“Want to know what I’m doing right now?” he asks in a leading tone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask carefully, though I know he’s setting me up for something. I duck out of the way of a volleyball whizzing past me. A fit, dark-haired guy in a painted-on pair of yellow swim trunks jogs after it, winking at me as he runs.

  “Sitting at the desk that the man who is keen on my daughter made for me,” my dad declares, sounding thoroughly satisfied with his pronouncement.

  I shake my head, amused at my dad’s persistence. No wonder he was a top journalist in his day. He’s a dog with a bone. But I’m not a queen of spin for nothing. “He helped out. It was that simple. Nothing more to it.”

  My dad scoffs. “He helped out because he’s a nice guy. I’ll give you that.” He clears his throat. “But he’s a nice guy who happens to be quite fond of you. Mark my words. Sooner or later, Jones Beckett is going to make his intentions clear.”

  I swallow, and a spray of nerves hits me in the face. Or maybe it’s the water from a water gun. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yellow Swim Trunks Dude is now spraying his buddy with an orange Nerf gun, and I’m collateral damage in the battle. I wipe the drops from my cheek as Swim Trunks mouths so sorry, but he’s smiling as he says it.

  “I love you, Dad, and your wild imagination,” I say, and I put the conversation inside a box then stuff it in a far corner of my brain.

  But after I hang up, some hopeful part of me wonders if there’s a chance my father is correct. Does Jones have a thing for me? That doesn’t compute. But as I search for the holes in my dad’s logic, my mind flashes to all the times Jones has touched me—from his arm around me as we walked along the craggy shores of Stinson Beach, to his fingers laced through mine in the elevator, to his body curled around me in bed.

  Do those moments mean Jones is keen on me?

  I flip through them once more, hunting for clues, like the feel of his hand on my hair in the car while I slept in his lap. He stroked my hair. Was that romantic?

  I plop down on the beach, reflecting on what I’d do if he made his intentions clear. I’d say no. Of course I’d say no. Wouldn’t I?

  I nod to myself, answering my own question.

  I’d say, “Thank you very much, but it’s a bad idea to go on a date with you, no matter how sweet and kind and good with animals and thoughtful you are, and no matter how helpful you are with my dad, or how much I love all our conversations.”

  Groaning in frustration, I run my hands through my hair, my head falling against my knees. I wish I didn’t like him so damn much.

  There is only one person to turn to. I fire off a text to Katie.

  Jillian: Be brutally honest. No smoke up my skirt, hear me?

  Katie: Yes, you can buy me tickets to the new Adele show, and it will, in fact, make me love you more.

  Jillian: Oh good, I was worried you’d be annoyed if I snagged first-row seats. Same apply to Ed Sheeran, too?

  Katie: Do not ever joke about Ed Sheeran tickets. But what do you really want me to be brutally honest about?

  Jillian: Did you mean it when you said you thought there was something up with Jones?

  Katie: How can I make this clear??? YES! YES! YES! Also, does that mean something is happening? I NEED DETAILS NOW!

  Jillian: No. Nothing at all. Just thinking . . .

  Katie: You’re thinking about it? About him? About taking him for a ride around the block? For the record, I’m at my desk, officially squealing as I stop my review of IMPORTANT THINGS like the length of skirts for the spring. Because this is FAR MORE INTERESTING.

  Jillian: Nothing will happen. There are all sorts of HUGE obstacles. Also, care to spill on the upcoming length of hemlines?

  Katie: There is always a way around obstacles. Also . . . short. Very, very short.

  Jillian: Good to know regarding skirts. I’ll stick to pants, then.

  Katie: Pants, skirts—whatever you wear, Jones will check you out. I told you he was looking at you!

  Jillian: But isn’t that just what he does? Watch people? He’s like a hawk. That’s his job.

  Katie: He looks at you because he likes looking at you. Same reason you look at him.

  My chest swoops like a pirate boat ride at an amusement park. Up, down, around.

