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 gesture to the door of the winery. Liam quickly strides ahead, holding it open for me. “I’m glad we’re working together, Jillian.”
“Me, too,” I say.
When we reach the room with the barrels, Jones glances over then does a double take when he sees Liam with me.
As if he’s surprised for some reason.
But then the look on his face turns to a scowl.
I have no idea why he’d be upset with a sponsor, but I’ll have to remind him later to keep on a happy face.
15
JONES
What is this feeling in my chest?
It’s like a ball of steel lodged in my sternum. I’m tight, a little tense, a bit frustrated.
It’s not exactly like when we’ve lost a big game, but this is damn close to how I feel when I’m home in January watching the playoffs on TV rather than competing in them. In fact, this is like when I watched our rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, hoist the Vince Lombardi trophy over their heads last year when they won the Super Bowl.
“Meow.” From his spot on top of the wine barrel, Smoky bats at my shoulder again with a white paw that was burned in the fires a few months ago. The little dude is now nearly recovered, thanks to the local rescue that found and saved the stray, putting him in a foster home till he’s able to be adopted. I give the cutie a kiss then return him to my shoulder for another shot, as per the photographer’s orders.
“Perfect! A five-pound kitten perched on a two-hundred-fifty-pound athlete,” the photographer coos as he snaps a shot.
Briefly, I glance over at Jillian, waiting for her to correct the guy. She knows my stats like the back of her hand and nearly always fires off corrections. But she doesn’t shout he’s two hundred fifty-eight since she’s too busy charming my new sponsor.
That’s when I know what this emotion is.
Jealousy.
Raw, bitter jealousy.
As Smoky clambers over my shoulders while I lean against the wine barrels, I can’t stop sneaking glances at Liam and Jillian, chatting in the corner. When I tune into their conversation, they’re not even talking about pet food or sports. They’re talking about school because it turns out he went to Stanford, just like her.
Fuck.
My ego is a little bit crushed. Now I have to contend with a brainiac CEO who has the good fortune to be a ringer for a movie star. Clearly, I have no choice but to ham it up. I kiss the orange kitten on the nose, inducing oohs and ahhs and huge smiles from everyone here at the shoot.
Including Jillian.
Take that, brainy boy. I’ve got a kitten and I’m not afraid to use it. I smooch the little fellow once more as the photographer encourages me to keep it up. As we move through different poses and set-ups, heading outside to the vineyard for the final round, I might walk a little taller, I might strut a little prouder, and I might generally do my best to make sure the camera—I’m only doing this for the camera—is having a field day with the pussycat and me.
When the shoot ends—complete with social media pics for the new deal—the kitten stretches in my arms, shuts his eyes, and purrs.
“You’re a natural charmer,” Liam remarks with an easy smile.
“Smoky’s the one with all the moves.” As I stroke the critter’s soft head, it occurs to me I could take a clue from him in how to let go.
Be chill. Be cool. Liam is my new business partner, and I can’t be envious of him, especially since there’s no real reason to be. After I hand off Smoky to the humane society rep, I join Liam and Jillian at the outdoor table on the patio, sliding quickly into chatting about the partnership, upcoming plans, and the next steps with the deal. The entire time, I’m the casual, laid-back guy he hired, not the jealous asshat I was in my head a few minutes ago. As we segue away from business and riff on the toughest defenses in the league, Jillian’s phone rings.
She picks up and listens then says, “Well, that doesn’t sound very helpful, Dad.”
A pause comes next, and I eavesdrop on her conversation even while Liam asks a question about the Baltimore secondary.
“I know you’re terrible at putting things together,” Jillian says. “It’s not something you learned at journalism school.”
My ears prick with interest, though I still manage to share my thoughts with Liam on that team’s new cornerback.
Jillian continues, “I’ll come do it.”
That gets my attention even more.
“Dad. Let me help you, or at least let me use TaskRabbit and send someone over.” A quick silence follows. “Dad. It’s what they do.”
I clear my throat, reach across the table to set a hand on her arm, and smile. “I’ll put your dad’s desk together.”