Chapter 10 Jillian
JILLIAN
With exposed red-brick walls, flickering candles on the tables, and framed photographs of a couple tangoing on the streets of Buenos Aires, the restaurant has a romantic feel.
Perhaps I should have met him at the office.
Or at a playground.
Or a hair salon.
My dad’s house, even.
Anyplace at all besides the private room at a trendy French-Brazilian establishment that’s earning all the raves.
Deservedly so.
The mushrooms are to die for. They’ve been melting on my tongue. Jones spears a piece of the grilled potatoes, since he insisted we share two appetizers. That’s not romantic at all. That’s totally what business associates do. That’s what I tell myself, at least.
“Try this,” he says, offering me the food on the end of his fork.
My eyes widen. My heart thumps stupidly fast. Am I supposed to eat off the end of his fork? That’s kind of intensely couple-like.
Why did I pick this perfect place? The mood is too seductive, and he looks like a dream. That black shirt and the way it fits him should be criminal. It stretches across his pecs and hugs his biceps. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his muscular, ropy forearms.
His hair is freshly combed, like he took a shower right before he arrived.
My breath catches at the thought of Jones in the shower, soaping up that big, sexy body, running his hands across that chest, along his arms, down his legs.
I wonder if he touches himself in the shower.
Oh God, there’s a five-alarm fire raging in my body now as I picture finding him in his shower as he pleasures himself.
I press my thighs together and think of bunnies and baby chicks.
“It’s tasty,” he says, waggling the fork at me.
I bet he’s tasty.
Then I realize he’s not offering the food to me romantically. He’s toying with me again. This is probably a brand-new game. That thought cools me down a few degrees.
I smile and take the fork, since I don’t like being fed. I eat the grilled potato, and it makes my mouth sing. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
“Well, I did pick a great place,” he says, shooting me a grin.
I laugh, feeling better now that we’re back to familiar ground. I know the rules to this game. The teasing game. The toying game. “Oh, sure. You truly have amazing taste in restaurants, Jones.”
“I’m so glad you approve of my choice,” he says with a wink, knowing full well it was my pick.
He raises his beer and offers a toast. “To the person who truly has great taste in where to eat.” His eyes lock on mine, and for the briefest of seconds, there’s no teasing in them.
Just that flash of heat I swore I saw at the photo shoot.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer than I’d expect.
Then another. And it both unnerves me and turns me on to a vastly inappropriate degree.
He won’t look away from me. His blue eyes are melting me. My body hums, and my bones vibrate.
Must. Find. Strength. To. Break. Hold.
“That poster is so great,” I say, tapping my glass of iced tea to his as I glance at the picture of a couple tangoing.
He follows my eyes. “Yeah, they look totally hot for each other.”
Okay. That was not the best deflection strategy. I bring the glass to my lips and nearly drink the whole thing down, praying it reduces the red-hot temperature in me.
“That must be some delicious iced tea,” he says drily.
One more chug. One more gulp. Done. I set it down with a smile. “Delish,” I declare.
I don’t drink when I’m out for work. I don’t drink at all with players. People make foolish decisions when they drink. I can only imagine letting my guard down with him. I can imagine the words that would fall stupidly out of my mouth after a few glasses.
Take me home tonight. Put your hands on me. All over me.
I growl at my inner voice, a reminder to never say those words out loud. Or in my head, either, frankly.
“Are you ready for my proposal?” I ask in my most professional tone, as I brush several strands of my hair away from my face, my fingertips dusting my stainless-steel earrings.
Setting down his glass, he angles closer, studying me. My ears, I think. “Are those . . .?” He points at my earlobe. “Cherries?”
I smile, raising a hand to touch the jewelry as if I need to remind myself. “Yes. They’re my favorite.”
“Favorite fruit?”
“Yes. Name a fruit better than a cherry.”
He laughs. “Well, then. Tell me what you really think.”
“Go ahead. I’m waiting.”
He strokes his chin. Arches a brow. “Peaches are pretty good, Jillian.”
“They’re a close second, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you. Appreciate that,” he says. “Also, now I want cherries.”
“Told you they’re the best,” I say. Since this dinner seems to be going well and I’d like to keep it that way, I add, “And they’re red, which is a special color in Chinese culture, so cherries have become a modern sign of luck and good fortune.
