Most Likely to Score

“You said you love cherries . . .”

“Oh my God,” she murmurs, lowering her eyes.

“Wait. You’re not gluten-free, are you?”

She snaps up her gaze. “No way.”

I hand her a fork from the bag. “Want a bite?”

“Will you share it with me?”

“I don’t usually indulge in sweets. Training regimen and all.”

“More for me, then,” she says with a glint in her eyes.

“But maybe I’ll allow myself one small bite.”

She digs into the pie, takes a bite, and murmurs her appreciation. Her eyes sparkle. “Jones,” she whispers, like we have a secret, “this is amazing.”

She’s complimenting the pie, but I’ll take it. Oh yes, will I ever take it. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Here,” she says, forking a chunk of pastry and filling.

I open my mouth, waiting for her. She freezes, then does that thing again where she nibbles on the corner of her lips, before she extends the fork to my mouth. Keeping my eyes on her, I close my lips on the pie, savoring the crust and the sweet, juicy flavor of the cherries.

I don’t break eye contact. I watch her the whole time, mostly because she can’t seem to stop looking at me. She never looks at me for this long. She never looks at me like she can’t stop.

I like her eyes on me.

I like it so fucking much.

When I’m done, she takes the fork away, and her hand seems to fall languidly at her side.

“Yes, I do love cherries,” I say. “So very much.”

8

Jillian

Katie was wrong.

My ovaries are so fine.

They can handle this photo shoot, no problem.

Really, what’s so hard to take about a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-eight-pound guy with toned, strong muscles everywhere on his frame hugging a mixed-breed Australian shepherd puppy?

And for the record, I only know his height and weight because I’ve memorized those stats for every single player on the team. They’re handy when reporters ask, and they do.

But I’ve added a few more details for this guy. Beautiful veins in his forearms. A lopsided grin. A happy trail skating down his fine ab—

Screech.

I slam on the brakes. I shouldn’t be admiring his body, even though now would be a good time to do so since he’s wearing those casually sexy swim trunks.

On the beach.

With the sun beating down on said muscles.

With waves cresting in the background.

Maybe he needs me to oil up his arms, his pecs, his back.

Nope, Katie, nothing is tough about this at all.

Unless ovaries exploding inside me is a rough experience, because . . . oh my stars.

The puppy named Lulu is licking his face now.

Jones cracks up, belly laughs radiating through him as the white, black, and brown six-month-old puppy with crystal blue eyes bestows a popsicle-worthy kiss across his lips.

That lucky puppy.

That dog has all my good fortune.

“Please feel free to hire me for all team photos you ever need in the history of team photos,” my friend Jess says as she stops for a moment to check the back of her camera.

“You know I do my best,” I say with a smile, since she honed her eye shooting celebrity pictures in Los Angeles, and she’s a wiz behind the lens.

As she takes more photos for the calendar, I grab a few shots for social media. Like with the body issue, I don’t want to scoop the calendar. But, as part of my publicity plan, I want to dole out teasers of what fans will be getting when they flip open January, February, March, and so on.

“Lulu, you are too cute for words,” Jones coos to the pup, and my heart can’t take it. I turn on the video camera and record this unscripted moment, moving closer but staying out of the photographer’s shot. My sandals are in my bag by the picnic table, and my bare feet sink into the sand.

The pup rewards Jones’s sweet nothings with another long lick across his lips. The Marin County Humane Society rep, a kind woman with curly black hair, bounces on her toes, clearly proud of her animal choice for the shoot.

Lulu laps her tongue across Jones’s mouth, and he can barely take it. His laugher booms, loud and buoyant over the squawking of seagulls. He flops onto the sand, the puppy scrambling up his chest, making sure the man can’t escape from her kisses.

It is literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

Jess is all over it, knowing this is the golden ticket, better than any posed shot. The pro athlete is exactly where we never want to see him during game-time. Flat on his back. But right now, it’s perfect, with Jones in the sand, his tanned skin on display, his muscles rippling as he holds the dog, his smile as wide as the sea behind him.

I thought I needed to take fifty cold showers to get over that look he gave me when eating the bite of pie, but I won’t need any to get over this moment.

Because it’s not sexual.

It’s not lusty.

It’s wholly endearing, as he makes a six-month-old puppy named Lulu fall for him.

That dog might be my soul sister.

A few minutes later, as Jess packs up her gear, Jones says to the dog, “What am I going to do with you? You give me those puppy-dog eyes, and I don’t stand a chance.”

“Are you tempted to adopt her?” I ask as I walk over to him and Delia, the woman from the animal rescue.

He heaves a sigh. “If I could, I would. I’ve already had to convince my brother to be Cletus’s babysitter during the season.”

I nod, understanding the dilemma of a traveling man. An idea strikes me, though. “Would you want to post a photo of her on the team feed and say she’s looking for a home? We can tag the humane society.”

A smile lights Delia’s face. “We would be so very grateful.”

“Let’s do it,” Jones says.

He scoops the dog higher in his arms, pressing his face to her snout. I snap a shot of man and beast. I don’t know which one is cuter.

“Have you always been a dog whisperer?”

“My animal magnetism is pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

I laugh, as we walk the puppy down a deserted stretch of beach. Jones asked Delia if he could take Lulu for a stroll. No surprise, Delia said yes, and I gave Jess a quick goodbye hug before she left. “That’s one word for it. But tell the truth,” I narrow my eyes and ask him in a faux accusatory voice, “did you slather Alpo all over your lips?”

“You caught me, but it was beef jerky. I gnawed through a whole stick while you weren’t looking, just to excite Lulu.”

When she hears her name, the pup spins in a circle in the sand, then scampers to the end of the leash. Jones walks a little faster, as per Lulu’s wishes, and I keep pace, too. “Seriously, what’s with your animal charms?”

“So you admit I’m charming?” he asks with mischief in his eyes.

Charming as in the ultimate flirt, yes. “Lulu seems to think so,” I concede drily.

“But what about you? If you admit I’m charming, I’ll tell you.”

I pretend to punch his arm. “You’re relentless. And fine, you’re incredibly charming to canines. What’s that all about?”

Jones pumps a fist. “I knew you’d admit the truth.” We wander along the shoreline, the waves crashing lightly against the sand. “We didn’t have dogs when I was growing up, and I wanted one so much. I asked my parents all the time if we could get a puppy. I had this whole campaign planned for Christmas when I was eleven. It was free adoption day at the Sacramento shelter, and so on.” He turns to me, his gaze locking with mine. “But we never got one.”