“Just doing my job.”

  “And love the J. Love it, love it, love it. It’s the perfect mix of cocky and cute.”

  “That’s me. The two Cs.”

  “I heard you were here, so I have a surprise.” She whips her hand from behind her back to brandish a calendar. “It’s a sample of the calendar for our approval, and it’s stunning. The two of you did amazing work,” Lily says, pointing from Jillian to me.

  Jillian hurries around to the front of the desk, and the three of us crowd together as Lily flips through the pages of me with pussycats and puppies. Jillian’s hair falls loosely over her shoulders, like a silky curtain, and I curl my fingers into fists to refrain from touching it. With her this close to me, it’s a five-star feat of resistance that I somehow don’t bend my nose closer to sneak a whiff of her shampoo.

  As we flick through the pictures shot in Miami, Jillian’s breath catches, and one syllable seems to escape in a faintly sultry, “Oh.”

  Lily cocks her head, her eyebrow arched in question.

  A splash of pink races across Jillian’s cheeks. “Oh, these are so fantastic,” she says, her tone as cheery as can be.

  Lily taps the November photo. “Yes! Fantastic! These are my favorites. You look so happy, so relaxed.”

  I chime in, speaking the full truth. “I was very happy.”

  Jillian’s eyes flutter closed for a brief second. “They’re all great.”

  When we reach the December shot, Lily shuts the calendar. “I want to have a little party in a few weeks to celebrate. Maybe a fun little photo op at a local restaurant. What do you say, Jillian?”

  Jillian nods, her tone crisp and cool. “Yes, that sounds like a great idea.”

  Lily leaves and Jillian turns to me, her shoulders sagging, letting out a deep exhalation. “I felt like I was caught stealing.”

  “But you weren’t,” I say under my breath.

  “I know, but it felt like we were close. And I don’t know how much longer I can pull this off.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  20

  JILLIAN

  It’s official. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet in my office from pacing from the window to my desk. It’s a five-foot-long stretch, and the effort is all the more amazing considering it only took a day.

  For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve mastered the art of pacing, along with stressing, along with worrying. I’ve also considered entering myself in a lip-synching contest because I’ve spent so much time mouthing words silently as I pace. For instance, consider these potential winners.

  “Lily, I need to tell you something crazy . . .”

  “Well, it’s kind of a funny story . . .”

  Ugh.

  I sigh so deeply, the sound of my frustration burrows underground. But I meant it when I told Jones I’m not sure how much longer I can pull this off. How many secret dates, stolen moments, or hallway encounters can my nerves sustain?

  Or my conscience, for that matter.

  That’s the bigger issue, and in the last several hours it’s been an insistent drumbeat, telling me to do something, say something.

  I don’t know if Jones and I will ever amount to anything, but I admire Lily. I respect Lily, and I don’t want to keep lying to her.

  I want to find a way to come clean, no matter what awaits with him—if anything—on the other side.

  I sink down in my desk chair, swiveling to the window and the view of the San Francisco skyline, the cresting hills of Pacific Heights, the choppy dark blue water of the bay, and the brilliant rust-colored bridge that majestically spans the seas.

  I’m lucky to have this view.

  I’m lucky to have this job.

  I’m lucky to have this wonderful life.

  Am I going to risk it all for a guy?

  How could a man be worth it? Is it even possible that this feeling in my chest—this sense of champagne and wonder when he’s nearby—is worth gambling what I’ve worked so hard for?

  My throat catches, and I swallow down another lump as I reach for a framed photo on my desk—a picture of my mom and dad lifting wine glasses at the camera as they shot a selfie in Florence for me.

  They went to Italy a few months before her heart attack, rode bikes across Tuscany, visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When they learned of my very first promotion with the Renegades while traveling, they shot this photo for me. Running my thumb over the glass frame, I want to ask my mom what to do.

  I wish I knew what she’d say. She was so wise, so smart, so balanced.

  I could ask my dad for his opinion. But I’m afraid I know what his answer would be. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a softie.

  In the end, I need to make my own choice. My stomach hurts, like a stone lives inside me, wriggling around, painfully pressing against my ribs.

  You make your own luck.

  Pomelos.

  Cherries.

  The color red.

  Little envelopes.

  Dragons.

  I’ve always loved the idea of luck. I’ve held it tight in my hands, believed that if I honored its power, I could manifest good fortune in my life as long as I put elbow grease behind it.

  But luck is capricious. Luck does what luck wants. Luck knows no consequences. And luck can turn south in the blink of an eye.

  Luck can bring on a heart attack unexpectedly. Luck, or more specifically, bad luck, can upend a perfectly normal life and a happy marriage, leaving one party missing his other half, his soul mate. I tear my gaze away from the photo before my eyes turn too watery.

  If I can’t turn to either one of my parents for advice, I’ll need to rely on my own barometer.

  I head upstairs to Lily’s office, where she preps me for my interview next week. She reviews the projects I worked on over the last few years, as well as my accomplishments.

  She shakes her head, visibly impressed. “I have to say you’ve done great work here.”

