Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  I want to just lounge and stretch and be cool as Tom Cruise rappels into a vault in the CIA’s headquarters, but I can’t focus. I can’t think about a single thing that Ethan Hunt is doing on the screen when I’m literally six inches away from the man I’ve crushed on, lusted after, and now fear I’m starting to like.

  Truly like.

  Jones watches the screen intently, and I wish this was hard for him, too. All I can think about is the six inches between us and how much I wish they were zero. Half a foot feels insurmountable. But at the same time, if I moved my hand a little bit, then maybe a little more, I would touch his leg.

  Subconsciously, or perhaps not so subconsciously at all, I let my hand fall from my waist to the mattress. A little closer now.

  His gaze roams to my hand, dangerously near his hip.

  He turns to me. His eyes lock with mine, and my breathing stops. I want to look away, but I want to stare into his deep blue eyes. With his voice a little gravelly, he asks, “Do you like the movie?”

  My heart thumps hard against my chest. I lick my lips. “It’s great.”

  “You’re not going to fall asleep, are you?”

  Lifting my neck a little, I shake my head, my hair spilling against the pillow. He watches as my hair moves. I watch his face. He looks at my hand. I glance at his hand. I swear it slides a millimeter closer to mine, then another, then more.

  I’m a shooting star.

  I’m lit up.

  My body is full of electrons and neurons, pulsing and glowing bright.

  His eyes stay on mine, not on the screen, not on Ethan. “If you do, though, you can fall asleep on me.”

  I swallow, but I can’t get past the dryness in my throat. I don’t think I can get past the desire to take him up on that, to snuggle up against him like the orange kitten, to let him pet me, stroke me, touch me.

  Make me purr.

  “Want to?” he asks. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  “Sleep on you?” Each word has its own longitude and latitude.

  He nods. “Rest your head on me.”

  Oh God.

  Oh, my.

  I can’t even process this moment. My brain has gone haywire, like a pinball machine out of whack, buzzers and lights whirring in a mad cacophony.

  He lifts his arm, making room for me to rest my head in the crook, right there. I want to, and I’m terrified of how much I want to.

  “You already slept on me in the car,” he says, low and playful.

  A soft laugh bursts from my throat, and I scoot a few more inches, resting my head on his chest. My body lines up with his. Our hips touch. My breasts are near his broad, strong chest. Our legs are so close I could drape one over his.

  I glance down at my body to make sure I haven’t flung myself at him.

  Whew.

  Good. I’m still lying flat on my back.

  I stay like this, not moving, because if I do, I’ll moan, I’ll groan, I’ll murmur. I’ll blurt out something dangerous like touch me, kiss me, take me.

  Briefly, I try to focus on the screen, to zoom in on the secret agent. What would the king of impossible missions do in this risky situation?

  He’d find a way out of danger. Clearly, the only path for me is to go full possum.

  With Ethan Hunt somewhere in Prague, my mind drifts, my eyes flutter closed, and I fall asleep.

  Later, I wake to a dark room. To a clock flashing 3:25 in bright green. To a TV screen showing the soft blue glow of the hotel’s pay-per-view menu.

  And to a hand on my waist. To a big, strong body pressed to mine. To an arm slung across my stomach.

  And something else.

  Something hard against my butt.

  Very hard. Very long.

  Soft, steady breath flutters across my neck, the gentle whoosh of a sleeping man.

  A man who is wrapped around me. Who’s snuggling me. Who’s erect.

  I don’t even try to fight off a grin. Inside, I’m doing a dance. No, a striptease, because Jones is hard as he touches me.

  But wait. I shouldn’t read anything into this. It’s not about me. It’s a three-thirty-in-the-morning erection. It’s a dream hard-on. It’s the body’s natural reaction to sleep.

  Only, I want to read everything into it, especially as he murmurs something unintelligible and tugs me closer, lining my body up against his. Like that, he buries his face in my hair, and I melt into a puddle of woman as he spoons me, breathing in my hair, his lips close to my neck.

  I’m on fire. I’m turned on from head to toe, aroused in every molecule of my body. If he touched me where I want him most, I’d go off like a rocket. If I slid a hand in my panties, I’d finish myself off in seconds.

  It never takes long for me to reach the cliff when Jones pleasures me in my fantasies. He’s taken me to the edge so many times. Countless times.

  I let out a soft noise, a quiet moan as I wriggle the slightest bit against him, wanting to feel his length. Wanting the reminder once more of this turned-on man, even if it’s only sleep that did it to him.

  But what if it was sleep plus me? I sigh, a needy, desperate wish of a sigh.

  I should leave. But it’s my room.

