Laughing, Aaron points to a photo of a baby Jillian licking a popsicle in the middle of a Chinese market. Her mom holds her, and the look on Jillian’s face is pure happiness. “Yes, she was freezing with her popsicle.”
He flips through the album, showing me pictures of the now twenty-eight-year-old woman when she was a tiny thing. My eyes land on one in particular—a shot of Aaron next to his wife, holding a black-haired baby. Emotion floods their expressions. I can see tears in their eyes, in the set of their mouths. “This was her gotcha day,” Aaron says softly, reverently. “This was at the hotel in Wuhan. There were about eight other American families. All had traveled to China at the same time after they’d been matched with girls from the orphanage. They brought the girls into this meeting room at the hotel, called out our last names, followed by each baby’s Chinese name, and then we held her for the first time. We fell deeply in love with her right away. It was instant.”
As I stare at the photo of the newly minted family, all I see is that love. It’s present in every single pixel. A lump rises dangerously in my throat, but I tamp it down. “This is beautiful, sir. She was a lucky girl to be matched with you and your wife, and I’m sure you feel you were just as lucky.”
“I did. I still do.”
I raise my gaze and meet Jillian’s eyes once more. In them, I see a hint of a tear. She looks away, wiping a finger over her cheek as she purses her lips.
Aaron wraps his arm around his daughter, tugs her close, and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t say, no, Dad. She lets him, and it’s one of the sweetest moments I’ve ever seen.
After we say goodbye, the door clicks shut behind us and we head down the stone path to the car. “Thank you so much for helping him. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. He tries hard to be independent, but he really did rely on my mom for a lot of things.”
“I can see that in him. He was a man very much in love.”
“He was,” she says, and her voice wobbles as we reach the car. She grabs the handle then stops and gives me a curious stare. “Why did you want to see pictures of me as a kid?”
Even though I’m supposed to be a good boy, even though I ought to shut up, I can’t resist saying, “I’m curious about you. I like hearing stories about who you were so I can better understand who you are now.”
She blinks like she can’t quite believe what I’ve said. “You’re curious?” she repeats, as if I spoke in a foreign language. She taps her chest. “About me?”
My smile broadens. “Yes. Yes, I am. In fact, I think we should have dinner together tonight at the hotel to satiate my curiosity.”
It’s only dinner. I’m not suggesting we stay the night in the same room. But just so we’re all clear that this meal is on the up and up, I add, “We can talk about the sponsorship and other stuff.”
“I’d love to talk about the deal,” she says with a smile. Then, with a wink, she adds, “And other stuff.”
Of course it’s on the up and up, I tell myself. Of course it’s professional curiosity. I didn’t ask her for any other reason. Besides, I’ve managed to be such a good boy so far, there’s no reason why I’d stop obeying all the rules.
After all, there’s a lot on the line with this sponsorship deal, and I’m determined to keep it.
No matter how curious I am about Jillian, professionally or personally.
12
Jillian
The dining room at the inn is stuffed with wine country visitors. Long, lingering dinners among groups and couples play out at the tables, and the bar is packed, too. But getting a table won’t be a problem since I made a reservation as soon as Jones suggested dinner.
That’s my job, after all. I requested a table in a corner and asked the manager to seat us quickly, if possible. Too many times I’ve gone out to dinner with athletes and they’ve been inevitably mobbed by people seeking autographs. There’s nothing wrong with that, and Jones has always been generous with the fans. But that sort of attention is best on the way out of an eatery, so you have an excuse to say goodbye, rather than on the way in, when everyone stares and snaps pics during a meal.
While I’m not dining with the likes of Tom Cruise, the reality is a star athlete is a local hero, recognizable by many. Add in the team’s winning record and Jones’s own performance on field, and that’s a recipe for lots of photos and lots of stares. Jones is the second most popular player on the team, behind the quarterback, so I have to do my best to make sure he can enjoy simple things, like a business dinner.
As we reach the hostess stand at the end of the bar, I conduct my requisite scan of the dining room, making sure Jones won’t be mobbed.
I home in on a tiara at the far end of the bar. A sash. A pink shirt with the words Maid of Dishonor on it. My radar pings instantly,
warning me to closely watch the bachelorette party with its dozen women wearing slinky, short dresses and the maid of dishonor who’s urging them all to do shots.
As the blonde in the pink shirt guzzles her tequila, her eyes stray to the man at my side. Setting down the glass, she blinks at Jones, and the scene seems to play out in slow motion. Her hungry eyes roam up and down his tall frame, then return to his face as recognition sets in.
She turns to the brunette next to her and whispers in her ear. The brunette snaps her gaze to Jones, her jaw falling open.
I touch his arm, whispering, “Beware of bridesmaids at ten o’clock,” just as the hostess arrives with a cheery, professional smile on her high-cheekboned face, asking if we’re the Moore party of two. “I can seat you right away.”
Jones knits his brow, indicating he didn’t hear me. I squeeze his arm tighter and try again to warn him. But the bachelorette party blitz has launched. The women scramble, rushing toward him as other diners jerk their heads at the commotion.
