Chapter 27
27
Ding!
“That should be the boys,” I tell Jamie at the sound of the doorbell. She’s just come in from her late-morning yoga session on the beach, and by the mean mug she’s aiming my way, I’m guessing I just wrecked her state of calm.
“Remind me to shank you later for setting me up on a blind date in the middle of what’s supposed to be my vacation,” she tells me. “I haven’t waxed in weeks, and Aunt Flo is in town. A sister coulda used a heads-up is all I’m sayin’.”
“Sorry, boo, wasn’t my idea,” I offer as a futile defense. Even so, I don’t miss the slight sparkle in her eyes or the grin on her face as she practically skips up the stairs.
I’d bet that the first second she had to herself after I gave her Gabriel’s full name, she pulled up Google and started salivating over the Images tab. He’s about an inch shorter than Miles and only slightly less filled out. On the day we all met at Janet’s home office, he wore an olive green suit that was clearly tailor-made to his long, lean frame. And with that charming crooked smile, those light brown eyes, and his deep black curls—the man is as beautiful to behold as the athletes he represents. So, while I can certainly understand Jamie not being keen on the element of surprise here, there’s a strong chance she could end up thanking me later.
On my way to the door, I check myself in the foyer mirror. Since Sheryl’s been out, I have felt wholly uninspired to find a temp replacement. Instead, I’ve been trying my hand at natural and protective hairstyles—something I never would have had the guts to do while I was with Elliot. Last night, for example, after co-washing my hair I used a moisturizing serum and twisted it up using flexi rods. The result this morning after taking it all down didn’t quite match the tutorial I’d followed, but a few hours later, the twists have fallen to my shoulders with a flirty curl pattern that’s starting to grow on me.
In the two seconds I take to look at my reflection, I make the choice to love this version of me—the one without a full face on. Just tinted sunscreen, well-shaped brows, and a little bit of lip oil, all wrapped up in a plain blue sundress with a brand name I didn’t care to check. It’s been a while, but I recognize this girl. She’s a mess, but she’s trying. And right now, there’s a fine-as-hell man on the other side of the door who came to see her.
When I open that door, Miles is standing there holding two shopping bags in one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. His smile stretches wide as his eyes sweep me from head to toe, drinking in the view. Mine do the same. We stand there for several seconds. No words. Just casually eye-fucking—as you do, when you’ve had sex just once but spent the following weeks communicating with words what you’d rather be saying with your bodies.
Speaking of bodies, his is even more striking than I remember. That brown skin has been kissed deeply by the California sun, and I am tempted to take off his clothes and see for myself just where the borders of his tan lines lie.
“Hi,” he says, his rich voice breaking me out of a semi-trance.
“Hi,” I reply, absently reaching up to finger a curl at my shoulder.
His eyes dance around the edges of my face, and for a moment I wonder if he’s not into the new look. Then, setting down the grocery bags, he steps forward and with his free hand plucks a curl between his fingers. “This you?” he asks. I nod. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
At this I reach up, placing both hands on either side of his face. Our eyes meet for a second of acknowledgment before his lips firmly claim mine in an open-mouthed kiss that makes my knees go week. He drops the flowers, wrapping one hand behind my back to brace me, and with the other he cups the back of my head. Then he’s kissing me—my mouth, my nose, my cheeks and forehead.
“You’re better than I remember, Mr. Westbrook,” I manage to say, when we pull apart and I’ve had the chance to catch my breath. And then I gasp, because in a swirl of lust and longing, I totally forgot he hasn’t come alone. “Miles, please tell me Gabriel is not sitting in your car watching us make out right now.”
His laugh floats up from the well inside his chest, and I feel tethered to the sound, from the way it tugs at the center of mine. “Nah. I gave myself a little bit of a head start,” he says. “My guy won’t be here for another five minutes.”
“Well, in that case, let’s get all this inside,” I say, before drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to regain some composure. “Jamie should be down any minute.” I bend to pick up the flowers as Miles grabs the bags.
Leading him through the foyer, I try to mask my big sigh of relief. Last night, I devoted about two hours of lost sleep to the potential that this reunion could crash and burn. I got married so young I never really had the chance to dip my toes in the pool of dating in the wild. But I’ve seen enough episodes of Catfish to know that strong romantic connections built long distance over phones are liable to either fall apart or descend into chaos under the pressure of face-to-face interaction. We may have had a scorching chemistry, even before we finally acted on it, but there has still been this nagging worry that my flying out here in the midst of his season could somehow alter the magic.
“Nice digs, Dream Girl.” Miles whistles in appreciation while following me through the great room of the beach house. When we arrive in the ultramodern kitchen, we set the groceries and flowers down on the massive island. And, searching for words, I find myself absently running my fingers along the dark gray veining in the marble. When Miles’s warm, calloused hand smooths up the exposed skin between my shoulder blades to cup the nape of my neck, chills run down my arms, and I turn to look at him.
“You seem nervous. What can I do?” he asks.
“You can reveal your intentions with my friend, slugger!” We both turn to discover that Jamie has entered the room. “Kidding,” she deadpans, looking fresh and with a full beat while leaning against the entryway as Miles crosses to give her a hug.
“For starters, I intend to cook you and your friend brunch. How’s that sound?” he says, voice as bright as the smile on his face.
