Page 89 of Not Just a Trick Play

The crimson stilettos sparkle in her outstretched hands, almost a talisman of the future I’m grabbing onto. My fingers curl around them, the glossy veneer promising a rush of adventures yet to come.

While Yvonne rambles on about the virtues of platforms versus the stability of wedges, I toe off my trainers and slip into the heels, teetering a bit. Unsteady, until I find my footing. But I do. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. They’re a perfect fit. I feel a smile bloom on my lips, full and real.

I’ve cast my lot in with the city of dreams, and everything is slotting into place. I have a business just shy of a breakthrough. Should I plan more tours? Harlem’s packed with music history. Perhaps an indie-rock walk of Brooklyn? Goodness, I could even attempt classical tour around Lincoln Center. The potential is endless, and I can’t wait.

“Hello, Earth to Amelia. You’re needed here. Zip code 10022-SHOE, remember?”

“Right, sorry.” The smile doesn’t leave my face, though.

“What’s with the goofy look?” She narrows her eyes for a second, then wrinkles her nose. “If it has anything to do with my brother and S-E-X, I don’t want to hear it.”

Her words have the rather chaste scene of Jake spinning me, red heels gleaming in the moonlight, giving way to one decidedly less innocent, with him tugging them off. He lays meon my back, that devilish gleam in his eyes sending fire to my cheeks.

Right on cue, my phone rings, and Jake’s face fills my display, captured mid-laugh in a snapshot that screams “just your average heartthrob.”

“It’s almost like you’re broadcasting a dirty Bat Signal,” Yvonne says in disgust, and I fight another smile as I pivot away in case I need to spare her any scandalous commentary.

“Hey, Sweets, was just thinking of you.”

My heart swells at Jake’s voice and I melt inside. It’s all so surreal, as if everything is too good to be true.

I nestle the phone closer to my ear, whispering a breathless “Hi” in return.

“Just got done at the stadium. What are you up to?”

“Shoe shopping with Yvonne.”

“Oh?” His tone perks up. “Sexy shoes?”

“They’re red. And high,” I strike a pose for myself, relishing the reflection of a taller, bolder, sexier me.

The laugh that follows is warm and wicked. “We could start the party early tomorrow, with you wearing them and nothing else in the limo stocked with champagne.” His words wrap around me in a velvet promise.

Heat creeps up my cheeks, and an electric buzz zaps through me as a light storm of decadent possibilities fill my mind. I tingle in anticipation of what comes next. The day’s been a cascade of splendid moments, one high after another, leaving me on a precarious edge of wonder. Desperately, I try to leash my excitement, keep the giddiness in check, as if too much joy might send me toppling. “Really, I don’t need a lot of fuss.”

CHAPTER FORTY

JAKE

Of course I make a fuss.Amelia’s my girl. Mine. And tonight, as we hit the Nurture NYC red carpet, I want everyone to know it.

Our limo rounds the corner, and the Winters Hotel appears. Hard to believe that when Amelia and I started our secretive “lessons” here, we’d be on a cusp of a moment so much bigger. Even through the heavily tinted windows, the glass façade reflects the light of the city and flashbulbs going off, underscored by the muted hum of the awaiting throng.

Lines of reporters snake along the path to the grand entrance, all primed and ready. Velvet ropes hold back a swath of onlookers, eager for a glimpse of New York glitterati. I silently thank my lucky stars I didn’t tank the gala beyond repair.

Beside me, Amelia’s fixed on the spectacle, her nerves clear.

“Are you sure about this?” Her voice is tinny. One hand’s all but welded to the cream satin clutch in her lap, while the other white-knuckles a flute of champagne that’s done shit to soothe her jitters. At the beginning of the drive, I pitched a couple of creative tension-busters, but after a few “try-me-and-die” glares, I stopped. And let’s be real—no one else needs to see her post-fucked glow. That one’s only for me and I don’t share.

“Absolutely.” I pry her fingers from her bag, and she faces me. “I’ll be there the entire time. Just do what you always do—focus on me.” I waggle my brows for good measure.

She gifts me an eye roll, but a laugh hides right behind it. For a heartbeat or two, her trepidation subsides.

Until the doors open and flashbulbs go off and fans yell from the sidelines, assaulting us. Mild terror crosses Amelia’s features before they freeze into a facsimile of a smile. Good enough. I step out first and salute the crowd.

When I turn to help Amelia out of the car, it’s as if someone hit the strobe in a club. Flashes come so fast and furious, even I have to blink at the furor. I lace our fingers together, offering silent reassurance as she stands rigid beside me, her clasp so tight it’s nearly a vise.

Amidst the glittering chaos, her quiet voice finds my ear. “Is it always this mad?”

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