Page 44 of Most Likely to Score
But then, on the elevator ride up, reality hits me. If Jones was going to make his intentions clear, he’d do what Marcus did.
Ask me out.
He never has, so I don’t need to waste time pondering what-if scenarios.
Jones and I aren’t a scenario. We aren’t a thing, and the way we look at each other is meaningless.
In fact, looking at him is exactly what I try not to do the next morning at the photo shoot. Because I can’t let on that I think about this often. Too much is at stake, and the more I look at him, the more my stupid feelings cloud my brain.
That’s why I resolve to keep everything light between us. That should be easy since he’s shirtless on the sand, posing with a long-haired dachshund.
When we’re done with the shoot, Jones ambles over to me, stroking the wiener dog in his arms. “Scale of one to ten—how cute is he?”
Playfully, I wag a finger at him, doing my best to keep everything between us breezy. “Obviously, one million.”
“You guessed right.”
I laugh and the laughter reminds me that we’ve always had a fun professional rapport, one where we freely tease each other. That’s the relationship I need tomaintain. Sure, the idea of avoiding him at night during this trip has its appeal. But I’m a grown-up, and I can’t hide from a tough situation. It’ll be good for me to practice focusing solely on business with him.
I meet his eyes. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? We can strategize next steps with Paleo Pet and how to tackle social as the marketing campaign rolls out, as well as review some of the calendar publicity.”
See? That sounded so professional. Because it was. I can absolutely zero in on business and just business with the guy.
“Um.” He makes that sound. That sound guys make before they turn you down. That groan of regret-but-not-regret. “I’m hanging out with some of the guys from the Miami Mavericks. Sorry.”
My heart skitters to the sidewalk like a top spinning until it falters. I plaster on a smile, hiding my disappointment. “Oh, that’s great. Have fun.”
As I leave, I believe he’s made his intentions clear after all. He has none for me.
I scroll through my phone, find Andre’s name, and ask if he wants to have dinner poolside.
He says yes.
19
JONES
I slam the plastic ball across the net, watching defensive tackle Connor Washington dive for it on the sand, reaching as far as he can with the paddle.
But he swings and misses.
“Ah, too bad the little white ball eludes you,” I say, since that’s how we roll. I’ve never played a game of table tennis, Xbox, foosball, or golf with a fellow athlete where we didn’t trash-talk each other.
“I wouldn’t dish it out so fast,” Connor warns, his dark eyes sparking with determination as he returns a punishing serve.
He’s right. I miss it.
I fucking miss it. The ball skids past me, hitting the beach.
Because my mind is on Jillian.
Again.
It has been since I saw her at the pool, lounging in a luscious black triangle bikini, drinking a fruity drink, and laughing with a Henry Golding look-alike.
I’ve no clue who he is. And hell, I never gave much thought to her seeing other guys. Which is stupid as shit. Of course she dates. She’s gorgeous and funny and witty and generally awesome. She’s a catch.
The white plastic orb screams in my direction, and I lunge to the right, smacking it hard. Connor returns it fiercely with a grunt. We trade off like that, back and forth, and the focus exiles Jillian from my mind.