“Sounds…woefully unoriginal, sir,” she teases. “And what’s this I hear about this sports agent of yours?”
Ding!
“Speak of the devil,” I say.
The hypnotizing aroma of buttermilk pancakes, applewood bacon, sliced avocado, fried eggs, and smashed plantains—or mofongo, as Miles says it’s called in Puerto Rico—seasons the air of our patio dining setup. The midmorning weather is crisp and bright, and after working up a bit of a sweat at the stove, our chef is now down to a plain white T-shirt and basketball shorts, something I am not complaining about.
Our sous chef Gabriel, on the other hand, arrived at ten thirty on the dot packing mimosas and two carafes of coffee, and was dressed to the nines in a cashmere sweater and slacks with a fresh lineup.
“Look at this guy,” Miles said as I led his agent into the kitchen after greeting him at the door. “Always gotta make me look bad.”
“Nah, my brotha,” Gabriel replied as they clapped hands and patted each other on the back. “A face like yours doesn’t need these bells and whistles.”
Peering over the two of them, I watched Jamie size Gabriel up. And when his gaze panned the room and latched on to hers, I think I saw the moment it mentally knocked her off-balance. She recovered quickly, though, sauntering around the island and sticking out a hand for him to shake.
“Jamie Marshall, makeup artist to the stars,” she said, very matter of fact. “I’m told this is some sort of setup.”
His laugh sputtered out of him, and he took her hand in both of his. “Pleasure to meet you, Jamie. I’m—”
“Gabriel. I’m aware,” she cut him off. “Now what is it you sports agents actually do?”
And just like that, the sports agent and the makeup artist waltzed out of the kitchen in rapt conversation. Now the four of us have sat down to feast on all of Miles’s hard labor, and I’m finding it hard not to pinch myself at how well things are going. I’m on my second mimosa. Miles is having coffee since he doesn’t drink before games. And Gabriel and Jamie are going back and forth on MJ versus LeBron—an argument Miles and I backed out of almost as soon as it began.
“So, you ready for the game tonight, big guy? How’s that arm?” Gabriel asks Miles, after laying down his sword, likely out of pure exhaustion. In a debate, Jamie has the stamina of a rabbit in heat.
I don’t miss the subtle grimace on Miles’s face. He’s seated across from me, and though our feet are entwined beneath the table, he’s been a little quiet throughout the morning since his agent showed up, mostly attending to his dishes. “I’m good, man. Had an intense rehab session with Mario last night, but woke up feeling brand-new.”
I run my foot up Miles’s calf under the table, a wordless play for his attention. And when it works, I say, “What’s that about?”
His face falls just slightly before he explains. “An old injury in my pitching arm that’s just giving me some problems lately. G-man and my trainers have been trying to convince me to have another surgery.”
I balk at the sound of the word surgery , then I see a mental picture of that long, raised scar running up the inside of his right arm along his elbow. “The Tommy John operation?” I ask.
Miles’s eyes go wide, and then, taking me by surprise, his mouth curves into a smile. “You still watching that baseball YouTube channel, huh?”
As much as I’d like to bask in the idea that I’ve impressed him, there’s a pit in my stomach. “So you’re in pain when you pitch?” I ask.
At this, Gabriel chimes in. “It’s a really typical injury for his level of play,” he explains, eyeing his client and then looking to me. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“Well, now I feel bad,” Jamie says. “If y’all had told me the man’s arm was busted I might have offered to hold a spatula or something.”
This makes everyone laugh. But mine is only half-hearted. Instead, I’m watching Miles while he watches me come to the stark realization that I am in deep for this man. Deeper than I might be ready for.
“So, ladies.” Gabriel throws the words over his shoulder on his way out the door, with Jamie following close behind him. “Can I interest you both in a suite for tonight’s game? ’Cause…I might know a guy.”
At his car in the driveway, he stops and turns to see Jamie roll her eyes. But deep down somewhere in that cold, cobwebby heart of hers, I know she’s beside herself with anticipation. I can tell by the way she looks over at me, eyes pleading—like an eight-year-old who swears her friend’s mom said it was okay for her to sleep over on a school night.
“You go!” I tell her. “Have a Dodger Dog for me. And some of those nachos with the fake cheese.” At this I wink at Miles, whose eyes haven’t stopped sweeping me up and down all morning.
“You sure you can’t come?” she asks. “We can get you a wig. Put you in a romper or something.”
I glance over at Gabriel and then back at Miles, who both appear to understand my hesitation without me having to voice it. The last thing I need right now is paps catching me cheering on my rumored boyfriend at a game—especially after what Elliot said at the meeting with our attorneys. And not before we’ve even had the chance to figure out what we are to each other.
“I think I’ll hang back,” I say, meeting Miles’s eyes where I don’t miss an inkling of disappointment. “Maybe meet back at your place after?”
“That works for me,” Miles says, with a nod and slow-creeping smile that suggests having me at the game would have been great, but coming home to me after is the real prize.
“Okay, so it’s settled.” Jamie claps her hands, bouncing a little on her heels and beaming at Gabriel. “You’re taking me out to a ball game.”
“Pick you up at four?” Gabriel says, before slipping into his sleek black Mercedes.