Page 34 of Most Likely to Score
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 givesme 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.
16
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.
Jones is the second most popular player on the team, behind the quarterback, so I have to do my bestto 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 wordsMaid of Dishonoron 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 hisdirection. 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.