Jones is no stranger to a defense coming in his direction. Even so, there’s little anyone can do to avoid this tackle.
My God, are you Jones Beckett?
We love you!
Sign my sash!
Sign my shirt!
The maid of dishonor jams her pink polka-dot-encased iPhone close to him, and says, “Can we please have a picture?” while the hostess asks the women to please give him some space.
Jones simply smiles.
Which is precisely what I want him to do, but when I see the maid of dishonor wedge herself next to him while calling over the woman in white, I can see how this will play out on Twitter.
Jones joins bachelorette party.
Jones parties with the bride.
The Hands gets his hands on the bride.
I wrap my fingers tighter around his arm, and tug him away with a hard jerk. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take him to an interview right now. Have a wonderful wedding, and go Renegades.”
Like the badass publicist I am, I guide him out of the restaurant in seconds, before anyone can get a photo of him that could be taken out of context. I march him through the lobby to the elevator, and then I stab the up button, keeping a watch for any stray bridesmaids.
He looks at me, slightly bewildered. “You’re like a bodyguard.”
I laugh while shaking my head. “Not in the least.”
“No, you fucking are,” he says, his tone full of admiration, as if he’s seeing a new side of me. “I’ve known you to move through reporters on the field like that”—he snaps his fingers to demonstrate—“but a wild pack of bridesmaids is riskier than running through the Dallas defense.”
“And that’s exactly why I dragged you away.”
“Understood. But there’s only one problem.” His stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry.”
I laugh. “I’m famished, too. But there are other restaurants in this town. I just wanted to get you away from there so we could regroup.”
He raises a finger, indicating he has a question. “Scale of one to ten: what are the chances if we leave for another restaurant that they might find us on the way?”
He scoffs. “Who doesn’t like room service?”
Kevin, for one. My ex shuddered at the prospect of food delivered to a hotel room. “I knew this guy who hated it. He refused to order room service, no matter how tired he was when he traveled.”
“Does not compute.”
I roll my eyes. “He said it was a cop-out. He had this whole routine he did about how room service always takes forty-five minutes and all you get is a Cobb salad and cold french fries.”
“Let me guess. This guy is an ex?”
I smile sheepishly. “An ex and a cheater, too, to be precise.”
Narrowing his eyes, he mutters, “Asshole.” He inches a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I don’t suffer from that problem. Not the asshole part, not the cheating part, and not the room service part. Quite the contrary. I could write a song about it, give a speech on the wonder of room service, pen an ode to how awesome it is to be able to order a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup to be brought to your room. That’s how much I like room service.”
“Me, too.”
The elevator arrives, and we step inside quickly as he offers me a hand to high-five. When I smack it, he threads his fingers through mine while the door closes. He doesn’t let go. I don’t think it’s romantic, but I’m also not sure what this is. Maybe it’s friendly? Perhaps it’s some sort of solidarity gesture, since we’re partners in this getaway plan and fellow aficionados of room service.
Too bad my skin tingles as he touches me. My chest heats and my lips part. My body longs for more contact. The craving for him magnifies, and I wish he’d take my wrists in his hands, lift them over my head, and crush his mouth to mine.
But that’s a dream.
He lets go to press the elevator button for the fifth floor, and my hand feels strangely empty now without his, so I cover up the lonely sensation with more chatter. “Let the record reflect that room service is literally one of the greatest inventions ever. Quite possibly up there with electricity and the wheel.”
See? I’m so not bothered by him dropping my hand.
I’m over it.
“Let’s get it, then.”
“Definitely,” I say as the elevator slows at my floor. As the doors open, I wave a quick goodbye, since he’s staying on the seventh floor. “See you tomorrow.”
He steps out into the hallway. “Together, Jillian. Let’s have room service together.”
Stopping in my tracks, I blink and swallow hard. “Together?” It comes out like a croak. “I thought by room service you meant we’d go to our separate rooms.”
He shakes his head, his blue eyes sparkling with playfulness. “Not when we have other stuff to discuss. Want to get room service in my room? Or yours?”
His eyes drift to the elevator behind him. The doors have closed, and it’s heading down.
I’m not sure which room feels more dangerous. His or mine. Mine or his.
“Yours? Since it’s your floor?” he suggests, and at least now I don’t have to figure out the answer to a trick question.
I take a shaky breath and say yes.
We walk down the hall in silence. When I stop at room 508, I take out my card key with nervous fingers, fighting like hell to keep it steady as I wave it over the card reader.
For a brief moment, I picture other women he’s taken to other hotel rooms. I wonder if he had room service with them. Talked to them. Helped their fathers assemble desks. Looked at their baby photos.
Then I ask why I’m torturing myself thinking of other women, and their dads, and their desks, and their baby photos. When I turn the knob, open the door, and step into the room, I banish them from my brain.
I can’t think of anything but the huge risk I’m taking by letting him into my room.
And yet, it’s a risk I want to take.
