Page 35 of Most Likely to Score
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 servicetogether.”
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.”