  I stand, brushing sand off my tank dress as I fire off a goodbye text. I turn to head to the poolside entrance to the hotel, when the guy in the yellow trunks jogs over to me, flashes a gleaming white set of teeth, and says, “Hi, I’m Marcus. Want to have a drink with me?”

  Boldness and confidence are quite appealing. So is his toned, trim body and his fantastic grin. He’s probably twenty-two, and even though it’s nice to be hit on by someone six years younger than me, I say, “Thank you so much, but I’m here for work.”

  “Can’t fault a guy for trying,” he says with a huge smile as he jogs backward, his arms out wide.

  No, I can’t fault him at all.

  I float a little bit to my room, buoyed by the date request, as well as by Katie’s insistent proclamation.

  But then, on the elevator ride up, reality hits me. If Jones was going to make his intentions clear, he’d do what Marcus did.

  Ask me out.

  He never has, so I don’t need to waste time pondering what-if scenarios.

  Jones and I aren’t a scenario. We aren’t a thing, and the way we look at each other is meaningless.

  In fact, looking at him is exactly what I try not to do the next morning at the photo shoot. Because I can’t let on that I think about this often. Too much is at stake, and the more I look at him, the more my stupid feelings cloud my brain.

  That’s why I resolve to keep everything light between us. That should be easy since he’s shirtless on the sand, posing with a long-haired dachshund.

  When we’re done with the shoot, Jones ambles over to me, stroking the wiener dog in his arms. “Scale of one to ten — how cute is he??”

  Playfully, I wag a finger at him, doing my best to keep everything between us breezy. “Obviously, one million.”

  “You guessed right.”

  I laugh and the laughter reminds me that we’ve always had a fun professional rapport, one where we freely tease each other. That’s the relationship I need to maintain. Sure, the idea of avoiding him at night during this trip has its appeal. But I’m a grown-up, and I can’t hide from a tough situation. It’ll be good for me to practice focusing solely on business with him.

  I meet his eyes. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? We can strategize next steps with Paleo Pet and how to tackle social as the marketing campaign rolls out, as well as review some of the calendar publicity.”

  See? That sounded so professional. Because it was. I can absolutely zero in on business and just business with the guy.

  “Um.” He makes that sound. That sound guys make before they turn you down. That groan of regret-but-not-regret. “I’m hanging out with some of the guys from the Miami Mavericks. Sorry.”

  My heart skitters to the sidewalk like a top spinning until it falters. I plaster on a smile, hiding my disappointment. “Oh, that’s great. Have fun.”

  As I leave, I believe he’s made his intentions clear after all. He has none for me.

  I scroll through my phone, find Andre’s name, and ask if he wants to have dinner poolside.

  He says yes.

  11

  JONES

  I slam the plastic ball across the net, watching defensive tackle Connor Washington dive for it on the sand, reaching as far as he can with the paddle.

  But he swings and misses.

  “Ah, too bad the little white ball eludes you,” I say, since that’s how we roll. I’ve never played a game of table tennis, Xbox, foosball, or golf with a fellow athlete where we didn’t trash-talk each other.

  “I wouldn’t dish it out so fast,” Connor warns, his dark eyes sparking with determination as he returns a punishing serve.

  He’s right. I miss it.

  I fucking miss it. The ball skids past me, hitting the beach.

  Because my mind is on Jillian.

  Again.

  It has been since I saw her at the pool, lounging in a luscious black triangle bikini, drinking a fruity drink, and laughing with a Henry Cavill look-alike.

  I’ve no clue who he is. And hell, I never gave much thought to her seeing other guys. Which is stupid as shit. Of course she dates. She’s gorgeous and funny and witty and generally awesome. She’s a catch.

  The white plastic orb screams in my direction, and I lunge to the right, smacking it hard. Connor returns it fiercely with a grunt. We trade off like that, back and forth, and the focus exiles Jillian from my mind.

  For a few minutes, until the game ends and I’ve lost. Connor’s teammate Malcolm steps up to the table, pointing his paddle at me. His thick beard points at me, too. “You keep that shitty play going all through the season and we will clean up against your sorry ass in the conference.”

  “I save all my best moves for the field. You watch out when the third Sunday of October rolls around.”

