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)
And for the record, I only know his height and weight because I’ve memorized those stats for every single player on the team. They’re handy when reporters ask, and they do.
But I’ve added a few more details for this guy. Beautiful veins in his forearms. A lopsided grin. A happy trail. I slam on the brakes. I shouldn’t be admiring his body, even though now would be a good time to do so since he’s wearing those casually sexy swim trunks.
On the beach.
With the sun beating down on said muscles.
With waves cresting in the background.
And . . .oh my stars.
The puppy named Lulu is licking his face now.
Jones cracks up, belly laughs radiating through him as the white, black, and brown six-month-old puppy with crystal blue eyes bestows a popsicle-worthy kiss across his lips.
That lucky puppy.
That dog has all my good fortune.
“Please feel free to hire me for all team photos you ever need in the history of team photos,” Jess says as she stops for a moment to check the back of her camera.
“You know I do my best,” I say with a smile.
As she takes more photos for the calendar, I grab a few shots for social media. Like with the body issue, I don’t want to scoop the calendar. But, as part of my publicity plan, I want to dole out teasers of what fans will be getting when they flip open January, February, March, and so on.
“Lulu, you are too cute for words,” Jones coos to the pup, and my heart can’t take it. I turn on the video camera and record this unscripted moment, moving closer but staying out of the photographer’s shot. My sandals are in my bag by the picnic table, and my bare feet sink into the sand.
The pup rewards Jones’s sweet nothings with another long lick across his lips. The Marin County Humane Society rep, a kind woman with curly black hair, bounces on her toes, clearly proud of her animal choice for the shoot.
Lulu laps her tongue across Jones’s mouth, and he can barely take it. His laughter booms, loud and buoyant over the squawking of seagulls. He flops onto the sand, the puppy scrambling up his chest, making sure the man can’t escape from her kisses.
It is literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Jess is all over it, knowing this is the golden ticket, better than any posed shot. The pro athlete is exactly where we never want to see him during game-time. Flat on his back. But right now, it’s perfect, with Jones in the sand, his tanned skin on display, his muscles rippling as he holds the dog, his smile as wide as the sea behind him.
I thought I needed to take fifty cold showers to get over that look he gave me when eating the bite of pie, but I won’t need any to get over this moment.
Because it’s not sexual.
It’s not lusty.
It’s wholly endearing, as he makes a six-month-old puppy named Lulu fall for him.
Jess whispers as she shoots. “Someone has a crush.”
“Do not,” I hiss.
“I’ve known you since we were five,” she says drily.
“And?”
“And I presume that means you can feel me rolling my eyes at you right now.”
I rein in a laugh. “Don’t roll your eyes while you shoot.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m getting some great shots. Ones I bet you’ll enjoy, too.”
“Stop. Just stop.”
“You love me.”
I roll my eyes. “Did you feel that? My eye roll.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” she says.
A few minutes later, as Jess packs up her gear, she says quietly, “Keep me posted on how that goes.”
“Nothing is going,” I say.
“We’ll see,” she says with an impish grin.
From a few feet away, Jones says to the dog, “What am I going to do with you? You give me those puppy-dog eyes, and I don’t stand a chance.”
“Are you tempted to adopt her?” I ask as I walk over to him and Delia, the woman from the animal rescue.
He heaves a sigh. “If I could, I would. I’ve already had to convince my brother to be Cletus’s babysitter during the season.”
I nod, understanding the dilemma of a traveling man. An idea strikes me, though. “Would you want to post a photo of her on the team feed and say she’s looking for a home? We can tag the humane society.”
A smile lights Delia’s face. “We would be so very grateful.”
“Let’s do it,” Jones says.
He scoops the dog higher in his arms, pressing his face to her snout. I snap a shot of man and beast. I don’t know which one is cuter.
“You are so screwed,” Jess whispers.
I know. I freaking know. When she’s done, I hug her and say goodbye.
“You and Jess are pretty close?” he asks as we walk along the beach with the dog, as Jess takes off.