Most Likely to Score

“Want to know what I’m doing right now?” he asks in a leading tone.

“What are you doing?” I ask carefully, though I know he’s setting me up for something. I duck out of the way of a volleyball whizzing past me. A fit, dark-haired guy in a painted-on pair of yellow swim trunks jogs after it, winking at me as he runs.

“Sitting at the desk that the man who is keen on my daughter made for me,” my dad declares, sounding thoroughly satisfied with his pronouncement.

I shake my head, amused at my dad’s persistence. No wonder he was a top journalist in his day. He’s a dog with a bone. But I’m not a queen of spin for nothing. “He helped out. It was that simple. Nothing more to it.”

My dad scoffs. “He helped out because he’s a nice guy. I’ll give you that.” He clears his throat. “But he’s a nice guy who happens to be quite fond of you. Mark my words. Sooner or later, Jones Beckett is going to make his intentions clear.”

I swallow, and a spray of nerves hits me in the face. Or maybe it’s the water from a water gun. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yellow Swim Trunks Dude is now spraying his buddy with an orange Nerf gun, and I’m collateral damage in the battle. I wipe the drops from my cheek as Swim Trunks mouths so sorry, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“I love you, Dad. I’ll look into having you checked into the sanitarium soon,” I say, and I put the conversation inside a box then stuff it in a far corner of my brain.

But after I hang up, some hopeful part of me wonders if there’s a chance my father is correct. Does Jones have a thing for me? That doesn’t compute. But as I search for the holes in my dad’s logic, my mind flashes to all the times Jones has touched me—from his arm around me as we walked along the craggy shores of Stinson Beach, to his fingers laced through mine in the elevator, to his body curled around me in bed.

Do those moments mean Jones is keen on me?

I flip through them once more, hunting for clues. Even though I’ve felt the outline of his erection against my rear, that’s not the moment I keep returning to. It’s the feel of his hand on my hair in the car while I slept in his lap. He stroked my hair. Was that romantic?

I plop down on the beach, reflecting on what I’d do if he made his intentions clear. I’d say no. Of course I’d say no. Wouldn’t I?

I nod to myself, answering my own question.

I’d say, “Thank you very much, but it’s a bad idea to go on a date with you, no matter how sweet and kind and good with animals and thoughtful you are, and no matter how helpful you are with my dad, or how much I love all our conversations.”

Groaning in frustration, I run my hands through my hair, my head falling against my knees. I wish I didn’t like him so damn much.

But no matter how deep my affection tunnels, this is an exercise in futility.

He won’t ever say any of those things.

But he touched your hair so tenderly.

A whoosh runs through my body, like a ribbon of desire unspooling from head to toe. Is it possible that he’s into me and I’ve been denying it? Have the signs been there all along, and I’ve never let myself see them?

I can’t rely on a father’s opinion. I could ask Andre, but he doesn’t know Jones.

There is only one person to turn to. I fire off a text to Katie.

Jillian: Be brutally honest. No smoke up my skirt, hear me?

Katie: Yes, you can buy me tickets to the new Adele show, and it will, in fact, make me love you more.

Jillian: Oh good, I was worried you’d be annoyed if I snagged first-row seats. Same apply to Ed Sheeran, too?

Katie: Do not ever joke about Ed Sheeran tickets. If you had them and kept them from me, I would divorce you.

Jillian: Yes, your love for him runs deeper than your love for me. As it should. ?

Katie: As it clearly should. Also, I love you madly and more than Ed—just don’t tell him since I don’t want the future father of my children to know you outrank him. But what do you really want me to be brutally honest about?

Jillian: Did you mean it when you said you thought there was something up with Jones?

Katie: How can I make this clear??? YES! YES! YES! Also, does that mean something is happening? I NEED DETAILS NOW!

Jillian: No. Nothing at all. Just thinking . . .

Katie: You’re thinking about it? About him? About taking him for a ride around the block? For the record, I’m at my desk, officially squealing as I stop my review of IMPORTANT THINGS like the length of skirts for the spring. Because this is FAR MORE INTERESTING.

Jillian: Nothing will happen. There are all sorts of HUGE obstacles. Also, care to spill on the upcoming length of hemlines?

Katie: There is always a way around obstacles. There’s always another path. Haven’t you learned anything watching football? If Jones pulled off that crazy catch where he went nearly horizontal, his hands inches from the turf in that playoff game, you can pull off some equally big play. Also . . . short. Very, very short.

A smile spreads as I recall that play. I see it in slow motion, him leaping, grabbing, diving, then grabbing the ball as it careens toward the ground. It was a heart-stopping catch.

Jillian: Good to know regarding skirts. I’ll stick to pants, then.

Katie: Pants, skirts—whatever you wear, Jones will check you out. I told you he was looking at you!

Jillian: But isn’t that just what he does? Watch people? He’s like a hawk. That’s his job.

Katie: He looks at you because he likes looking at you. Same reason you look at him.

My chest swoops like a pirate boat ride at an amusement park. Up, down, around.

I stand, brushing sand off my tank dress as I fire off a goodbye text. I turn to head to the poolside entrance to the hotel, when the guy in the yellow trunks jogs over to me, flashes a gleaming white set of teeth, and says, “Hi, I’m Marcus. Want to have a drink with me?”

Boldness and confidence are quite appealing. So is his toned, trim body and his fantastic grin. He’s probably twenty-two, and even though it’s nice to be hit on by someone six years younger than me, I say, “Thank you so much, but I’m here for work.”

“Can’t fault a guy for trying,” he says with a huge smile as he jogs backward, his arms out wide.

No, I can’t fault him at all.

I float a little bit to my room, buoyed by the date request, as well as by Katie’s insistent proclamation.

But then, on the elevator ride up, reality hits me. If Jones was going to make his intentions clear, he’d do what Marcus did.

Ask me out.

He never has, so I don’t need to waste time pondering what-if scenarios.

Jones and I aren’t a scenario. We aren’t a thing, and the way we look at each other is meaningless.

In fact, looking at him is exactly what I try not to do the next morning at the photo shoot. Because I can’t let on that I think about this often. Too much is at stake, and the more I look at him, the more my stupid feelings cloud my brain.

That’s why I resolve to keep everything light between us. That should be easy since he’s shirtless on the sand, posing with a long-haired dachshund.

When we’re done with the shoot, Jones ambles over to me, stroking the wiener dog in his arms. “Want to pet my wiener?”

Playfully, I wag a finger at him, doing my best to keep everything between us breezy. “There will be no wiener petting today.”

He arches a brow. “But maybe tomorrow?”

I look away, laughing. The laughter reminds me that we’ve always had a fun professional rapport, one where we freely tease each other. That’s the relationship I need to maintain. Sure, the idea of avoiding him at night during this trip has its appeal. But I’m a grown-up, and I can’t hide from a tough situation. It’ll be good for me to practice focusing solely on business with him.