  Connor smacks Malcolm’s arm. “See that? He’s scared of us. He already knows when we’re playing so he can prepare to be whipped.”

  “Assholes.” I laugh. “I know the schedule because I like to be prepared to destroy my opponents.”

  They shake their heads in unison. “We will ping-pong your ass back to the West Coast,” Malcolm taunts.

  I raise my hands to the sky. “Why do I hang out with you clowns when I’m in town?”

  Malcolm makes his way around the table and taps his chest. “Because we’re fun. So fun, in fact, I say it’s time to ditch this Ping-Pong table. What do you say we hit the clubs?”

  I shake my head. “Early bedtime for me. No more partying.”

  Malcolm lets out a dejected, dramatic sigh. “Man, are you serious? I know places where we can clean up like that.” He snaps his fingers.

  The offer is tempting. I wouldn’t mind a night out, some dancing, chatting up some women. But that’s not what I signed up for this year. That won’t suit the new image, or sit well with the new sponsors. That doesn’t sit well with me, either, because there is only one woman I want to chat up, and she’s off-limits.

  Connor holds up his index finger. “Training camp starts in one week. Then, no GFs, no bunnies, no girls stopping by for blowies.”

  Malcolm wiggles his eyebrows. “One night, JB. How can you resist?”

  Easily, actually.

  I tip my head toward the hotel. “I have a pillow calling my name and a movie to watch. Not to mention a brand-new contract with a pet food company as an incentive to keep squeaky clean.”

  “Nice,” Connor says, holding up his palm to high-five. I smack back.

  “Smart move. You need to keep that shit locked up. I’m going to unlock mine,” Malcolm says, and the ironic thing is, he can, because his deals are different. His biggest sponsor is a vodka brand. That doesn’t mean he can get roasted and show up on a YouTube compilation of blitzed athletes. The contrary. He doesn’t drink when he’s out, and he follows strict rules about where and when he dips his wick with women he meets at clubs. Those are the lines that suit him and his business partners.

  We wander across the sand toward the pool. The sun has fallen below the horizon, and night is settling in. I say goodbye to the guys and head through the pool area to go into the hotel. I spot Jillian in the shallow end, her elbows on the side of the pool, chatting with the Cavill dude.

  That unpleasant sensation stabs my chest again. My jaw clenches and my muscles tighten as jealousy crashes over me.

  Jillian spots me and waves.

  “Hey,” I grunt, tipping my forehead in her direction as I stalk past them, since that’s all I can manage. Once inside, I stab the up button for the elevator, and when it arrives I want to punch the panel.

  I don’t.

  I curse under my breath as the doors whisk shut.

  I can’t fucking believe she’s hanging out with that guy in front of me. I march down the hall to my room, fumes of jealousy in my wake.

  In my room, I strip out of my shorts and T-shirt, crank up the shower to scalding, and wash away the sand. But as I scrub soap over my skin, all I can think is Superman is peeling off her bikini tonight.

  Tossing it on the floor of her hotel room.

  Kissing her neck. Making his way down her body.

  Envy burns in me like a wildfire. This is not okay. In a heartbeat, I rinse off the shampoo, get out of the shower, and towel off. A minute later, I’ve yanked on swim trunks and a T-shirt, and I’m on my way to the pool.

  I’m going to crash her party.

  When I arrive, they’re on the deck. Superman is giving her a hug. It’s going to take every ounce of my restraint not to grab that arm of his and rip him off her.

  Because she’s mine. Even though I can’t have her, that guy sure as hell can’t, either.

  I walk closer and key in on his words.

  “Love you, Jilly. So much.”

  Jilly? He calls her by a pet name? I clench my fists.

  “Love you, too, sweets,” she says, dropping a kiss to his cheek. Her back is to me, and I stop in my tracks at the edge of the deep end, watching some other man hug the woman I want. Everything is wrong with this picture.

  “Sorry I have to go, but I just got a text about this elementary school we sponsor. Some problem with the water pipes I need to figure out.”

  “Go, go,” she says, shooing him off.

