Page 13 of Most Likely to Score
I flub my lips and turn on the engine. “Please. I just like to have a good time. Nothing more to it.”
He hums, sounding doubtful.
“What?”
“Just keep it that way, okay? Thenothing more to itway.”
“You are such a big brother sometimes.”
“Dude, she’s the team’s publicist.”
I shoot him a look. “I’m well aware of her job, and we get along fine.”
“I’m glad, and all I’m saying is I’d like to make sure we don’t see shots of you and her topless in limos.”
I narrow my eyes, bristling at the comment. “You don’t know Jillian. That would never happen. She’s not like that.”
“Then it’s harmless flirting. I can live with that.”
“Good to know,Dad.”
I drop him off, return home, and get ready to meet Jillian.
Since naked doesn’t do the trick for her, plus restaurants usually don’t admit birthday-suited patrons, I show up at Gabriel’s freshly showered, shaved, and wearing jeans and a crisp black button-down, the cuffs rolled up, since she once said that a well-dressed athlete is hard to resist.
Fine, she might have been talking about the fact that she wanted us all to wear tailored suits for a charity auction last year, but I’m taking it as a personal piece of fashion advice.
The hostess greets me with a smile then leads me through the restaurant to a private table in the back. Jillian’s not here yet, but five seconds later, I turn around to see her entering the room, and all I can think is she looks good every single time I see her, and tonight I want to peel off that black dress.
The red high heels, though?
She can leave those on.
10
JILLIAN
With exposed red-brick walls, flickering candles on the tables, and framed photographs of a couple tangoing on the streets of Buenos Aires, the restaurant has a romantic feel.
Perhaps I should have met him at the office.
Or at a playground.
Or a hair salon.
My dad’s house, even.
Anyplace at all besides the private room at a trendy French-Brazilian establishment that’s earning all the raves.
Deservedly so.
The mushrooms are to die for. They’ve been melting on my tongue. Jones spears a piece of the grilled potatoes, since he insisted we share two appetizers. That’s not romantic at all. That’s totally what business associates do. That’s what I tell myself, at least.
“Try this,” he says, offering me the food on the end of his fork.
My eyes widen. My heart thumps stupidly fast. Am I supposed to eat off the end of his fork? That’s kind of intensely couple-like.
Why did I pick this perfect place? The mood is too seductive, and he looks like a dream. That black shirt and the way it fits him should be criminal. It stretches across his pecs and hugs his biceps. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his muscular, ropy forearms.
