Most Likely to Score

I shoot her a smile, laughing at the name of her fantasy, as I inch the desk a little closer to the wall. “I was happy to do it.” I swipe one hand against the other. “There you go. Jones Beckett, Furniture Assembly Specialist, at your service.”

“You’re a good man. How can I thank you?” her dad asks.

I rub a hand along the back of my neck and peer into the hall. The walls are lined with photographs, classic school shots of Jillian from over the years. “I’d really love it if you could show me some pictures of Jillian. Including, but not limited to, shots where she has braces, missing teeth, and terrible haircuts, since then I’ll forever have something to hold over her.”

Her brown eyes widen. “Jones. You’re a troublemaker!”

Her father nods enthusiastically, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll show you the whole lot, but bear in mind even with missing front teeth and a haircut she gave herself when she got bubblegum stuck in her bangs, she was still the loveliest kid ever. A ray of sunshine, too. We always used to say we were so damn lucky because we were matched with the happiest kid ever. She smiled all the time. Still does.”

As if on cue, she demonstrates, and it looks all-natural. It’s the genuine kind that comes from deep within as she listens to her father tell stories.

“She has a great smile,” I say to him, but I’m looking at her.

And she’s looking back at me. For a moment, our gazes hold, and I swear something flickers between us that wasn’t there before. She’s lingering longer, looking deeper, keeping her eyes on me more than she has in the past.

I’ll take that, even though I shouldn’t want it at all.

But I can’t unwant it, not now, not even in front of her dad.

He ushers me down the hall, giving me the tour of each school photo hanging on the wall, from her first-grade shot with a bowl haircut, to her second-grade one with two missing teeth, to a seventh-grade image when she wore braces with light blue rubber bands.

In every single shot, she flashes a bright, cheerful grin. “I sometimes wonder where that smile came from. I wish I could take credit for it,” Aaron says, tapping a frame.

“I bet you can, sir. You’re a good father. You bring out that smile by giving her a home and loving your kid.”

“That’s always been easy, from the first day I met her.”

He waves me along, showing me some high school shots of her skiing, winning a medal for taking first place in a race, then her graduation shot, with Jillian wearing a cap and gown. “Valedictorian,” he says, pride rich in his tone.

Jillian follows behind, and when I catch her gaze, she mouths to me, He’s such a dad.

But she’s not making fun of the guy. She’s simply acknowledging that he’s doing what he’s supposed to do—show off his kid. Near the end of the row of pictures is one last shot that looks to be from her senior year of high school. Her long black hair falls straight over her shoulders, her eyes sparkle, and there’s a confidence in her smile that says she knows she’s going places in life.

Her father heads to the living room, where the dog has migrated, now snoozing on the couch. “Down, Merlot. Make room for the people.”

The dog obliges, sliding off the couch and resuming his nap on the floor as her dad grabs a photo album from a shelf under the coffee table. He pats the couch, and I sit next to him, with Jillian on the other side. She peers at the album then groans. “Cue the embarrassment soundtrack now, please,” she says as he flips open to her baby pictures.

I laugh instantly as I check out the shots of her dressed like a Michelin Man toddler for the winter, complete with rosy red cheeks. “In China, they tend to always think babies are cold,” he explains. “They dress them warmly year-round. When we were there adopting her, it was September, and Chinese women would stop us on the street to say ‘lucky baby’ and ‘baby is cold.’”

Jillian wraps her arms across her chest and shivers in an over-the-top fashion. “Evidently, I was freezing all the time.”

Laughing, Aaron points to a photo of a baby Jillian licking a popsicle in the middle of a Chinese market. Her mom holds her, and the look on Jillian’s face is pure happiness. “Yes, she was freezing with her popsicle.”

He flips through the album, showing me pictures of the now twenty-eight-year-old woman when she was a tiny thing. My eyes land on one in particular—a shot of Aaron next to his wife, holding a black-haired baby. Emotion floods their expressions. I can see tears in their eyes, in the set of their mouths. “This was her gotcha day,” Aaron says softly, reverently. “This was at the hotel in Wuhan. There were about eight other American families. All had traveled to China at the same time after they’d been matched with girls from the orphanage. They brought the girls into this meeting room at the hotel, called out our last names, followed by each baby’s Chinese name, and then we held her for the first time. We fell deeply in love with her right away. It was instant.”

As I stare at the photo of the newly minted family, all I see is that love. It’s present in every single pixel. A lump rises dangerously in my throat, but I tamp it down. “This is beautiful, sir. She was a lucky girl to be matched with you and your wife, and I’m sure you feel you were just as lucky.”

“I did. I still do.”

I raise my gaze and meet Jillian’s eyes once more. In them, I see a hint of a tear. She looks away, wiping a finger over her cheek as she purses her lips.

Aaron wraps his arm around his daughter, tugs her close, and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t say, no, Dad. She lets him, and it’s one of the sweetest moments I’ve ever seen.

After we say goodbye, the door clicks shut behind us and we head down the stone path to the car. “Thank you so much for helping him. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. He tries hard to be independent, but he really did rely on my mom for a lot of things.”

“I can see that in him. He was a man very much in love.”

“He was,” she says, and her voice wobbles as we reach the car. She grabs the handle then stops and gives me a curious stare. “Why did you want to see pictures of me as a kid?”

Even though I’m supposed to be a good boy, even though I ought to shut up, I can’t resist saying, “I’m curious about you. I like hearing stories about who you were so I can better understand who you are now.”

She blinks like she can’t quite believe what I’ve said. “You’re curious?” she repeats, as if I spoke in a foreign language. She taps her chest. “About me?”

My smile broadens. “Yes. Yes, I am. In fact, I think we should have dinner together tonight at the hotel to satiate my curiosity.”

It’s only dinner. I’m not suggesting we stay the night in the same room. But just so we’re all clear that this meal is on the up and up, I add, “We can talk about the sponsorship and other stuff.”

“I’d love to talk about the deal,” she says with a smile. Then, with a wink, she adds, “And other stuff.”

Of course it’s on the up and up, I tell myself. Of course it’s professional curiosity. I didn’t ask her for any other reason. Besides, I’ve managed to be such a good boy so far, there’s no reason why I’d stop obeying all the rules.