Chapter 16 Jillian
JILLIAN
The dining room at the inn is stuffed with Wine Country visitors. Long, lingering dinners among groups and couples play out at the tables, and the bar is packed, too. But getting a table won’t be a problem since I made a reservation as soon as Jones suggested dinner.
That’s my job, after all. I requested a table in a corner and asked the manager to seat us quickly, if possible.
Too many times I’ve gone out to dinner with athletes and they’ve been inevitably mobbed by people seeking autographs.
There’s nothing wrong with that, and Jones has always been generous with the fans.
But that sort of attention is best on the way out of an eatery, so you have an excuse to say goodbye, rather than on the way in, when everyone stares and snaps pics during a meal.
Jones is the second most popular player on the team, behind the quarterback, so I have to do my best to make sure he can enjoy simple things, like a business dinner.
As we reach the hostess stand at the end of the bar, I conduct my requisite scan of the dining room, making sure Jones won’t be mobbed.
I home in on a tiara at the far end of the bar. A sash. A pink shirt with the words Maid of Dishonor on it. My radar pings instantly, warning me to closely watch the bachelorette party with its dozen women wearing slinky, short dresses and the maid of dishonor who’s urging them all to do shots.
As the blonde in the pink shirt guzzles her tequila, her eyes stray to the man at my side. Setting down the glass, she blinks at Jones, and the scene seems to play out in slow motion. Her hungry eyes roam up and down his tall frame, then return to his face as recognition sets in.
She turns to the brunette next to her and whispers in her ear. The brunette snaps her gaze to Jones, her jaw falling open.
I touch his arm, whispering, “Beware of bridesmaids at ten o’clock,” just as the hostess arrives with a cheery, professional smile on her high-cheekboned face, asking if we’re the Moore party of two. “I can seat you right away.”
Jones knits his brow, indicating he didn’t hear me. I squeeze his arm tighter and try again to warn him. But the bachelorette party blitz has launched. The women scramble, rushing toward him as other diners jerk their heads at the commotion.
Jones is no stranger to a defense coming in his direction. Even so, there’s little anyone can do to avoid this tackle.
My God, are you Jones Beckett?
We love you!
Sign my sash!
Sign my shirt!
The maid of dishonor jams her pink polka-dot-encased iPhone close to him, and says, “Can we please have a picture?” while the hostess asks the women to please give him some space.
Jones simply smiles.
Which is precisely what I want him to do, but when I see the maid of dishonor wedge herself next to him while calling over the woman in white, I can see how this will play out.
Jones joins bachelorette party.
Jones parties with the bride.
The Hands gets his hands on the bride.
I wrap my fingers tighter around his arm, and tug him away with a hard jerk. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take him to an interview right now. Have a wonderful wedding, and go Renegades.”
Like the badass publicist I am, I guide him out of the restaurant in seconds, before anyone can get a photo of him that could be taken out of context. I march him through the lobby to the elevator, and then I stab the up button, keeping a watch for any stray bridesmaids.
He looks at me, slightly bewildered. “You’re like a bodyguard.”
I laugh while shaking my head. “Not in the least.”
“No, you fucking are,” he says, his tone full of admiration, as if he’s seeing a new side of me. “I’ve known you to move through reporters on the field like that”—he snaps his fingers to demonstrate—“but a wild pack of bridesmaids is riskier than running through the Dallas defense.”
“And that’s exactly why I dragged you away.”
“Understood. But there’s only one problem.” His stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry.”
I laugh. “I’m famished, too. But there are other restaurants in this town. I just wanted to get you away from there so we could regroup.”
He raises a finger, indicating he has a question. “Scale of one to ten: what are the chances if we leave for another restaurant that they might find us on the way?”
I curve up the corner of my lips, considering. “I give it a seven.” I pause, cycling through options. “Do you like room service?”
He scoffs. “Who doesn’t like room service?”
Kevin, for one. My ex shuddered at the prospect of food delivered to a hotel room. “I knew this guy who hated it. He refused to order room service, no matter how tired he was when he traveled.”
“Does not compute.”
I roll my eyes. “He said it was a cop-out. He had this whole routine he did about how room service always takes forty-five minutes and all you get is a Cobb salad and cold French fries.”
“Let me guess. This guy is an ex?”
