Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I’m so glad you approve of my choice,” he says with a wink, knowing full well it was my pick. He raises his beer and offers a toast. “To the person who truly has great taste in where to eat.” His eyes lock on mine, and for the briefest of seconds, there’s no teasing in them. Just that flash of heat I swore I saw at the photo shoot. He holds my gaze for a moment longer than I’d expect. Then another. And it both unnerves me and turns me on to a vastly inappropriate degree. He won’t look away from me. His blue eyes are melting me. My body hums, and my bones vibrate.
Must. Find. Strength. To. Break. Hold.
“That poster is so great,” I say, tapping my glass of iced tea to his as I glance at the picture of a couple tangoing.
He follows my eyes. “Yeah, they look totally hot for each other.”
Okay. That was not the best deflection strategy. I bring the glass to my lips and nearly drink the whole thing down, praying it reduces the red-hot temperature in me.
“That must be some delicious iced tea,” he says drily.
One more chug. One more gulp. Done. I set it down with a smile. “Delish,” I declare.
I don’t drink when I’m out for work. I don’t drink at all with players. People make foolish decisions when they drink. I can only imagine letting my guard down with him. I can imagine the words that would fall stupidly out of my mouth after a few glasses.
Take me home tonight. Put your hands on me. All over me.
I growl at my inner voice, a reminder to never say those words out loud. Or in my head, either, frankly.
“Are you ready for my proposal?” I ask in my most professional tone, as I brush several strands of my hair away from my face, my fingertips dusting my stainless-steel earrings.
Setting down his glass, he angles closer, studying me. My ears, I think. “Are those . . .?” He points at my earlobe. “Cherries?”
I smile, raising a hand to touch the jewelry as if I need to remind myself. “Yes. They’re my favorite.”
“Favorite fruit?”
“Yes. Name a fruit better than a cherry.”
He laughs. “Well, then. Tell me what you really think.”
“Go ahead. I’m waiting.”
He strokes his chin. Arches a brow. “Peaches are pretty good, Jillian.”
“They’re a close second, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you. Appreciate that,” he says. “Also, now I want cherries.”
“Told you they’re the best,” I say. Since this dinner seems to be going well and I’d like to keep it that way, I add, “And they’re red, which is a special color in Chinese culture, so cherries have become a modern sign of luck and good fortune. Even though I wasn’t really raised in a Chinese household, I’ve picked up a few little things that I like from the culture.”
“Do you wear the earrings for luck then?”
I give that some thought, but only briefly as I shake my head. “Honestly no. My parents gave them to me when I started my job with the Renegades, so it kind of makes me feel close to them. Maybe that’s where my belief in luck comes from—from them, really.”
“I love that,” he says. “They’re like a family symbol then.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “What about you?”
“Since you ask,” he says, with a sly grin as he pats the pocket of his jeans, then pulls out a charm. It’s a gold four-leaf clover. “This was my dad’s. His dad is from Ireland and it’s definitely a symbol of luck there. And let me tell you, we needed some luck growing up.”
My heart softens a little. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, you know. My parents just worked hard. Four kids and all,” he says, then slides the charm back into his pocket. “And I’ll take as much good fortune as I can possibly get on the field,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table, reminding me that Jones has always been one of the more superstitious athletes. Last year, he asked me to cut his teammate Harlan’s hair, saying the guys needed to start up a new ritual because an old superstition had been broken.
“You hardly need good fortune,” I tell him.
“But I’ll take it. Also”—he leans closer and cups his hand over the side of his mouth—“I love cherries, too.”
My lips part, and my skin heats. It’s nearly impossible to talk about cherries without sounding sexual, and it’s inevitable that Jones would sound that way to me. Cherries. The word seems to hang between us like it means something else.
I snap myself out of talk of cherries, and families, and the things we hold that make us feel connected to the people we love. “Proposal time.”
He waggles his fingers at his chest. “Give me all the deets. Just lay it on me.”