace, he steps back. He looks so damn stoked. “This is awesome. I so appreciate it.”

  Shaking off the remnants of lust, I grin. “So you’re in?”

  “All the way,” he says. And the innuendo sends the heat soaring in me once again. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You come to the photo shoot with me.”

  That’s when the full weight of this pitch hits me. The body issue. He’ll be naked. I’ll be at the photo shoot.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  4

  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.