  “Thank you so much for making time for me, and you know I will see you whenever you are in town,” he says. “You just call me, and I’ll come running.”

  She has a boyfriend in Miami? What the hell?

  Red. I see red. It billows from my eyes, and I shut them for a moment and think of Cletus. As I picture his too-adorable Chihuahua face and how he likes to give me slobbery lap-dog kisses, the jealousy fades momentarily.

  I open my eyes as Superman waves goodbye then blows her a kiss.

  When he leaves, she hooks a towel around her waist, her gaze wandering around the pool then skidding to a halt when she gets to me. She jerks her head back, like she’s surprised to see me, and maybe a little bit guilty, too?

  I close the distance between us. “Hey.”

  Her voice is cool and even as she twists her hair into a slick ponytail. “Hi, Jones. How was your night?”

  She says my name with distance, as if she’s pushing it away from her, pushing me away. Maybe I deserve it for turning down her dinner invite.

  “It was good,” I say tightly. “How was yours?”

  “Great.” She flashes me a smile and keeps her shoulders squared, her eyes fixed firmly on my face. They don’t stray at all, as if she’s practicing perfect posture.

  “You had fun with that guy?” The words come out like acid on my tongue.

  Her brow pinches. “Andre and I always have fun.”

  Deep breath. Cletus kisses. He’s wagging his tail.

  The jealousy subsides again. “That’s. So. Great.” Each word comes out robotically.

  She glances down at her towel, then points her thumb in the direction of the hotel. “I’m all wet, so I should probably go change.”

  She’s doing her posture exercises again, and it irks me for some reason. “Why do you do that?” I blurt out.

  “Do what?”

  “You stare straight at my face when you talk.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Where am I supposed to look?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Should I talk to your belly button? Maybe your elbow? Or would you prefer if I addressed your feet?”

  “No, obviously I’m not saying you should talk to my feet.” I cross my arms. “I just don’t get why you do that.”

  “I’m trying to be polite. Professional. Because we work together. That’s why I look you in the eyes. And speaking of work, it’s getting late, and we have another shoot in the morning, not to mention a few interviews about the new deal. I should go upstairs and do some planning. I’m glad you had fun with the guys.”

  I shake my head quickly, correcting her. “I didn’t say I had fun with them.”

  “Sorry.” She adjusts her ponytail again, raising her chin, talking in that modulated, publicist voice. “Did you have fun?”

  I swallow. “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no?”

  I’m dangerously close to admitting I want her. The words tango on the end of my tongue. I want you. I need you. I can’t stand how much I think of you.

  In this moment, I crave her more than a sponsorship deal, and I want her to know the reason I had a shitty time tonight is that she was out with some guy. But I trip on the words, and they fall out of my mouth like blocks tumbling. “I thought you were seeing someone. Like a boyfriend. That guy.”

  She’s silent at first, then a sly smile spreads on her face, wider and wider still, until it turns into a belly laugh. “Andre and I bat for the same team.”

  All my jealousy drains in an instant. I try to cover up my glaring misread with a forced and sheepish chuckle. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  I push out another laugh so she knows I’m not the jealous ass I was seconds ago. But my laughter ceases when she speaks again.

  “We were admiring the same scenery tonight, if you know what I mean.” She wriggles her eyebrows, and that’s it. Evidently, I’m still the jealous ass, because I hate the thought of her admiring any scenery belonging to another man.

  I’m this close to spilling my guts, but a scan right, a scan left, and a pool full of people swimming and lounging is the reminder I need to zip my lips.

  She is controlling what these people think of me. She is helping me keep the sponsorship deals my agent lines up—deals that fund my parents’ retirement. My dad doesn’t have to drive a truck. My mom doesn’t have to work extra shifts.

  “I need to go for a walk.”

  I turn around and leave. If I stay near her, I’ll try to kiss her in public. I’ll haul her over my shoulder and carry her to my room, tell her I can’t take this wanting anymore. It’s miserable craving a person this much and not having her.

  I walk down the beach, and I try to burn off this frustration, but thirty minutes later I’m no closer to finding Zen without her.