Most Likely to Score

That’s the closest thing to heaven as far as I’m concerned—crossing the white chalk by the goalposts and putting six points on the board. Fucking bliss. Beautiful, heart-pumping bliss.

I wait at the curb for about thirty seconds, then a black town car pulls up. I lift my thumb in the air like I want to hitch a ride.

The window slides down in the back, and Jillian pokes her head out, a pair of big red sunglasses on her face. She pushes them up into her hair. “Hey there. Want a ride? I have candy, and I lost my puppy. Will you help me find it?” she says in a singsong voice.

“Oh yes. Do you have Skittles, please?”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “Tropical Island flavor.”

I let my tongue fall out, like a dog, then I grab the handle, yanking open the door. My throat goes dry when I see her seated on the cool black leather.

Holy sexiness.

I can’t even joke about hitchhiking and stranger danger or anything at all in the universe, because she stuns me. She wears jeans, pink sandals, and a silky soft blouse that falls perfectly against her breasts, revealing a hint of flesh. A slim silver chain with a heart locket hangs on her neck. That lucky pendant gets to touch her skin.

“You look . . .” I search for the right word. Hot? Luscious? Pretty? Good enough to lick from head to toe? So sexy I want to strip you down to nothing and get acquainted with every square inch of your body? I stave off a throaty groan of appreciation, swallowing it harshly. But I don’t entirely want to hide how I feel, either. I want her to know what I see when I look at her.

And compliments are part of the strategy to get her to see me in a new light. “You look beautiful.”

Her face is blank at first, as if she’s not sure what to make of me. Confusion flickers across her pretty brown eyes, the color of melting chocolate. Then, a spark of something flickers. Maybe happiness? Appreciation? She’s so hard to read.

“Thank you. You always look sharp.”

I’ll need to work harder to earn anything other than a professional compliment from this woman. I slide into the car, set the bag on the leather seat, and gesture to my getup. “You like my sharp bathing suit?” I point to my trunks, then flip-flops, then the T-shirt I’ll take off at the beach for the shoot.

She raises her nose, as if she’s sniffing. Maybe she’s ferreted out the scent of a delicious cherry pie. But she doesn’t mention it. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted you to wear.”

I peer at her outfit. “You have a bikini on under that?”

“No way.” She shivers for effect as the car pulls away and threads into light morning traffic on the way to the bridge.

“You’re not going to swim while I shoot?”

“It’s sixty-nine degrees at Stinson.”

I snicker. “You said sixty-nine.”

She laughs. “That joke never grows old.”

“And I don’t intend to ever retire it from my joke repertoire.”

She bends her head and hunts through a few canvas bags by her side, as well as one of her endless number of purses. Fishing around, she finds what she’s looking for. “First, this.” She hands me a magazine.

My smile spreads when I flip it over. “Damn. Nice work.”

“It’s all you,” she says, gesturing to the shot of me on Sporting World. “The whole spread is amazing, but Lily and I are quite partial to the cover.”

Pride spreads through me. Landing the cover of Sporting World is no small shakes. “This is going on my wall of glory.”

“That sounds like exactly where it belongs. And,” she says, reaching into the purse once more, “I have a gift for you.”

I blink, surprised and a little excited. “You do?”

“I was thinking about our conversation at dinner, and I thought you might enjoy some pomelos, since they’re a sign of luck. So I picked some up for you at the market.”

“I’m going to sound like the biggest dolt, but what’s a pomelo?”

She hands me a red mesh bag filled with three grapefruit-size fruit. “They’re like oranges, but more mellow and with a less citrusy flavor.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “I know you’re a health nut, so I figured fruit was a good thank you gift. Is it okay?”

Any gift from her is a great gift. I smile. “I love it. I will eat the entire bag. Probably tonight.”

She smiles widely, her white teeth gleaming. “They symbolize prosperity, so with the season starting I figured you can’t really get enough of that.”

I pat one of the fruit. “I will take all the good fortune I can possibly get. Question, though.” I tilt my head, quizzically. “I’ve always wondered about kumquats? What do they symbolize?”

Her expression turns serious. “They’re a symbol for the fruit with the naughtiest-sounding name in the universe.”

I smack the seat for emphasis. “There’s literally no way to say that name and have it not sound like a filthy sex act.”

“Yes, that may be why I tried to avoid eating it with my family while growing up. It’s a hugely awkward word to say in front of your parents.”

I rip a small hole in the bag with my index finger and yank out a pomelo. I hold it high above my head like it’s Simba and I’m in The Lion King. “And with this fruit, I will have a kickass year.” I set the pomelo next to me on the seat. “Speaking of fruit and gifts,” I say as the car winds its way out of the city, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Seems great minds think alike.”

I dip my hand into the shopping bag and give her the small cherry pie. “Open it,” I tell her, nodding to the tinfoil.

She brings it to her nose. “Oh my God, it smells delicious. I thought I smelled baked goods when you got into the car, but then I figured you were endorsing some amazing new pie cologne.”

I laugh and drag a hand through my hair. “If there is ever a pie cologne, count me in.”

“Yeah, me, too. Because I thought you smelled good enough to eat.” Then her mouth falls open, and her eyes widen in seeming shock. She shakes her head, as if she’s course correcting. “I meant . . . you smelled . . . The car smelled . . . gah.”

She drops her head to her free hand, and I can’t stop laughing. I also can’t resist patting her back. “It’s okay, Jillian. I am absolutely good enough to eat.” When she raises her face, her cheeks are flaming red. I point at them. “And look, the color of your cheeks is good luck.”

“I can’t believe I said that. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Especially since I’m hoping her awkwardness is an omen that my luck with her might be changing. I nod at the pie. “Open it.”

She peels back the aluminum foil and stares at the treat with wide, hungry eyes.

“I baked a cherry pie for you. As a way of saying thanks for thinking of me for the calendar.”

She raises her face. “You bake?”

I shrug. “I’m learning. Harlan’s the baking master, and I like to stay busy during the off season, so this summer I worked on agility training with Cletus and I learned to bake a few things from Harlan. He won’t share the recipes, though, so this one I just helped with. But it’s fresh out of the oven, since I went over there this morning.”

“To make it for me?” She puts her hand on her chest, her eyes wide and vulnerable.