Running my fingers through her soft locks, I nod. “You’re not just good at it. You’re great at it.” I slow my strokes, making sure she meets my eyes. “I love knowing there’s a piece of your mom driving you on, even when she’s not here.”

  Jillian whispers, “Me, too.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?” I ask.

  She bites the corner of her lips, nodding. “I do. I’m used to it, but I do miss her.”

  “How could you not?” Dropping my hand from her hair, I loop my fingers through hers.

  “But sometimes, I think she lives on.”

  “In what way?”

  “In my superstitions. My good luck charms. She was like that. She believed you make your own luck, but she also loved all the symbols of luck, too. She was so very American, but she tried to embrace the Chinese culture and introduce me to it. She wanted me to grow up knowing it, even if I wasn’t there anymore.”

  “I love that. She wanted to honor where you came from.”

  “Exactly. They found little ways to bring it into their lives.” A smile crosses her face, and her eyes twinkle. “Like, they gave me dollar bills in little red envelopes during Chinese New Year. Little things, but I liked that a lot.”

  I chuckle. “That is a most excellent cultural celebration. Another good luck symbol?”

  “It is. I do love the idea of luck.”

  “Me too. I love hearing about all your lucky symbols, since I’m the most superstitious guy around. I’m going to have to eat a pomelo a day during the season now that you’ve hooked me on them,” I tell her, and she smiles in a way that makes my heart thump harder.

  “Were your parents superstitious?”

  “Not really. But my dad has his own theory about luck. He’s very much of the mindset that luck means sometimes you lose and sometimes you win. Growing up, he tried to teach me to keep an even head about winning or losing, to remind me that success on the field is about talent and effort, but also luck. The way the ball falls, how a foot lands, how the wind blows.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I lean back and rub a hand over my jaw. “I want to. But I also think if I’m not out there busting my ass every second, then I’m not serving my team or my fans or myself. That’s probably why I follow different superstitions about the game. I give a hundred and ten percent on the field—that I can control. But I can’t control the wind, and I can’t control the refs, so I have my little rituals.”

  “You do serve the team every day. You give it your all. I love watching you play. I can tell football feeds your soul.”

  She’s right on the last count. The game absolutely commands my heart and my head. But I like the other thing she said, too. I raise an eyebrow. “You like watching me play?”

  She nods.

  I take a deep, satisfied breath. “That makes me want to make a big circus catch for you. To be on the field and raise my hands in a J so you’ll know when I dive for a ball, I’m doing it for you.” I bring her fingers to my lips and kiss them. “Still can’t believe you didn’t know I wanted you.”

  “I didn’t think I was your type.”

  I scoop my hands under her waist and tug her on top of me, meeting her gaze. “Jillian, my type is you. If we didn’t work together, I would be doing everything possible to get you to keep seeing me every night.”

  “You would?” Her cheeks seem to glow.

  “I would.”

  “Stay the night?”

  “You want to sleep on me again, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  After we brush our teeth, since the hotel has extra toothbrushes in each room, and slide under the covers, she whispers something to me that makes me wish this wasn’t ending. “I like you so much. I have for so long.”

  And I wish I could have her completely.

  As dawn rises, she stirs in my arms. I kiss her cheek, run my fingers down her arm, and breathe her in. This is what I will miss most.

  Waking up with her.

  15

  JILLIAN

  Twin shrieks of ten-year-old glee echo in the cavernous indoor pool area. Fourth-grader Charlie splashes vigorously as his classmate Emma raises her arms up high. “Me, me, me!” the girl squeals.

  The man of the hour lifts a beach ball high above his head from several feet away in the deeper water. Taking aim, Jones tosses it toward the kids. Emma catches it and shouts once more in excitement as she splashes onto her back. When she pops up, she turns to the deck and waves at her mom, who stands next to me.

  The trim, tired woman in a haggard ponytail smiles at her young daughter, snapping a picture of her playing in the pool at the end of the day.

  “Okay to post online?” the mom asks me.

  “Absolutely.”

  Emma dolphins her way to the side of the pool. “Mom! This is the best day ever.” The girl dunks her head underwater, pushes off, and swims to find another ball, presumably to launch at Jones.

  “She wants to be a kicker,” her mom says, gazing admiringly at the young girl. “Crazy dream, I’m sure.”

  “You never know. Perhaps she can be the first female kicker in the NFL someday.”

  The mom nods, a dreamy look in her eyes but a disbelieving note in her voice. “Maybe someday.”

  It’s unlikely, but you never know what might happen.

  “Thank you again for all this.” She waves at the pool and behind her to the rest of the rec center.

  “It was all Jones,” I say, giving credit where credit is due.

  This was his brilliant idea. After I called Andre last night, he put things in motion to make this day happen, but Jones is the one behind it with his generosity. He rented out an entire rec center and invited the kids at the shuttered elementary school summer program to spend the day here playing board games, shooting hoops, and cavorting in the indoor pool. We arrived as soon as the morning’s calendar shoot ended, since he had free time during the day. Jones has joined in on most of the activities, including a rousing game of Candyland, in which a group of fourth-grade girls banded together to utterly destroy him as they reached Candy Castle well before he did.

