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)
Against my better judgment, I groan, “I like you on your hands and knees.” But then I turn more serious. “But I hear you. It’s risky.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I ask, “Do you think it shouldn’t happen again?” Part of me is hoping she’ll laugh and say, No, take me again now and tomorrow and over and over.
“Do you think it should happen again?”
“I want it to,” I answer honestly, because as far as I’m concerned, everything is in the open tonight. I don’t want to play any more games with Jillian, and I won’t toy with her emotions, or my own. Given the way I’ve stored everything until now, like a pressure cooker that only needed the smallest spark of jealousy to spill over, I’ve no interest in keeping my feelings private. “I know you might find this hard to believe, but I like you. Really like you. If I could, I would date you. I would take you out. I would romance you. I would do all the things I haven’t done before.”
Her breath flutters over her lips, and her eyes shine. She wiggles her body closer to mine. “Really?”
“Would you want that?” I ask softly.
She nods, that flash of vulnerability back in her brown eyes. “Of course I want that.” Taking a deep breath, she looks away, swallowing tightly. “But we can’t have it.”
My shoulders sag. My chest is heavy. “We can’t, can we?” I say with a sigh, an acknowledgment that she’s right. That Trevor was right. That I need to focus on football and business only. That Jillian needs to do the kick-ass job she’s always done, without a guy like me complicating her life. Trevor’s words blare in my ears, the reminder of my track record. I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a month, and I detest the thought that her reputation could be called into question if she dated me. I care about Jillian far too much to let her be a question mark everyone has about me.
Her fingers trace my chest. “If we did that, we’d have to sneak around, and sneaking around is lying. No good can come of it.”
“Then we agree that this can’t happen again?”
She screws up the corner of her lips, clearly thinking. “As a publicist, I’m always looking for angles, so maybe we agree that when we go back to San Francisco, we can return to being player and publicist.”
I grin wickedly, liking her clever mind. “Your angle is sharp. And since we return in two days, that means tomorrow I can get you on your hands and knees again so I can fuck you like the animal you say I am?”
“Jones . . .” It comes out like a purr.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She nods. “Yes, then we go back to how it was.” Her expression turns apologetic. “I love what I do, and I don’t want to chance losing it. My career has always been important to me. It was that way for my mom, too. I learned it from her.”
I can’t help but smile when she mentions her mom. I love that she’s such a family gal. “Why was it that way for her?”
“She always said that true contentment comes from what you do. She’d say don’t go looking for happiness in a man or in a relationship. Find it in your work. Find it, and when you do, it’ll feed your soul.”
“Does publicity feed your soul?”
“This might sound weird, but it does. I love sports, and I love using the platform the team has to do good. Sometimes, athletes get a bad rep,” she says, and I huff, knowing that reality too well. “But in most cases, the public just needs to see the other side. And with so many young people looking up to athletes, it’s great to show them doing amazing things for the community. I love that I can do that. I love that the great work you do on and off the field can inspire young people to work harder, to be better, to be the best they can be. That does feed my soul, in a way, and I think I’m good at it.”
Running my fingers through her soft locks, I nod. “You’re not just good at it. You’re great at it.” I slow my strokes, making sure she meets my eyes. “I love knowing there’s a piece of your mom driving you on, even when she’s not here.”
Jillian whispers, “Me, too.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” I ask.
She bites the corner of her lips, nodding. “I do. I’m used to it, but I do miss her.”
“How could you not?” Dropping my hand from her hair, I loop my fingers through hers.
“But sometimes, I think she lives on.”
“In what way?”
“In my attitude, I like to think. She liked to learn new things. I’m the same way. She was positive, and I think I try to see the bright side. But also, she truly embraced family and both where you’re from and what family means to you.”