  I smile widely and say, “Thank you.”

  That has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with hard work and dedication. Will falling in love with a player change that?

  I gasp under my breath, quickly covering my mouth, hoping Lily didn’t notice. She’s continuing to talk about the interview, so I’m safe.

  On the surface.

  But my head is swimming because there it is.

  Reality.

  Clarity.

  I’m falling in love with Jones Beckett.

  I’m absolutely crazy for him. I miss being with him like there’s an emptiness inside me. Jones makes me feel like all my sexy songs. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. He challenges me. And he gives me so much of himself.

  In this second, another blast of clarity lands in my lap—I must tell Lily. I can’t hide this anymore from my mentor and my boss. I need her to know my truth before I march into that interview next week. I have to put my cards on the table, no matter what.

  Once she finishes, I clear my throat, chucking all my practice words in the trash bin. Time to start fresh and speak from the heart, right here, right now.

  Her desk phone bleats, a loud, shrill ring that insists on being answered.

  Cradling it against her neck, she answers, waits, and then says, “Oh, fudge sticks.”

  More silence.

  “It’s in an hour?”

  She’s quiet again.

  “Yep. I’ll be there.”

  She hangs up the phone, bolts from her chair, grabs her purse, and declares, “Apparently, it’s poetry workshop day. My daughter signed me up for it, since she thinks I’m a poet on account of writing press releases, and now I have to go spend the afternoon critiquing poetry from third-graders.”

  I wave to her door. “Go. Craft odes. Make words. And please let me know what you have on your agenda. I’ll take care of all of it.”

  Snatching a sheet of paper from her desk, she thrusts it at me. “These are the calls I need to make today. You’re an angel.”

  I don’t need to possess the soul of an angel to know today isn’t the day for confession.

  21

  JONES

  Organic Eats is in the bag. Paleo Pet is rolling out its commercial campaign. The first check has cashed.

  I plunked that slip of paper into my bank account faster than I cleared the end zone in Sunday’s game, then I dropped a huge chunk of change into a college fund I set up for my sister’s kids.

  I texted her to tell her, and she called me back crying tears of happiness.

  I also bought my mom a gift, one she’s been coveting for a long time, and it’s the equivalent of diamonds for her. A top-of-the-line top-loading washer. When we were kids, she’d joked that her greatest guilty pleasure was doing mounds of laundry. The washing machine and the dryer ran constantly, a regular soundtrack of spinning in our home.

  She loved it because she listened to romance audiobooks while she sorted the laundry. “Just finished Sophie Kinsella while I folded the whites,” she’d say.

  I invested some of the dough, too, thanks to Trevor’s help researching mutual funds. No risky investments for me at all. But the process of hitting the online transfer button from my bank account to my mutual fund hasn’t made me stop missing Jillian at all.

  Imagine that.

  Stashing money is great, but it doesn’t pave the way for me to drive to her house on a Tuesday evening after I practice. It doesn’t give me permission to wake up with her on a Thursday morning before I hit the gym. Nor does it make it possible for me to take her to see the next Mission Impossible flick when it’s on the big screen.

  And damn, do I ever want to share popcorn with her in a darkened theater.

  That’s both the truth, and a euphemism.

  Mostly, though, I want to hold her hand as we walk into the cinema, searching for the best stadium seats, not giving an ounce of worry that someone might capture a picture of us.

  My thoughts snap back to the here and now as the waiter brings me my flank steak and sautéed broccoli, and sets down plates for the rest of the guys. Liam raises his fork and knife to slice his strip steak, casting a glance at me. “How are your parents doing, Jones? I saw them on the TV during a pre-season game. They seemed quite pleased to be watching you.”

  I’m grateful for the distraction. “They’re doing great, and Mom loves the new washer that I bought her.”

  Trevor cracks up. “She always said it was her dream come true. A new washing machine and a son in the NFL.”

  Liam chuckles deeply. “Excellent. Love that you’re close with them. Family is what it’s all about.”

  My heart craters a little bit. Liam needs me to be a good boy. He loves the new image we’ve crafted of the reformed playboy.

  As I slice my steak, I ask myself what it means to be good—how could falling for a woman like Jillian be anything but good? She’s smart and classy, and so damn caring. I don’t see how she could possibly be bad for me. Isn’t this what Paleo Pet wants? A guy who’s committed to a woman? A guy who treats his woman like a family member?

  “I can introduce you to my parents at the game this weekend if you’d like,” I say to Liam, returning to the topic at hand. “They’ll be at the stadium.”

  “Fantastic. I’d love to meet them, and you must be busy this week getting ready for the first home game, so thank you again for fitting me in.”

  “No problem. Happy to do it, no matter how busy the week is.” I’m about to add that I’m going to make time to go to a wedding tomorrow night to see Jillian, but I swallow those words whole, as if they’re made of dust and they’re choking me. Instead, I push them out in a different formation. “Harlan and I are going to a wedding tomorrow night. Sierra Franklin, a local reporter, is getting married, and she invited the two of us.”

