Most Likely to Score

An illicit affair is precisely the opposite of what he needs right now.

I wish we could carry on out in the open, like he said he wanted to last night. Date me, romance me, take me out. My heart flutters just thinking of that.

But the risks are far too real for me to entertain it seriously. I can’t take that chance with my job, and there’s no way he could pull off dating me without it looking like I’m the next chick in a long line of his ladies.

That thought curdles my stomach. The notion that I could be an over-and-out girl, and the idea that people would see me that way. And see him that way.

As I look at him now, hanging out with the kids, I know this is what he needs, because this is who he is.

A guy who cares.

A guy who tries.

A guy who has a massive heart for families.

That’s what I want everyone to know about him, and if I keep dallying with him beyond tonight, then I’ll be risking more than my own job. I’ll risk his reputation, and his reputation matters.

He’s more than I thought he was a few weeks ago. Whether it’s animals left homeless, families who need a little extra, or even a woman’s dad trying to put together a piece of furniture, he has such a giving spirit. Seeing him toss a towel to skinny Charlie as the kid steps out of the pool is one more instance in a day brimming with moments that melt my heart and make me fall a little deeper.

A little later, as Emma and Charlie head for the exit doors, Jones gives me a big hug. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. I’m sure you had a ton of other work today, but I appreciate you being here.”

“There’s no place I’d rather have been.”

“Smile!”

I freeze for a second at the sound of Emma’s voice, but then remind myself we’re doing nothing wrong. We’re simply two colleagues hugging. As we break apart, we turn and grin for her as she lifts her mom’s phone and snaps one more shot. Though Jones’s arm is draped over my shoulder, I reassure myself there’s no way to tell my stomach is flipping, my insides are melting, and I can’t wait to see him again tonight.

The picture can’t possibly capture all that, and it certainly can’t photograph what’s inside my heart for him.

Which is far more than I ever expected.

As Emma’s mom waves goodbye, there’s a tug on my purse. I turn, looking for the girl, in case she has something else to say. But she’s out the door, and only Jones is here.

I give him a quizzical look, and he simply shrugs impishly.

“Rock star.”

The praise comes from Ford Grayson. He’s on the other end of the line, and I swear I can see his animated face, pointing at his screen, thrilled at the photos that have made their way across social feeds. “The world is seeing how motherfucking awesome this dude is. And check out the two of you.” I brace myself as Ford whistles his appreciation while checking out our picture, clearly. “You look like such a great team.”

I breathe a private sigh of relief, grateful that my feelings for the man were indeed shrouded in the image. All pro, that’s the goal.

“He’s been easy to work with, as he’s always been,” I say, pacing across my hotel room, checking the time. Jones said he’d text or call as soon as he finished his workout, and to say I’m an eager beaver would be an understatement. Though, it’s not just the beaver that’s eager; all of me wants to see all of him.

“When he gets back in town, Liam wants him to shoot some commercials and some online ads for Paleo Pet right before training camp,” Ford continues, chattering away about the deal. “Then they can roll that partnership out big-time. The sky is the limit. And you know, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this so well without you. Jones says you’re a dream to work with.”

Dream. I fear that’s what these two days will feel like when tomorrow comes and we go home. Nothing but a lovely, dirty, wonderful dream that’s ended far too soon.

“It’s been my pleasure,” I say tightly, and once more the double entendre isn’t lost on me. Everything with Jones has been more pleasure than I imagined.

And more pleasure than I should allow.

A frisson of guilt washes over me as Ford heaps on more praise for my work. But I bat the feeling away. I am a damn fine addition to the team. I have helped. I’ve done good work for Jones. I can’t let my feelings for him obscure the reality that we are well and truly a great team professionally.

I thank Ford, and as I hang up, a lump forms in my throat. Dumb lump. Stupid emotions. I roll my shoulders like a boxer, trying to shake off the wayward emotion. Touching my cherry earrings, I tell myself to keep my head clear. There’s nothing to cry over. Nothing to get all sad and mournful about.

Everything is going great for Jones. Everything is going great for me at work.

Work—the word clangs in my mind. My mother taught me to act with honesty and integrity in all endeavors. Perhaps that’s why there’s a lump in my throat and a churning in my stomach. Maybe I’m not behaving as I should at work.

I honestly believe Jones is a good guy. I truly want the world to see his real heart. That has to mean I’m acting with honesty and integrity, I tell myself, as I wring my hands.

I can’t ask my mom for advice, though, and I don’t know what she would have told me. Instead, I picture my dad’s face—my sarcastic, sweet, lonely-but-dealing-with-it widower father. He’d understand, surely. He’s been a fan of Jones. He’s always been a softie, a romantic. He would side with the heart. He always did.

Even so, I can’t expect him to fully understand all the risks. I can’t trick myself into believing what I’m doing is okay, simply because my dad thinks we’d be a cute couple.

I vow to remain realistic, to make my own choices. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this brief and fantastic fling, as well as its inevitable ending.

I square my shoulders, grab my phone, and turn to my playlist. I love me some sexy music. Always have. That’s the mood I want to be in tonight, so I find Zayn’s “Pillowtalk” and crank the tune all the way up. Closing my eyes, I sway to the slow jam, moving my body to its languid notes, its sensual words, its filthy lines, too.

It’s a promise of a long, lingering night rich with the kind of tempo I want with Jones. As I listen, I don’t think about good ideas or bad ideas. Roles or places. Right or wrong.

I let go of the daughter I am, the hard worker I am, the career woman I am. Tonight, I want to be only one part of me.

The woman. The lover.

When my phone rings, I’m turned on before I hear his voice. I’ve already set my own mood.

“Can you meet me in five minutes?” His gravelly voice rumbles over me.

“Yes.”

“Come down the hall to my room. You don’t even have to knock.”

“I don’t? Are you leaving the door open?”

“No. There is a key in the side of your purse. I put it there at the pool,” he says, and I remember the tugging I felt on my bag. That was him. “Let yourself in. You’ll understand why.”

20

Jillian

I slide the card key across his door, anticipation threading through me. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I don’t know what he has in store, but the crazy beat of my heart tells me I want whatever is coming my way.

Badly.

As soon as I push open the door, I know.

Water from the shower pounds in a rhythm, signaling to me. A zing tears through me, racing across my skin, leaving tingles in its wake.