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)
Maybe that’s similar to the appreciation Jones has for his Irish roots? That even though he’s told me he hasn’t spent time there, he tried to connect to it when he can. Perhaps.
Then, Jones smiles, that same winning grin he flashed in the studio.
Of course, this also means I’ll be traveling with Jones. Across the country. Alone.
And I’m not sure my libido will be able to take it.
The top floor of Nordstrom in Union Square is packed. The sleek black chairs are filled with sharp-dressed women in pretty blouses, trendy skirts, and hip slacks. Some men are here, too, their form-fitting button-downs and designer jeans making it clear they’re visiting to buy for racks in their stores.
My friend Katie grabs two seats reserved for her in the second row from the front. She’s a buyer for a chain of upscale boutiques, and she snags invites to all the private shows put on for those inside the industry. Since I have a long-standing love affair with clothes, I’m the lucky duck who accompanies her from time to time.
“I’m dying to see the new Angel Sanjay line,” Katie whispers as she tucks her blond curls behind her ears. Her fair complexion is glowy, and her blue eyes are mischievous by nature. I’ve known Katie since college. She’s from Texas, but moved to California in high school, so her Texas twang is all gone. “He has the best work clothes that make you look hot, but not risqué.”
“Always a plus with work clothes,” I say, tucking my purse under the chair. “Plus, we’re going shopping after this, right?”
Katie rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
“I’m dying to get a new outfit. Because . . . new outfit.”
She waves away that nonsense. “There is never a need to justify the purchase of a new outfit.”
I hold up a hand to high-five. “You speak the truth.”
As we wait for the designer to show off his new fashions, I tell Katie I’m heading to Stinson Beach tomorrow for the first day of shooting with Jones for the calendar. “But I think I’ll wear jeans and a nice blouse,” I say, musing on the outfit choices for an outdoor photo op.
Katie laughs. “How do you think that’s going to help your crush? When the guy you’re hot for cuddles a puppy on the beach—I mean, that’s so not going to make your ovaries explode.”
I roll my eyes, just to prove how immune my ovaries and I are to Jones. “It’s going to be fine. If I’ve managed this long, I can manage even longer.”
“And then when you fly across the country with him. That ought to be a piece of cake.”
I snap my fingers. “Easy as one, two, three. I’ve only traveled with him at least eight times a year for the last few years—more if you include all the playoff games the team went to.”
“On a jumbo jet. With fifty-three other players, not to mention coaches, staff, and personnel,” Katie adds, shaking her head in amusement, a smirk on her freckled face.
“It’s going to be fine. Yes, I’ve lusted after him for years, and yet, amazingly, not once have I thrown myself at him. I think I can handle this,” I say crisply. “Plus, I didn’t even think about Jones when I dated Kevin last year.”
“Kevin,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “Kevin Stone, AKA, VP of Dickhead Decisions. Is he still with her? I didn’t see her at the fundraiser we went to.”
I shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on him personally.” Breaking up with Kevin when I found out he’d been cheating on me was, obviously, a no-brainer. Cutting him out of my life has been a teeny bit harder since he’s the sports anchor at one of the San Francisco TV stations. It’s impossible to avoid him when we run in the same circles, but even though I find him highly irritating as a man, I’ve mastered keeping our professional interactions focused solely on the team. Most recently I spotted the pair at a summer carnival fundraiser that all the local teams sponsored along with his station. I said hello in my best professional tone then joined our quarterback and his fiancée at the Skee-Ball game.
I didn’t let it gnaw at me. I wasn’t in love with him, so I refused to let an asshole like that claim squatter’s rights on any of my mental real estate.
Katie pats my leg. “I love your laser focus, Jillian. I love the way you don’t linger on men who are total shits. God knows, I’ve needed a year’s worth of yoga classes to let go of some of the bastards of this world. And I teach the damn classes.”
Katie’s like a superhero—fashionista by day, yogini by night. It’s rather impressive the way she balances it all. But then again, I suppose that’s what yoga is all about. Or so she tells me. I prefer faster forms of exercise.