Most Likely to Score

That word zips through me like an electric charge. A light gust of wind blows my hair across my cheeks, and I tuck the strands behind my ear, grateful for the temporary distraction courtesy of San Francisco’s windy morning. I shiver lightly from the chill. “Yes, that seems to be the case, and I’m happy to do it.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Are you like my babysitter?”

My jaw drops. “What? No. No. No. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a babysitter.”

He arches a brow. “A nanny?”

I smirk. “Jones, I would hope you’ve outgrown the need for a nanny.”

“That’s up for debate, it seems. But maybe you’re my governess?”

I roll my eyes and gesture to the car at the curb. “I’m not your nanny, I’m not your babysitter, and I’m definitely not your governess. I’m here to help you create the best image possible. I can market, publicize, and help you manage putting the best foot forward,” I say, my tone earnest, my meaning important. “I believe in what I do. I know you’re a great guy, and I want the world to see what I’ve seen in the last couple days.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s why I said yes when Ford asked for my help. I’m not interested in being anyone’s au pair. I am very interested, though, in showing this city what good things our team does on and off the field. Including you.” I take a breath and try to read him. To understand what’s beneath the teasing. I think I know what it is. He wants a choice. “But if you don’t want me to help out, I’ll step back and we can stick to just the calendar. I told Ford I’d do this for your new deal, because I want to be the one to help you if you need it, and it’s the kind of help I can give. Since you signed the contract yesterday, and the folks at Paleo Pet are local, they want to stop by the shoot later today. Take some pictures, chat, and so on. I’m happy to be there by your side the whole time, making sure you’re comfortable with everything, and you’re represented in the best way possible. But if those aren’t your wishes, and if it isn’t what you need, then I’ll be hands-off.” I hold up my palms as if I’m backing away.

In a heartbeat, he grabs my wrists. Possessively. A thrill rushes through me, like a drumbeat pulsing in my veins. I look away from him briefly. I can’t make eye contact when he does this, when he touches me. If I do, he’ll know. He’ll realize I’m just like all the other women who fling panties at him, who chase him down in bars, who line up at the players’ entrance to become his football floozy for the night. I won’t ever be someone’s football floozy, and I can’t let him see for a second that I want some of the same things those other women want from him. Him.

“Don’t be hands-off,” he says, his voice soft. He runs a thumb over my wrist. “You have very nice hands.”

I roll my eyes because it’s the only way I can hide that my stomach is flipping and flopping from that one gentle slide of his thumb on my skin.

“And you have nice eyes that you roll at me as if I can’t tell you’re rolling them.”

I turn my gaze back to him with a smirk that I quickly wipe away. “Do you want me to help you with your image? If you don’t, say the word, and I’ll respect it.”

With his hands around my wrists, he stares into my eyes, and it’s unnerving. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. This must be how he is on the field, watching like a hawk, staring, studying, developing a plan in a split second. The man has such intensity behind those blue eyes.

They’re darker than usual, then they seem to glitter. Turn playful, even. “Nah. I’m just feeling you out.”

Feel me up instead.

I shut my eyes momentarily, willing away the thought. This is how the man reels them in. He’s charming and funny and sweet, and so good-looking it hurts my chest sometimes. It’s dangerous how handsome he is and how much that affects me. I can’t let the way my body reacts to him sway me. We’re coworkers, and I have a job to do.

I open my eyes, square my chest, and smile my best PR grin. “I’ll make sure it’s fun. I promise.”

“Anything with you is fun.” Then his tone turns more serious, more earnest. “And listen, Jillian . . .”

“Yes?”

“I really appreciate you wanting to work with me on this. I’m a lucky bastard to have someone like you helping me.”

I wink. “Wait till you get my bill.”

He flinches as if surprised by this news. “Yeah? So it’s a lot?”

Given how many times he toys with me—hello, towel ploy—I can’t resist a little payback. “Oh, Ford didn’t tell you how much I cost?”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

I purse my lips as if he’s going to be shocked at the number. “You want to know? You think you can handle it?”

Parking his hands on his hips, he says, “I think I can handle it.” But I detect a few nerves still under his bravado, and they amuse me to no end.

I draw a deep breath as if this will be tough for him to stomach. Then, I borrow a page from his playbook, lean in a little closer, and whisper, “It’s free.”

He’s silent at first, then a smirk spreads across his face, and he shakes his head, amused. He slow claps. “Well played, Jillian. Well played, indeed.”

I toss my hair over my shoulder. “By the way, that was for the Sporting World shoot when you thought I would pick up your towel and stare at your ass.”

He pretends to peer at his butt. “It’s a nice ass.”

“Why don’t we get that ass in the car and get out of town for the day?”

“Let’s do it,” he says, and touches my shoulder. “But I did mean it. Thank you.”

I smile, a huge, genuine grin. “You’re welcome.”

As he shuts the door to his home and locks it, my phone beeps. “My father is calling,” I tell Jones, then say, “Hi, Dad,” into the phone.

“Hey, sweet pea.”

“What’s going on? I’m heading up your way right now,” I say as I walk down the steps.

“You are?”

“Yes, I have a photo shoot with one of the players in St. Helena later this afternoon, and then another one in the morning in Yountville, so I’ll be staying in wine country.”

“And you aren’t going to come by and visit? I’m devastated.”

“I just saw you last week for lunch. Sheesh, you’re demanding.”

“Can I help it if I like seeing my little girl?”

“Dad,” I chide as I reach the town car. “I’m not your little girl.”

Jones smirks and grabs the handle, opening the back door. Thank you, I mouth.

“You are, sweet pea, and always will be,” my dad says, as I settle into the black leather seat. “And for that, I suppose I’ll forgive you for not seeing me today.”

Buckling my seat belt, I laugh. “I’ll come up next weekend again. And when the season starts soon, you’re coming to all the home games.”

“Damn straight I am. I’m a Renegades fan for life.”

“That’s the only kind of football fan to be,” I say, and Jones winks at me, giving a thumbs-up as he buckles into the seat next to mine. “So what are you up to today?”