  Best to put it out there, right? That way, no one will be surprised to see shots of Harlan, Jillian, Katie, and me hanging out together.

  Ford chimes in, “Ah, Sierra Franklin, tying the knot on a Thursday night so she can be on the sidelines on Sunday, reporting on the game.”

  I manage a small laugh. “She’s dedicated. That’s for sure.”

  Liam spears a piece of steak, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “That’s admirable. That kind of dedication to work and a relationship.”

  I want to tell him I can be like that, too. I can be dedicated to football, and Paleo Pet, and Jillian.

  My shoulders tighten in frustration because I want to leave this restaurant and tell the guys I’m heading to her place. I want to wander down the street with her during her lunch break tomorrow, and duck into stores or coffee shops if she wants. I want to walk my dog with her.

  When dinner ends, Liam, Trevor, Ford, and I weave our way through the restaurant, passing a young dude at the bar, who raises his phone and snaps a shot of me.

  Out with the guys. Out with my brother. Out for business.

  It’s all good. It’s all permissible. It’s all photographable. As Ford pushes open the door, I have to wonder what would be so bad about being out with Jillian? What would the press say if that guy captured a shot of me holding the door for her? What would Liam, Ford, or Trevor say? I once thought being with her would be terribly wrong. I once thought it was far too dangerous.

  But when I think of Jillian now, the possibility of us leaving a restaurant hand in hand only seems right.

  I want these guys to be on my side—to believe in their hearts that Jillian and I are right together. Only, I’m not a starry-eyed dreamer. I’m a realist and I get that it’s naive to think a simple declaration of my feelings is all it’d take.

  I don’t know what it will take, though. That’s the trouble. But I need to start figuring out how to have Jillian and the contract.

  If I can have both, that is.

  At the valet stand, Liam takes off first, telling us he’s heading to the airport to catch a red-eye to the East Coast for the next few days. Once Ford is gone, the attendant pulls up with Trevor’s ride. I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in, and he drives me home.

  We stop outside my house, and my brother knits his brow. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet all night.”

  “No. I’m not okay.”

  He cuts the engine. “Talk to me.”

  I tip my forehead to the house. “I have to take my guy for a stroll.”

  Three minutes later, we’re out walking Cletus. “So there’s a woman,” I begin.

  Trevor drags a hand through his hair. “It’s always about women, isn’t it?”

  Part of me wants to defend myself, but he’s right. When a straight man wants to make big changes in his life, it’s nearly always on account of a woman. Because when a man feels this strongly for a woman, it makes him want to transform his priorities. It makes him want to take chances he never thought he’d take before.

  Still, I correct him. “Girl. As in one. Not girls.”

  “Okay. What’s the story with this girl?”

  “She’s different. She’s not like anyone else I’ve been with,” I add as we turn the corner, Cletus leading the way around the block.

  “It’s Jillian, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Dude, you need to be careful.” His tone is a stern warning.

  “I am careful, but look, I like her. I like her a lot. I’m fucking falling for her.”

  Stopping in his tracks, Trevor stares at me, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. “Are you kidding me? You’re falling for a woman? For real?”

  I shake my head, because that’s not correct. It’s well past falling. Everything I pictured earlier tonight clicks into place. I want the freedom to be with Jillian because I’ve fallen in love with her. My heart thumps a little harder as the thought shifts from bits and pieces of emotion to a fully formed certainty. “No, I’m not falling. I’ve fallen. I’m in love with her.”

  “Whoa.” He holds up his hand like a stop sign. “In. Love?” He points at me, incredulous. “You? In love? For the first time, ever?”

  “Don’t act so surprised. It was bound to happen.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “I never thought you’d say those words,” he says, like he’s still processing the sheer magnitude of the bomb I dropped on him.

  “It’s the truth. And listen, I know you think I can’t sustain a relationship for longer than a week, let alone a month, but I’ve had feelings for her for a while. I didn’t act on them because of what we talked about, and your concerns, but when we were in Miami . . .”

  “You hooked up in South Beach?”

  Anger flares through me. “Don’t you get it? I’m trying to tell you it’s more than hooking up. It’s way more than that.”

  “Okay, it was more than hooking up. Fine. I get it. Are you still . . . doing whatever this more than hooking up is?”

  I shake my head. “We’ve been behaving since we returned more than a month ago. The thing is, nothing has changed, and I still want her. I like her. I’m in love with her, man.”

  He breathes out heavily through his nostrils as we turn back onto my block. “Don’t just chase a piece of ass, Jones.”

  Faster than I captured the ball last week, I grab the neck of his shirt with my free hand and yank him closer. My eyes are full of fury. I stare hard into his irises, my jaw tight. “She’s not a piece of ass.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. He knows I’d never hurt him. But he also knows I’m so much bigger than he is.

  I shake my head. “Don’t call her that.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first, but soon he smirks. Laughs. Smiles.

  I narrow my eyes. “What the hell?”

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  I drop my fist from his shirt, letting my hand fall to my side as Cletus whimpers. “I told you I love her.”

  “I had to test you, though.”

  “You called her a piece of ass to test me?”