Page 17 of Most Likely to Score
I hold up a hand to high-five. “You speak the truth.”
As we wait for the designer to show off his new fashions, I tell Katie I’m heading to Stinson Beach tomorrow for the first day of shooting with Jones for the calendar. “But I think I’ll wear jeans and a nice blouse,” I say, musing on the outfit choices for an outdoor photo op.
Katie laughs. “How do you think that’s going to help your crush? When the guy you’re hot for cuddles a puppy on the beach—I mean, that’s so not going to make your ovaries explode.”
I roll my eyes, just to prove how immune my ovaries and I are to Jones. “It’s going to be fine. If I’ve managed this long, I can manage even longer.”
“And then when you fly across the country with him. That ought to be a piece of cake.”
I snap my fingers. “Easy as one, two, three. I’ve only traveled with him at least eight times a year for the last few years—more if you include all the playoff games the team went to.”
“On a jumbo jet. With fifty-three other players, not to mention coaches, staff, and personnel,” Katie adds, shaking her head in amusement, a smirk on her freckled face.
“It’s going to be fine. Yes, I’ve lusted after him for years, and yet, amazingly, not once have I thrown myself at him. I think I can handle this,” I say crisply. “Plus, I didn’t even think about Jones when I dated Kevin last year.”
“Kevin,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “Kevin Stone, AKA, VP of Dickhead Decisions. Is hestill with her? I didn’t see her at the fundraiser we went to.”
I shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on him personally.” Breaking up with Kevin when I found out he’d been cheating on me was, obviously, a no-brainer. Cutting him out of my life has been a teeny bit harder since he’s the sports anchor at one of the San Francisco TV stations. It’s impossible to avoid him when we run in the same circles, but even though I find him highly irritating as a man, I’ve mastered keeping our professional interactions focused solely on the team. Most recently I spotted the pair at a summer carnival fundraiser that all the local teams sponsored along with his station. I said hello in my best professional tone then joined our quarterback and his fiancée at the Skee-Ball game.
I didn’t let it gnaw at me. I wasn’t in love with him, so I refused to let an asshole like that claim squatter’s rights on any of my mental real estate.
Katie pats my leg. “I love your laser focus, Jillian. I love the way you don’t linger on men who are total shits. God knows, I’ve needed a year’s worth of yoga classes to let go of some of the bastards of this world. And I teach the damn classes.”
Katie’s like a superhero—fashionista by day, yogini by night. It’s rather impressive the way she balances it all. But then again, I suppose that’s what yoga is all about. Or so she tells me. I prefer faster forms of exercise.
I toss my hair off my shoulder. “It’s an art. I learned it from my dad.” My father worked in the news business his entire career. He had to learn to compartmentalize,to shrug things off, to keep moving forward. I picked up that skill from him, and am I ever glad I did.
“You could teach classes in it.”
“I’ve already devised a full syllabus,” I say, peering ahead to the runway to try to catch a glimpse of any backstage action. It’s still quiet behind the wings.
“But let’s not ‘art’ the topic of Jones,” she says in a low voice, sketching air quotes.
I scrunch my brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
The designer jumps onto the stage, and all eyes turn to the elegant man with copper skin. Angel Sanjay says a few words about his vision for this collection, saving me from the friendly inquisition from Katie. As he exits the stage, pop music plays overhead, and a high-cheekboned brunette sashays down the runway, modeling a classy black pencil skirt and a blouse with a geometric print. The neckline is sexy but still appropriate for work.
As the model turns the other way and the next one slinks down the runway in a pretty pink sheath dress I’m sure I need to possess, Katie leans close and says, “You want to know what I really think?”
“Obviously. I asked you.”
As the music pulses, she whispers, “I want you to know that I absolutely applaud your spirit and your commitment to resisting jumping Jones Beckett. In fact, I’m thinking of giving you a trophy.”
“Thanks. It’ll look great on my mantel, even though it’s completely unnecessary.” I wave my hand as I huntfor analogies. “Jones and I are like. . . hot pepper and ice cream . . . a bikini for a ski weekend.”
She arches a brow. “Some people like pepper on their ice cream.”
I crinkle my nose. “The point is, we’re not going to happen. I’m not his type, and that’s fine. Ilikemytype. I don’t need to behistype to be happy.”
Katie gives a quiet slow clap, and I take a tiny bow in my chair. Then she leans closer. “But you do know some women wear bikinis when skiing?”
I point to my chest. “Not me. I wear ski gear when I race down the hills of Tahoe and leave everyone in the snowdrifts,” I say with a smirk, since skiing is my jam. “Also, he can’t ski. It’s not allowed. So that just proves my point even more.”
Katie tsks quietly. “I don’t buy it. I think Jones Beckett wants to ski down your mountain.”
“I love you, friend. Truly, I do. But there is no reason for me to believe the attraction is mutual.”
