Most Likely to Score
When he leaves, she hooks a towel around her waist, her gaze wandering around the pool then skidding to a halt when she gets to me. She jerks her head back, like she’s surprised to see me, and maybe a little bit guilty, too?
I close the distance between us. “Hey.”
Her voice is cool and even as she twists her hair into a slick ponytail. “Hi, Jones. How was your night?”
She says my name with distance, as if she’s pushing it away from her, pushing me away. Maybe I deserve it for turning down her dinner invite.
“It was good,” I say tightly. “How was yours?”
“Great.” She flashes me a smile and keeps her shoulders squared, her eyes fixed firmly on my face. They don’t stray at all, as if she’s practicing perfect posture.
“You had fun with that guy?” The words come out like acid on my tongue.
Her brow pinches. “Andre and I always have fun.”
Deep breath. Cletus kisses. He’s wagging his tail.
The jealousy subsides again. “That’s. So. Great.” Each word comes out robotically.
She glances down at her towel, then points her thumb in the direction of the hotel. “I’m all wet, so I should probably go change.”
She’s doing her posture exercises again, and it irks me for some reason. “Why do you do that?” I blurt out.
“Do what?”
“You stare straight at my face when you talk.”
She narrows her eyes. “Where am I supposed to look?”
“Anywhere.”
“Should I talk to your belly button? Maybe your elbow? Or would you prefer if I addressed your feet?”
“No, obviously I’m not saying you should talk to my feet.” I cross my arms. “I just don’t get why you do that.”
“I’m trying to be polite. Professional. Because we work together. That’s why I look you in the eyes. And speaking of work, it’s getting late, and we have another shoot in the morning, not to mention a few interviews about the new deal. I should go upstairs and do some planning. I’m glad you had fun with the guys.”
I shake my head quickly, correcting her. “I didn’t say I had fun with them.”
“Sorry.” She adjusts her ponytail again, raising her chin, talking in that modulated, publicist voice. “Did you have fun?”
I swallow. “Yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
I’m dangerously close to admitting I want her. The words tango on the end of my tongue. I want you. I need you. I can’t stand how much I think of you.
In this moment, I crave her more than a sponsorship deal, and I want her to know the reason I had a shitty time tonight is that she was out with some guy. But I trip on the words, and they fall out of my mouth like blocks tumbling. “I thought you were seeing someone. Like a boyfriend. That guy.”
She’s silent at first, then a sly smile spreads on her face, wider and wider still, until it turns into a belly laugh. “Andre and I bat for the same team.”
All my jealousy drains in an instant. I try to cover up my glaring misread with a forced and sheepish chuckle. “Well, that’s good to know.”
I push out another laugh so she knows I’m not the jealous ass I was seconds ago. But my laughter ceases when she speaks again.
“We were admiring the same scenery tonight, if you know what I mean.” She wriggles her eyebrows, and that’s it. Evidently, I’m still the jealous ass, because I hate the thought of her admiring any scenery belonging to another man.
I’m this close to spilling my guts, but a scan right, a scan left, and a pool full of people swimming and lounging is the reminder I need to zip my lips.
She is controlling what these people think of me. She is helping me keep the sponsorship deals my agent lines up—deals that fund my parents’ retirement. My dad doesn’t have to drive a truck. My mom doesn’t have to work extra shifts.
“I need to go for a walk.”
I turn around and leave. If I stay near her, I’ll try to kiss her in public. I’ll haul her over my shoulder and carry her to my room, tell her I can’t take this wanting anymore. It’s miserable craving a person this much and not having her.
I walk down the beach, and I try to burn off this frustration, but thirty minutes later I’m no closer to finding Zen without her.
There’s no Zen without her.
I go inside, take the elevator, and walk down the hallway, banging my fist on room 302. When she answers, I pose a question I’ve been dying to ask for a long, long time.
16
Jillian
His right arm rests against the doorframe. His big body fills the doorway.
Nerves skate over my skin. My throat is dry. I want to tell him he behaved like a jerk tonight at the pool, grunting out words like a caveman.
But I also want to know why he’s come calling at nine at night, and why he seemed so upset over Andre.
The need to know is stronger than the urge to tell him off.
I try to manage a hi, what can I do for you, except he gets the first words in.
“What would it be like if we didn’t work together?”
His words hang in the air like sweet smoke.
Like possibility.
Inside, I’m shaking—with want, with hope, with an anticipation that thrills and scares me. He’s here at my hotel room, and his blue eyes are blazing. There’s a fire in them, a heat I haven’t seen before. Or maybe I just never noticed. But now, I can’t not notice it. He stares at me with an intensity that’s ferocious.
Briefly, I glance down, trying to see me as he does—I’m wearing only a tank top and pajama shorts. My hair is blow-dried, since I just took a shower. I had to wash off the chlorine, along with my frustration over how he behaved at the pool.
I should still be annoyed with him, but it’s hard to stay that way since curiosity is eating at me. Carefully, in a low voice, I ask, “What do you mean?”
Blue lights along the floorboards glow faintly in the stylish room behind me, as Sam Smith plays from my phone. “Stay with Me” floats in the air like a call to him, a request for him to spend the night.
He leans a few inches closer, making me dizzy.
“What I mean is . . .” He takes his time answering, his voice full of a need I’ve never heard from him before. “What would things be like with you and me if we didn’t work together?”
My voice is breathless as I answer, and I’m sure it betrays my heart. “What do you think they’d be like?” I ask quietly, but my wariness over prying eyes runs strong, so I shake my head. “Don’t answer.” I peer down the hall. No one’s around, but whatever he’s going to utter is best said behind closed doors. “Come inside.” I open the door wider, and he enters. When the door slides closed with a thunk, the sound reverberates.
It feels like a line in the sand.
A line I shouldn’t cross.
It marks the before and after. But I want to know what comes next. I want to venture into this dangerous territory.
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. His voice is vulnerable when he speaks. “Why don’t you look at me, Jillian?”
A spark of anger burns in me. “Why were you a jerk at the pool?”
He huffs. “Because I thought that guy was with you.”
“So you were dismissive and barely said a word?”
He nods. “Yes. And then when I talked to you, you just stared straight at me, but you didn’t look at me.” He takes a beat, breathes hard, then seems to let go of his anger. “And all I want is to look at you.”