Most Likely to Score
After all, there’s a lot on the line with this sponsorship deal, and I’m determined to keep it.
No matter how curious I am about Jillian, professionally or personally.
12
Jillian
The dining room at the inn is stuffed with wine country visitors. Long, lingering dinners among groups and couples play out at the tables, and the bar is packed, too. But getting a table won’t be a problem since I made a reservation as soon as Jones suggested dinner.
That’s my job, after all. I requested a table in a corner and asked the manager to seat us quickly, if possible. Too many times I’ve gone out to dinner with athletes and they’ve been inevitably mobbed by people seeking autographs. There’s nothing wrong with that, and Jones has always been generous with the fans. But that sort of attention is best on the way out of an eatery, so you have an excuse to say goodbye, rather than on the way in, when everyone stares and snaps pics during a meal.
While I’m not dining with the likes of Tom Cruise, the reality is a star athlete is a local hero, recognizable by many. Add in the team’s winning record and Jones’s own performance on field, and that’s a recipe for lots of photos and lots of stares. Jones is the second most popular player on the team, behind the quarterback, so I have to do my best to make sure he can enjoy simple things, like a business dinner.
As we reach the hostess stand at the end of the bar, I conduct my requisite scan of the dining room, making sure Jones won’t be mobbed.
I home in on a tiara at the far end of the bar. A sash. A pink shirt with the words Maid of Dishonor on it. My radar pings instantly,
warning me to closely watch the bachelorette party with its dozen women wearing slinky, short dresses and the maid of dishonor who’s urging them all to do shots.
As the blonde in the pink shirt guzzles her tequila, her eyes stray to the man at my side. Setting down the glass, she blinks at Jones, and the scene seems to play out in slow motion. Her hungry eyes roam up and down his tall frame, then return to his face as recognition sets in.
She turns to the brunette next to her and whispers in her ear. The brunette snaps her gaze to Jones, her jaw falling open.
I touch his arm, whispering, “Beware of bridesmaids at ten o’clock,” just as the hostess arrives with a cheery, professional smile on her high-cheekboned face, asking if we’re the Moore party of two. “I can seat you right away.”
Jones knits his brow, indicating he didn’t hear me. I squeeze his arm tighter and try again to warn him. But the bachelorette party blitz has launched. The women scramble, rushing toward him as other diners jerk their heads at the commotion.
Jones is no stranger to a defense coming in his direction. Even so, there’s little anyone can do to avoid this tackle.
My God, are you Jones Beckett?
We love you!
Sign my sash!
Sign my shirt!
The maid of dishonor jams her pink polka-dot-encased iPhone close to him, and says, “Can we please have a picture?” while the hostess asks the women to please give him some space.
Jones simply smiles.
Which is precisely what I want him to do, but when I see the maid of dishonor wedge herself next to him while calling over the woman in white, I can see how this will play out on Twitter.
Jones joins bachelorette party.
Jones parties with the bride.
The Hands gets his hands on the bride.
I wrap my fingers tighter around his arm, and tug him away with a hard jerk. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take him to an interview right now. Have a wonderful wedding, and go Renegades.”
Like the badass publicist I am, I guide him out of the restaurant in seconds, before anyone can get a photo of him that could be taken out of context. I march him through the lobby to the elevator, and then I stab the up button, keeping a watch for any stray bridesmaids.
He looks at me, slightly bewildered. “You’re like a bodyguard.”
I laugh while shaking my head. “Not in the least.”
“No, you fucking are,” he says, his tone full of admiration, as if he’s seeing a new side of me. “I’ve known you to move through reporters on the field like that”—he snaps his fingers to demonstrate—“but a wild pack of bridesmaids is riskier than running through the Dallas defense.”
“And that’s exactly why I dragged you away.”
“Understood. But there’s only one problem.” His stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry.”
I laugh. “I’m famished, too. But there are other restaurants in this town. I just wanted to get you away from there so we could regroup.”
He raises a finger, indicating he has a question. “Scale of one to ten: what are the chances if we leave for another restaurant that they might find us on the way?”
I curve up the corner of my lips, considering. “I give it a seven.” I pause, cycling through options. “Do you like room service?”
He scoffs. “Who doesn’t like room service?”
Kevin, for one. My ex shuddered at the prospect of food delivered to a hotel room. “I knew this guy who hated it. He refused to order room service, no matter how tired he was when he traveled.”
“Does not compute.”
I roll my eyes. “He said it was a cop-out. He had this whole routine he did about how room service always takes forty-five minutes and all you get is a Cobb salad and cold french fries.”
“Let me guess. This guy is an ex?”
I smile sheepishly. “An ex and a cheater, too, to be precise.”
Narrowing his eyes, he mutters, “Asshole.” He inches a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I don’t suffer from that problem. Not the asshole part, not the cheating part, and not the room service part. Quite the contrary. I could write a song about it, give a speech on the wonder of room service, pen an ode to how awesome it is to be able to order a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup to be brought to your room. That’s how much I like room service.”
“Me, too.”
The elevator arrives, and we step inside quickly as he offers me a hand to high-five. When I smack it, he threads his fingers through mine while the door closes. He doesn’t let go. I don’t think it’s romantic, but I’m also not sure what this is. Maybe it’s friendly? Perhaps it’s some sort of solidarity gesture, since we’re partners in this getaway plan and fellow aficionados of room service.
Too bad my skin tingles as he touches me. My chest heats and my lips part. My body longs for more contact. The craving for him magnifies, and I wish he’d take my wrists in his hands, lift them over my head, and crush his mouth to mine.
But that’s a dream.
He lets go to press the elevator button for the fifth floor, and my hand feels strangely empty now without his, so I cover up the lonely sensation with more chatter. “Let the record reflect that room service is literally one of the greatest inventions ever. Quite possibly up there with electricity and the wheel.”
See? I’m so not bothered by him dropping my hand.
I’m over it.
“Let’s get it, then.”
“Definitely,” I say as the elevator slows at my floor. As the doors open, I wave a quick goodbye, since he’s staying on the seventh floor. “See you tomorrow.”
He steps out into the hallway. “Together, Jillian. Let’s have room service together.”
Stopping in my tracks, I blink and swallow hard. “Together?” It comes out like a croak. “I thought by room service you meant we’d go to our separate rooms.”