I don’t mind eating alone. I meant what I said—I love room service with a deep and abiding passion.
But I’m also learning how much I like being with him. Maybe that’s the bigger risk. Perhaps it’s the bigger issue, too—not what other women have done in hotel rooms with him, but if they’ve enjoyed talking to him as much as I do.
I fervently hope the answer is no. I want that part of him all to myself.
We share most of the food, working our way through a Caesar salad, a mango and mint salad, an appetizer of salted edamame, a steak for him, and french fries for me.
“Just one,” I say, waggling a fry. “You can do it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You temptress.”
“You healthy eater, you.” I swipe the fry through some ketchup and brandish it like an offering. “Can you resist now?”
Rolling his eyes, he grabs the fry and pops it into his mouth, chewing then making a satisfied smack of his lips. “There. Just so you know I’m not afraid to break the rules every now and then.” He holds my gaze as he says that, and I want to look away, but I can’t. I just can’t. I like looking at him far too much for my own good. So much I might break the rules if I have a chance.
He taps the table. “I’ll have you know, you addicted me to a certain citrus.”
“You bought more pomelos?”
He nods. “I can’t get enough of them.”
For some stupid reason, that makes me happy.
As we eat, we talk about the calendar and the sponsorship, but quickly the conversation moves to other matters. I ask him about his family and learn how close he is to his two brothers and his sister. He tells me he’s saving money in retirement accounts for all of them, and his greatest dream is to provide for every single Beckett. I learn, too, that he bought his parents a spacious new home, and he provides for them so they no longer have to work.
“That’s seriously amazing, Jones,” I say.
“They’re as cool as your dad. You should meet them someday.” The offer sounds so earnest that I nearly believe he means it.
“That sounds nice.” I can almost picture driving up to their home, bringing a huge bouquet of fall flowers, meeting his mom and dad, chatting with them, since I’d be so eager to get to know the parents of my—
I swerve the car in the other direction. The not-my-boyfriend-in-any-way-shape-or-form direction. “I bet they’re so proud of you for all you’ve done on and off the field.”
“They are, but I’m proud of them, too. Raising four kids on next to nothing wasn’t easy, and that’s why I work hard to take care of them now. I guess that’s why some of the things that happened with my last agent were so frustrating. I’m not suffering financially. But I want to be able to do everything I possibly can for them.”
I nod, completely understanding the drive to help, to support. “I get it. I feel the same way about my dad. That’s why I try to see him as much as possible. Just to be there.”
“The least we can do is take care of the ones who took care of us. Hell, that’s part of why I’m so glad my brother moved back to San Francisco from New York. He’s the sibling I’m closest to, and helping him with his beer show is my way of repaying that smart bastard for the way he helped me in high school.”
“He did?”
Jones nods. “He’s the creative one in the family, and since eleventh grade essays on Huck Finn are the foundation of hell, Trevor made sure I didn’t burn in the fiery depths.” He pauses, then winks. “I bet you loved high school essays.”
I narrow my eyes. “Confession: even though I was an English major, I think essays ought to be abolished. They are the devil’s work.”
His hand rises for another high five. Once more I smack back, and foolishly I wait for him to link hands with mine.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he gathers the plates on the tray, carries it to the door, sets it outside, then dials room service for a pickup. He brushes one hand against the other, and my heart free-falls. This is when h
e leaves. This is when our evening ends.
He raises a hand. “Question.”
“Answer.”
“How do you feel about movies?”
“Love them. The good ones, that is.”
“Mission Impossible? Is that a good one?”
I laugh like his question is crazy. “Duh. More like a great one.”
He gestures to the big-screen TV facing the bed. “Want to watch? When we checked in, I saw it was on pay-per-view.”
The free-falling heart screeches to a stop. “Yes.” My answer comes out more breathlessly than I intend.
I know this is a bad idea. I know this is flirting with danger. But if we managed to eat dinner and chat in this hotel room, we can certainly manage to watch a movie.
He eyes my bed then hops on it, stretching out his long legs and parking his hands behind his head. He looks over at me, and I’m officially frozen. He’ll need to pluck me from the ground like an ice sculpture because I can’t move.
Where am I supposed to watch? The floor? The table?
The answer comes when he pats the spot next to him on the mattress.
My insides go up in flames, and a million dangerous thoughts speed through my head. Do I actually lie down next to him? Do I put my body near his? Horizontal and inches apart?
I’m fully clothed. He is, too. But still . . . that’s a bed.
“Do you . . .?” I start to ask, but talking is so hard in this overheated state that I can’t finish the sentence—think this is a good idea?
He must sense my question because he rolls his eyes. “It’s a lot more comfortable than sitting in those awkward chairs for a two-hour flick,” he says, reaching for the TV remote on the nightstand and clicking to the menu. “C’mon.”
Here goes nothing.
I lie next to him, and he turns on the movie.
I don’t know what to do with my arms. I let them hang at my sides, but I bet that looks dumb. I cross them at my chest. I bet I look mad. I lace my hands together across my belly. I bet I look prim.
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