  And he’s sound asleep, so I can’t kick him out.

  I have no choice but to stay like this, tangled up with him.

  I close my eyes and pretend he’s mine for now. I pretend he belongs to me, and we’re together, all through the night. I drift off like that, and it feels as if I’m floating on a cloud.

  When I wake at seven thirty, the bed is empty.

  He’s gone.

  13

  Jones

  “Jump!”

  Cletus takes off on command, scurrying across my parents’ yard and flying through the old tire swing hanging from a tree.

  “Dude!” I raise my arms, and he leaps at me. I bend to my knees as he hops onto my thighs, slathering me with a dog kiss. “Did you see that, Mom?”

  My mom laughs from her post on the porch, raising her wine glass. “I don’t know who I’m more proud of—son or dog. Both have serious athletic skills.”

  “Dog,” I answer as I put Cletus back on the grass and head to the deck. “The dog is way more talented.”

  “What’s really impressive,” my dad deadpans as he spreads barbecue sauce on a chicken breast on the grill that Sunday, “is that this kid who hated school is now teaching his dog all sorts of tricks.”

  “I didn’t hate school, Dad.”

  My mom chuckles, slapping her thigh. “And he’s a comedian, too, Paul.”

  He winks at her. “He always did make me laugh, Barbara.”

  Moving behind my mom, I drop a kiss to her head. “I had a B-plus average in high school, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  My dad flips a chicken breast. “How could she? You drove me crazy, kicking and screaming every step of the way to that B-plus.”

  I point my thumb at the house. “I’m going inside to see if I’ll be the recipient of less abuse from Trevor.”

  “Good luck with that,” my dad says, and Cletus stays outside with my parents as I go inside, where Trevor has set up for his beer show. Since we’re having lunch with them today, we’re shooting here.

  I slide the glass door closed and join him in the kitchen.

  I spit a mouthful of pale ale in the bucket at the counter.

  Shaking my head, I frown and stare longingly at the beer glass in my hand, which holds more of the tasty brew. “That pained me to expectorate.”

  Trevor jerks his head back and raises his eyebrows in appreciation. “Look at you. Using your SAT words.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He drums his fingers on the countertop. “But tell me more about the suffering you endured during the ejection of this beautiful IPA.”

  He loves to talk in this over-the-top highfalutin manner for his show, and it cracks me up. But my job is to remain immune, a deadpan sidekick color commentator. “Allow me to explain. It pained me so grea
tly because this beer is absolutely delicious. It’s what I want to drink while I kick back, relax, and watch something as good as, say, Mission Impossible.”

  Trevor shoots me a curious look. “I thought for sure you’d say a game. You know, like a sporting event.”

  Me, too. I meant to say a basketball game, or a baseball game, my leisure viewing of choice.

  But my mind has been fixed on Jillian ever since the other morning when I left her room like my house was on fire. I can’t get her out of my head since the night I fell asleep with her in my arms. I’d like to say I simply conked out, barely even aware of curling up next to her. But that’s not true.

  I didn’t want to leave her. When the credits rolled and she was still sound asleep next to me, her warm body wedged against mine, I chose the path of least resistance—I closed my eyes and fell asleep, just for the chance to be near her.

  Waking up with her all soft and sleepy in my arms, wanting nothing more than to tug her close, turn her to me, and kiss her breathless, was hard as hell.

  Like my dick that morning.

  Which might’ve been why I took off like I was being chased downfield by a fleet-footed safety hell-bent on trying to tackle me before I reached the end zone. I’m not sure if I’ve ever skedaddled out of a room faster in my life. But if I didn’t leave, I might have tried more with her. More than cuddling, more than holding her in my arms.

  For all I know, she might not even be aware I spent the night with her. She might have slept like a log all night long. But either way, she clearly understood the score. Hell, she acted like it was no big deal. We were both cool and casual later that morning, like nothing had happened.

  And that’s exactly what did happen. Nothing.

  I return my focus to Trevor, and we finish out our latest episode of beer reviews. When we’re done, he slides a beer bottle to me.

  “To take home. For the next time you’re watching Mission Impossible,” he says, laughing. “That was a random reference.”

  “I guess my mind might have been on the movie, since I watched it the other night.” I clear my throat. No point pretending with him. “So listen. You know Jillian?”

  He looks at me, narrowing his green eyes. “I don’t know her, but you’ve mentioned her before. She was the woman you spoke with a couple weeks ago after golf. The one I said you were hot for?”

