Page 26 of Not Just a Trick Play

I cross to her side and obediently scribble it down beside some mathematical formulas that make me want to back away slowly and promise to keep in touch. After final hugs from both Helena and Yvonne, I head to the foyer.

Luna gives my takeaway boxes a hopeful sniff. “Ah-ah, missy,” I warn, hoisting them out of her reach. “that’s what got us into this pickle in the first place.” I scan the room, trying to find higher ground to park them.

“Sit.” Jake commands, reappearing a moment later. I drop into the seat, but instead of relieving me of the containers so I can put on my shoes, he drops to one knee in front of me, retaining custody of my footwear.

My mouth falls open, and when he takes hold of my foot, I instinctively jerk it away. He calmly retrieves my calf, his greengaze pinning me in place with a chiding look before returning to the business at hand. The business being my foot. My goodness, he really is Prince Charming.

I sit in shock as he deftly laces up one trainer before repeating the process with the other. As he finishes, he grazes the bare skin between the hem of my jeans and the edges of my sock with his thumb, sending my breath swooping past my belly, through my knees, and pinging into my toes. A totally normal reaction, but I gasp.

He looks up with a grin that should be outlawed. “All good?”

“Good. Yes. Very good.” My voice is all sorts of breathless. He springs to his feet and offers me a hand. My brain has short-circuited—that’s why I spend an extra second gawking at it. Once I gather my bearings, I shuffle the two containers under one arm and accept his help. Does he hang on to my hand for longer than necessary? I yank it away once I’m upright, pretending to need both hands for the food.

His smile doesn’t falter, but he remains silent as he opens the front door, signaling for me to exit. I step out into the crisp October breeze then pivot to make my farewells, but the door’s shut, and he’s standing by my side.

“Umm. Goodbye?” It comes out a question.

“Let me take you to your place.”

“Uh… I’m not very far away. Just the Carmine Street Hotel. Truly. You should go inside. Don’t you have skeletons to see to?” I quip.

One corner of his mouth quirks up as his piercing green eyes lock on mine with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back my layers.

A sudden gust of wind whips my hair into a frenzied mess, sending strands into my face. I shake my head, trying to dislodge them, but Jake leans in. His hand brushes the tangleaway gently. His fingers linger on my temple, and tingles skitter across my skin.

He releases me and takes a step back. His smirk has my blood boiling even while my heart trips over itself.

I swallow hard. I’m not disappointed. Relieved. That’s me. I pull myself together, ignoring that tiny, lingering sense of regret.

He tilts his head, giving me a slow, appraising look that sends another jolt of electricity through me. “So, you need a job, huh? What if I could help?”

“And how exactly do you plan to help?”

He winks. “I’m a man of many talents.”

My mind immediately conjures an image of a naked Jake, handcuffed to a bed, directing me while I pole dance in nothing but a sequined thong. I banish the thought and narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not sure I should be taking career advice from someone in…entertainment.”

Jake chuckles, the sound rich and teasing. “It’s not that kind of entertainment.”

Maybe not, and even though I know I should shut this down and leave, those green eyes keep me rooted in place. I can’t trust myself with him; give him an inch, and he’ll have me wrapped around his finger in no time.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, didn’t you say you’d take anything?”

Somehow, I find an ounce of self-control and shoot him a withering glare. “I draw the line at fluffier!” With that, I spin on my heels and march down the stoop.

His laughter follows me, but I refuse to turn back. No doubt about it, the man’s dodgy. So dodgy. The whole situation is dodgy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AMELIA

Dodgierstill when I wake to a cryptic phone call the next morning, informing me I’m expected at a Bronx location promptly at 1:00 p.m. for a meeting with a Ms. Murray.

I stare at the screen, debating whether this mysterious job opportunity is worth pursuing. As I sift through my emails, I find a few more rejections, nudging me to at least check it out.

Three hours, two subway changes, and a wrong turn that has me circling the same block twice later, I’m gawking at a gray behemoth that matches the address.

At first sight, it appears as if I’ve stumbled upon the Death Star. Or maybe a modern-day colosseum, which is rather concerning since I’m not sure what kind of position I’m here for. I was somewhat indiscriminate toward the end of my application-submitting-spree, which means I might have elected to wrestle lions or enlisted as a Storm Trooper. Career limiting (ending) choices, both.

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