Page 2 of Shot Taker

“The entire thing.” He smiles. “You have three months.”

I’ve only ever done small drawings and paintings, nothing of this scale. Brooke was right when she said James Parker didn’t do things halfway.

“Why me?”

The owner folds his arms, the diamond face of his watch glinting in the light. “Because timing is everything. And right now, you’re who everyone wants.”

Not everyone.

My mind flashes to Clay.

The Kodiaks’ all-star power forward.

The gorgeous, rich athlete who dragged me into his world, who kissed me like he needed me and told me without words that I belonged here.

When the offer from the Kodiaks' owner came in, coming back and confronting all those emotions I tried to leave behind seemed insane.

But I have friends here.

Family.

I loved the time I spent in Denver leading up to the wedding. Except…

The hairs on my neck lift. I turn, half expecting to find Clay standing there. He’s not, but there’s a full-story image of Clay on the opposite wall. He's dressed in his Kodiaks uniform, palming a ball with one hand and eyeing the camera as though he’s a bear that could swipe it to the ground if it looks at him wrong.

Since the Kodiaks Camp charity auction, my online following has been doubling every week. But with theArchitectural Digestfeature, it exploded.

People I barely know have reached out to congratulate me, but I’ve heard silence from the man who broke my heart with a letter.

Clay said he didn’t want me.

That we were nothing.

He hurt me in the worst possible way.

After my fiancé left with zero notice, all of our money, and a bunch of revenue from client projects at the design firm, I trusted Clay and believed he was different. I was different with him.

Until it was over.

We might not be on speaking terms, but he’ll be watching me work.

“Access has been restricted to this area, so only staff and players can go here. You won’t be interrupted, even when the public is in the building.”

The owner misreads my concern.

“I have headphones.” I gesture to my bag. “No one will bother me.”

A custodian arrives, driving a small cart. The owner waits for him to remove a ladder from the back and set it up for me.

“You best get started.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

He surveys me from the tips of my shoes to my pink hair. “Call me James.”

He pivots on one expensive dress shoe, and I turn back to the wall.

It’s fifty feet long and one and a half stories high. A huge mural on display for the team, the city, the world.

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