Page 18 of Most Likely to Score
“There is every reason. You’re a smart babe, with hair I covet, a body to die for, and a face that would launch a thousand ships. You don’t realize that because you’re so focused on work you don’t think of yourself that way. But I saw the way he looked at you at the fundraiser a few weeks ago, when you and I were playing Whac-A-Mole . . .” She stops, adopts a saucy tone, and says, “Like he’d been playing whack a mole to thoughts of you.”
I give her my bestI-can’t-even-believe-you-said-thatface. Ever. “I won’t even pretend that’s, one, dirty, or two, accurate.”
“Think about it.”
No way. There’s no way I’m going to think about it.
Katie’s a friend. She’s supposed to think I rock.
I won’t ever confuse that for Jones wanting to jump my bones.
Even though I kind of can’t wait to go to Stinson Beach with him tomorrow.
11
JONES
I peer through the oven window, trying to get a better view. “C’mon, little pie. Bake your ass off.”
Harlan rolls his eyes. “You do know it doesn’t bake any faster if you watch it?”
“But if I talk to it? Encourage it? That’ll help, right?”
Harlan scratches his chin. “By all means. Chatter away.”
I stare at the crust rising in Harlan’s stove. “You can do it. Bake harder. Bubble over.”
“What do you say we play a round of poker while we wait? You know the saying—pies like privacy,” Harlan says, slapping the candy cane potholder on the counter of his kitchen, smack dab in the middle of the rest of his collection of Christmas-themed potholders. His sister’s a baker, his mom’s a baker, his grandma’s a baker, and so he learned how to make the finest pies in the South while growing up surrounded by all those baking women.
Now, the women in his family give him potholders every year for his, you guessed it, Christmas birthday.
“Fine, but you know I’ll kick your ass since you can’t bluff for shit,” I tell him.
He jerks his head back, narrowing his eyes. “Those are fighting words. I can bluff just like I can handle a play action fake better than your sorry ass.”
“No shit. That’s your job. Mine is just to carry all those beautiful passes into the end zone . . . andscore,” I say with a grin. That’s the benefit of being a wide receiver when the team’s quarterback is one of the best passers in the game. I get lots of action on the field. “Cooper can’t resist throwing to me.”
“I’m sorry. Were you saying you wanted this pie, or you wanted me to gobble it up all by myself?” Harlan cocks his head to the side, staring at me with brown eyes.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m saying I’m going to make sure Coop hands off to you more often.”
“That’s what I thought, pie boy.”
We park ourselves on the stools in the kitchen in his Pacific Heights home, less than half a mile from my house. He’s our star running back, and it’s both my job and my pleasure to give him as much shit as possible, since he does the same for me.
After a few hands where the lead changes each time, I bluff with a ten of clubs, beating his pair of twos. I mime pulling a huge pile of coins toward me, but we don’t play for dough. I’ll collect the prize in another way. “I’m going to enjoy the ever-loving hell out of youcarrying the rookies’ pads on day one of training camp.”
He flips me the bird as he heads for the oven. “Did you want this pie to give to your girlfriend or not?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re seriously holding the pie hostageagain? The pie was not part of the bet, and you know I’m legally required to give you shit every time you lose at poker.”
“Fine, and far be it from me to take this fine cherry pie away from you, since we both know it’s pretty much your one chance to get Jillian to give you the time of day. No woman can resist a Taylor-made pie.”
“I’m not trying to get a chance with her,” I say, since she’s displayed zero interest in me that way. Though that hasn’t ever stopped me from trying to wear her down with a little flirting, a little teasing. But the pie isn’t a way for me to charm the panties off her. The pie is simply a pie—a token of my appreciation for all her support, and for giving me the chance to be the star of the calendar. “Nah, she’s helping me out with the calendar, so I just want to do something nice for her.”
“If you didn’t want to sleep with her, would you do something nice for her?”
“I don’t think with my dick.”