I smile sheepishly. “An ex and a cheater, too, to be precise.”
Narrowing his eyes, he mutters, “Asshole.” He inches a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Don’t worry. I don’t suffer from that problem.
Not the asshole part, not the cheating part, and not the hating room service part.
Quite the contrary. I could write a song about it, give a speech on the wonder of room service, pen an ode to how awesome it is to be able to order a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup to be brought to your room. That’s how much I like room service.”
“Me, too.”
The elevator arrives, and we step inside quickly as he offers me a hand to high-five.
When I smack it, he threads his fingers through mine while the door closes.
He doesn’t let go. I don’t think it’s romantic, but I’m also not sure what this is.
Maybe it’s friendly? Perhaps it’s some sort of solidarity gesture, since we’re partners in this getaway plan and fellow aficionados of room service.
Too bad my skin tingles as he touches me. My chest heats and my lips part. My body longs for more contact. The craving for him magnifies, and I wish he’d take my wrists in his hands, lift them over my head, and crush his mouth to mine.
But that’s a dream.
He lets go to press the elevator button for the fifth floor, and my hand feels strangely empty now without his, so I cover up the lonely sensation with more chatter.
“Let the record reflect that room service is literally one of the greatest inventions ever. Quite possibly up there with electricity and the wheel.”
“Let’s get it, then.”
“Definitely,” I say as the elevator slows at my floor. As the doors open, I wave a quick goodbye, since he’s staying on the seventh floor. “See you tomorrow.”
He steps out into the hallway. “Together, Jillian. Let’s have room service together.”
Stopping in my tracks, I blink and swallow hard. “Together?” It comes out like a croak. “I thought by room service you meant we’d go to our separate rooms.”
He shakes his head, his blue eyes sparkling with playfulness. “Not when we have other stuff to discuss. Want to get room service in my room? Or yours?”
His eyes drift to the elevator behind him. The doors have closed, and it’s heading down.
I’m not sure which room feels more dangerous. His or mine. Mine or his.
“Yours? Since it’s your floor?” he suggests, and at least now I don’t have to figure out the answer to a trick question.
I take a shaky breath and say, “Yes.”
We walk down the hall in silence. When I stop at room 508, I take out my card key with nervous fingers, fighting like hell to keep it steady as I wave it over the card reader.
When I turn the knob, open the door, and step into the room, I can’t think of anything but the huge risk I’m taking by letting him into my room.
And yet, it’s a risk I want to take.
We share most of the food, working our way through a Caesar salad, a mango and mint salad, an appetizer of salted edamame, a steak for him, and French fries for me.
“Just one,” I say, waggling a fry. “You can do it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You temptress.”
“You healthy eater, you.” I swipe the fry through some ketchup and brandish it like an offering. “Can you resist now?”
Rolling his eyes, he grabs the fry and pops it into his mouth, chewing then making a satisfied smack of his lips.
“There. Just so you know I’m not afraid to break the rules every now and then.
” He holds my gaze as he says that, and I want to look away, but I can’t.
I just can’t. I like looking at him far too much for my own good.
So much I might break the rules if I have a chance.
He taps the table. “I’ll have you know, you addicted me to a certain citrus.”
“You bought more pomelos?”
He nods. “I can’t get enough of them.”
For some stupid reason, that makes me happy.
As we eat, we talk about the calendar and the sponsorship, but quickly the conversation moves to other matters.
I ask him about his family and learn how close he is to his two brothers and his sister.
He shows me pictures on his phone of them growing up.
Shots where he’s jumping into an above-ground pool with them cannonballing, too.
Pics of them swinging high at the playground.
Laughing in front of a Ferris wheel. It’s sweet, not just the pics, but that he’s showing me.
Almost like he wants me to have the same experience that my dad gave him.
“If you ever come over to fix something for my parents, you should ask to see their photo albums,” he jokes, but then turns instantly serious.
“Wait. I was naked in a lot of pics. Scratch that.”
“You can’t just drop that and move on. I need more,” I say.
With a laugh, he drags his hand through his dark brown hair. “I was a naked kid. Running through sprinklers. Running through the house. Running anywhere in the buff.”
“And to think I was blushing when my dad showed you my baby pics where I had too many clothes.”
“Pretty sure I had none on,” he says.