Page 15 of Most Likely to Score
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 nearlyimpossible 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.”