Even though I wasn’t really raised in a Chinese household, I’ve picked up a few little things that I like from the culture. ”
“Do you wear the earrings for luck then?”
I give that some thought, but only briefly as I shake my head. “Honestly no. My parents gave them to me when I started my job with the Renegades, so it kind of makes me feel close to them. Maybe that’s where my belief in luck comes from—from them, really.”
“I love that,” he says. “They’re like a family symbol then.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “What about you?”
“Since you ask,” he says, with a sly grin as he pats the pocket of his jeans, then pulls out a charm. It’s a gold four-leaf clover. “This was my dad’s. His dad is from Ireland and it’s definitely a symbol of luck there. And let me tell you, we needed some luck growing up.”
My heart softens a little. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, you know. My parents just worked hard. Four kids and all,” he says, then slides the charm back into his pocket.
“And I’ll take as much good fortune as I can possibly get on the field,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table, reminding me that Jones has always been one of the more superstitious athletes.
Last year, he asked me to cut his teammate Harlan’s hair, saying the guys needed to start up a new ritual because an old superstition had been broken.
“You hardly need good fortune,” I tell him.
“But I’ll take it. Also”—he leans closer and cups his hand over the side of his mouth—“I love cherries, too.”
My lips part, and my skin heats. It’s nearly impossible to talk about cherries without sounding sexual, and it’s inevitable that Jones would sound that way to me. Cherries. The word seems to hang between us like it means something else.
I snap myself out of talk of cherries, and families, and the things we hold that make us feel connected to the people we love. “Proposal time.”
He waggles his fingers at his chest. “Give me all the deets. Just lay it on me.”
I clear my throat, launch into my pitch, and tell him what I have in mind.
He nods excitedly, raising both arms in victory. “You had me at puppies.”
“I did?”
“There’s literally nothing more to say.”
“You’ll do it?” I ask, my voice rising in excitement.
I’m not asking him to build houses in the one hundred ten-degree sun, but I didn’t expect a yes in seconds when I pitched him on my idea for a charity calendar benefiting local animal rescues.
Twelve months of photos of Jones, posing with adorable animals.
“You’re surprised?”
“Yes, but I’m also thrilled. I just didn’t know if you needed to talk to anyone first.”
“Nope. I don’t need to consult Ford or Trevor or anyone. I want to do this.”
“Seriously?” My smile widens.
He laughs, leans forward, and pats my hand. “You say that like it’s a surprise I’d do something nice. I did your bachelor auction last year, and the year before.”
I flash back to the auction last season.
I was tense, wound up before it started.
I wanted it to be an amazing event. Jones found me backstage and reassured me that everything would be great.
For a moment, I linger on that sweet memory of his voice, his kind words.
That didn’t feel like toying with me at all. It felt real.
“You were great at the auction. It meant a lot to me,” I say softly.
He squeezes my hand, and I tense, then give in to the momentary sensation of his big hand covering mine, reassuring me once more.
“And I’m all in with this, too.” He lets go of my hand, and I wish he’d touch me again, even though I can’t let my mind go there.
“This is a one hundred percent volunteer project,” I say, making sure he’s clear on the terms. When I mentioned the project to my photographer friend Jess she offered to waive her fee and work for a day since one of the shoots coincides with her trip here.
“No way. Remember—know your worth,” I’d said to her.
“I can be bribed in dogs though,” she’d said, since she’s a huge dog person. Another reason I adore her.
But while she’s being paid, Jones wouldn’t be. “You’d be donating your time freely,” I tell him.
“Puppies, Jillian. Puppies.”
I smile. “There will be kittens, too.”
“Meow,” he says, brandishing his hands as claws. His huge hands. My mind flickers briefly to how those hands would look wrapped around my waist. They’re so big, they’d cover me, hold me, dig into my hips. A ribbon of heat unfurls in my body, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
“You okay? You just thinking about me and all the pussycats?” he asks with a wink.
God, I’m thinking about him making me purr, and it’s filthy. It’s wanton. The way my body reacts to him is dangerous.
I need to keep my head in the game. “I am. I have some great shots planned. We’ll do them all in the Bay Area to support local rescues. It shouldn’t take up too much time. Probably a week or ten days, and it would end shortly before training camp begins.”
“Sounds perfect. I only have one stipulation.”
My heart sags. There’s always a catch. “Sure. What is it?”
“We need to take one of the pictures at the Miami Humane Society.”