  “This was a godsend, I tell you,” the woman says, adjusting the strands of hair that have fallen from her elastic band. “I answer phones at an auto-repair shop, and I had no more time off. When I heard about the problem with the school being closed, I was completely backed into a corner. I needed this”—she pauses, as if hunting for the right word—“gift.”

  “I’m glad it feels that way.”

  That was Jones’s hope, but he did more than simply let the quandary tug on his heartstrings. He solved the problem. I’ve spent the day here with him, hanging out with the kids, joining in as well—my hoops game is strong, and I led the girls to a victory over the boys, thank you very much—and making sure the kids had food and snacks, courtesy of Jones’s pizza party order.

  The day is winding down, and most of the parents have picked up their kids, snapping photos of them with the athlete. Though I could have invited local press today, I chose not to. Press wasn’t the point of this effort, nor did I want to turn this into a photo frenzy. But kids and parents were welcome to take photos. Already, I saw an Instagram pic of Jones, filtered so he was wearing a pair of panda ears as he languished by Gumdrop Mountain. Next to him in the shot were Malcolm and Connor, who fought valiantly to buy Park Place from a pair of industrious boys in a heated game of Monopoly, since Jones convinced his Mavericks buddies to stop by for a few hours. But mostly, it’s been the former party-boy Renegade entertaining the kids on an unexpected day off.

  When I see him like this, it’s hard to imagine he ever had a questionable rep.

  As I watch Jones swim to the steps of the pool with Charlie, the last kid to be picked up, I’m reminded again of what’s at stake if we were to be found out. So very much. As I look at him now, hanging out with the kids, I know this is what he needs, because this is who he is.

  A guy who cares.

  A guy who tries.

  A guy who has a massive heart for families.

  That’s what I want everyone to know about him, and if I keep dallying with him beyond tonight, then I’ll be risking more than my own job. I’ll risk his reputation, and his reputation matters.

  He’s more than I thought he was a few weeks ago. Whether it’s animals left homeless, families who need a little extra, or even a woman’s dad trying to put together a piece of furniture, he has such a giving spirit. Seeing him toss a towel to skinny Charlie as the kid steps out of the pool is one more instance in a day brimming with moments that melt my heart and make me fall a little deeper.

  A little later, as Emma and Charlie head for the exit doors, Jones gives me a big hug. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. I’m sure you had a ton of other work today, but I appreciate you being here.”

  “There’s no place I’d rather have been.”

  “Smile!”

  I freeze for a second at the sound of Emma’s voice, but then remind myself we’re doing nothing wrong. We’re simply two colleagues hugging. As we break apart, we turn and grin for her as she lifts her mom’s phone and snaps one more shot. Though Jones’s arm is draped over my shoulder, I reassure myself there’s no way to tell my stomach is flipping, my insides are melting, and I can’t wait to see him again tonight.

  The picture can’t possibly capture all that, and it certainly can’t photograph what’s inside my heart for him.

  Which is far more than I ever expected.

  As Emma’s mom waves goodbye, there’s a tug on my purse. I turn, looking for the girl, in case she has something else to say. But she’s out the door, and only Jones is here.

  I give him a quizzical look, and he simply shrugs impishly.

  “Rock star.”

  The praise comes from Ford Grayson. He’s on the other end of the line, and I swear I can see his animated face, pointing at his screen, thrilled at the photos that have made their way across social feeds. “The world is seeing how motherfucking awesome this dude is. And check out the two of you.” I brace myself as Ford whistles his appreciation while checking out our picture, clearly. “You look like such a great team.”

  I breathe a private sigh of relief, grateful that my feelings for the man were indeed shrouded in the image. All pro, that’s the goal.

  “He’s been easy to work with, as he’s always been,” I say, pacing across my hotel room, checking the time. Jones said he’d text or call as soon as he finished his workout, and to say I’m an eager beaver would be an understatement. Though, it’s not just the beaver that’s eager; all of me wants to see all of him.

  “When he gets back in town, Liam wants him to shoot some commercials and some online ads for Paleo Pet right before training camp,” Ford continues, chattering away about the deal. “Then they can roll that partnership out big-time. The sky is the limit. And you know, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this so well without you. Jones says you’re a dream to work with.”

  Dream. I fear that’s what these two days will feel like when tomorrow comes and we go home. Nothing but a lovely, dirty, wonderful dream that’s ended far too soon.

  “It’s been my pleasure,” I say tightly, and once more the double entendre isn’t lost on me. Everything with Jones has been more pleasure than I imagined.

  And more pleasure than I should allow.

  A frisson of guilt washes over me as Ford heaps on more praise for my work. But I bat the feeling away. I am a damn fine addition to the team. I have helped. I’ve done good work for Jones. I can’t let my feelings for him obscure the reality that we are well and truly a great team professionally.

  I thank Ford, and as I hang up, a lump forms in my throat. Dumb lump. Stupid emotions. I roll my shoulders like a boxer, trying to shake off the wayward emotion. Touching my cherry earrings, I tell myself to keep my head clear. There’s nothing to cry over. Nothing to get all sad and mournful about.

  Everything is going great for Jones. Everything is going great for me at work.

  Work—the word clangs in my mind. My mother taught me to act with honesty and integrity in all endeavors. I honestly believe Jones is a good guy. I truly want the world to see his real heart. That has to mean I’m acting with honesty and integrity, I tell myself, as I wring my hands.

  I can’t ask my mom for advice, though, and I don’t know what she would have told me. Instead, I picture my dad’s face—my sarcastic, sweet, lonely-but-dealing-with-it widower father. I can’t trick myself into believing what I’m doing is okay, simply because my dad thinks we’d be a cute couple.

  I vow to remain realistic, to make my own choices. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this brief and fantastic fling, as well as its inevitable ending.

  I square my shoulders, grab my phone, and turn to my playlist. I love me some sexy music. Always have. That’s the mood I want to be in tonight, so I find Zayn’s “Pillowtalk” and crank the tune all the way up. Closing my eyes, I sway to the slow jam, moving my body to its languid notes, its sensual words, its filthy lines, too.

  It’s a promise of a long, lingering night rich with the kind of tempo I want with Jones. As I listen, I don’t think about good ideas or bad ideas. Roles or places. Right or wrong.

  I let go of the daughter I am, the hard worker I am, the career woman I am. Tonight, I want to be only one part of me.

  The woman. The lover.

  When my phone rings, I’m turned on before I hear his voice. I’ve already set my own mood.

  “Can you meet me in five minutes?” His gravelly voice rumbles over me.

  “Yes.”

  “Come down the hall to my room. You don’t even have to knock.”

  “I don’t? Are you leaving the door open?”

  “No. There is a key in the side of your purse. I put it there at the pool,” he says, and I remember the tugging I felt on my bag. That was him. “Let yourself in. You’ll understand why.”

  16

  JILLIAN

  I slide the card key across his door, anticipation threading through me. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I don’t know what he has in store, but the crazy beat of my heart tells me I want whatever is coming my way.

  Badly.

  As soon as I push open the door, I know.

  Water from the shower pounds in a rhythm, signaling to me. A zing tears through me, racing across my skin, leaving tingles in its wake.

  I shut the hotel room door behind me, locking the chain.

  I tiptoe, not because I need to, but because I want to. The lights are low, and when I enter the large, white-tiled bathroom, only the mirror lights are on. They illuminate him just enough. I see his reflection first in the mirror, and heat rushes to my core.

  He’s naked in the shower.

  He’s giving me my fantasy. Discovering him all alone.

  As I walk into the room, I turn my gaze to stare directly at his carved, muscular body through the glass shower wall. He doesn’t look at me as he runs soap over his skin.

  He’s bathing, and it’s erotic.

  So much more than I dreamed.

  That big left hand runs over his right pec, down his side, and I murmur, as if I’m watching a naughty video.

  This is my filthy fantasy.

  His private time.

  As I watch him rub soap across those powerful thighs and legs, he doesn’t acknowledge me. I’ve become a voyeur, and I hope he’s saved the best till the audience arrived.

  I walk past the enclosed shower, heading to the counter in front of the mirror. The shower is behind me now, and my back is to him as I stop at the counter. My view in the mirror reveals everything, shows every move he makes. He glides the bar of soap over his body, lathering up his arms, his stomach, and now his erection.

  His hand slides over his hard-on.

  A murmur falls from my mouth. He’s in silhouette, his hand washing his dick. He lets go of the soap, places it in the dish, and leans under the stream, rinsing the shampoo from his head. Both hands rise, giving me a view of those powerful arms as he drags them through his hair, the suds pooling at his feet.

  With his eyes still closed, he lowers his hands, the right drifting down between his legs again.

  His palm slides over his cock and strokes once, absently, as if he’s testing whether he wants to pleasure himself, as if he’s curious if he’s even in the mood.

  I moan as a wild pulse beats in my body, heat rising in my core. As he runs a hand slowly down his shaft, desire rockets around inside me, flooding every square inch of my body. I’m dying to touch myself, to slide my fingers inside my panties and feel how slick I am.

  But I don’t want to miss a minute of this private show. The pace of the water is relentless, insistent. The patter of the stream against the tiles is the soundtrack of his seduction as he grips himself, stroking his length. I can’t help but start to rock my hips. I’m dying to move my body against his, to find some relief for this absolute ache in my center.

  Instead, I stare unabashedly in the reflection as he tugs on his cock, his other hand cupping his balls. His palm moves faster, his fist sliding over the head now, squeezing, then back down to the base. I’m so jealous of his hand. I want it to be my hand, my mouth, me. But I want this even more. I want this movie that he’s not acting in—he is in—to keep playing on the screen in the mirror.

  I’ve never been more aroused in my life. He squeezes harder, his hips moving now, rocking, thrusting, and my God, he’s truly fucking his own fist.