  Hot for was right at the time, but it’s changed a ton since then. It started as attraction. It morphed into lust. It veered into something stronger, and now, the more time I spend with her, the more time I want to spend with her. She fascinates me, and she intrigues me. Every time we talk, I gobble up all the morsels I learn about her. They feed me and yet make me hungry for more at the same time.

  I answer my brother with complete honesty. “I like her.”

  Trevor wraps up the wire for the camera as he tucks it away in a bag. “She kicks ass. She’s doing a great job with Paleo. Everything is moving along as it should, and Liam seems happy. He enjoyed meeting with you earlier in the week at the winery shoot, and the marketing team has been drawing up plans for your campaign. If this goes well, Ford thinks we can get you the quick-serve restaurant company soon. Organic Eats is the name.”

  “Everything is happening quickly. But that’s the thing. Everything is happening quickly with her, too. When I said I like her, I don’t mean just for work stuff. I like her a lot.”

  Trevor straightens his spine and holds up his hands as the full meaning registers. “Whoa. You’re involved with her now?”

  I shake my head. “No, and I have no idea if she’d even want that.”

  He rests his palms against the counter, meeting my eyes. “But you’d want that?”

  I sigh heavily. “Yeah. And it would probably be a huge mistake, right?”

  He claps me on the shoulder, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “If you’re asking me if it’s a good idea to get entangled with the person who’s supposed to be making sure you move beyond some of the mistakes of the past, I feel like you probably know the answer to that already. I’m not saying you should be celibate. I’m not telling you to never date because one dinner or one picture can be taken out of context. I’m just saying maybe now isn’t the time. You’re trying to turn things around in that facet of your career, and I wonder if maybe pursuing something with the woman tasked with helping you is the wisest move.”

  I scratch my chin, wishing for a different answer. “But is it the worst thing in the world?”

  He huffs. “Jones, you’re making this hard. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but what happens when it goes south? What happens when it ends in a few weeks, or hell, a few nights?”

  I start to protest, but he holds up a hand. “I love you, bro, but your attention never strays that far from the field. You’ve never had a relationship last longer than, what? A month?”

  “If that,” I grumble. I’ve dated here and there, but it’s been a long time since a woman was known as my girlfriend. My entanglements have run short and hot. I like Jillian a hell of a lot, but I’m not entirely sure what I’d do with any woman after more than a few nights together. It’s uncharted territory.

  “My point exactly. Even if something happened with her, even if you were all hush-hush about it, it’s not as if you’re going to settle down. Then it’ll be over, and in a month, when you need something from her for the deal or just for the team, how’s that going to be? That’s a whole new level of soap opera drama—the player and the scorned publicist—and you do not want to have to deal with that fallout.”

  Fallout.

  I force myself to stay on that word for a while longer, to picture it, to feel it. There would be a fallout. A massive, uncomfortable, awkward fallout.

  And what matters more to me isn’t the potential drama in working with her if things don’t pan out. The bigger concern is her. Her job. Her reputation. I like her too much to risk messing up her professional life. If word leaked out that we’d had a fling, it could affect her credibility at work. It could change how management views her, and also how the team treats her.

  I can’t let that happen. She loves her job. She’s great at it. She doesn’t deserve to be tarnished.

  “Things are turning a corner financially for you,” Trevor adds. “We’re getting you deals. This is what you wanted.”

  He sweeps his arm out to indicate our parents’ home.

  “Mom and Dad,” I say, nodding solemnly.

  I need the reminder. Taking care of my parents, buying them this house, giving them a comfortable retirement where my dad is free to grill on Sundays rather than head out for another long-haul truck route and my mom can sleep in rather than schedule extra shifts—that’s what matters.

  I need to do the right thing. Stay on the straight path. “Thanks, man. You’re right. You’re always right. You know what’s best.”

  He shoots me a skeptical stare. “But you’re not going to listen to me anyway, are you?”

  “Of course I’ll listen to you. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen.”

  We join our parents on the porch for barbecued chicken, and I put Jillian out of my mind.

  And the next day, I head to the airport and board a first-class flight to Miami with the very woman I intend to resist.

  14

  Jillian

  I drink coffee on the plane. I down Diet Coke. I pop cinnamon Altoids.

  Six hours later, I’m bouncing off the leather seats, hopped up on caffeine, but I’ve successfully avoided drooling in Jones’s lap, sleeping on his leg, or even doing a head-flop onto his shoulder.

  I’m winning at resisting him ever since he took off from my room sometime in the wee hours a few mornings ago.

  One fully-awake plane ride later, we check in at our hotel. Both of us are on the third floor, but that shouldn’t be a problem since I don’t plan on spending time in his room, or vice versa. Heck, it might even make things easier when we head out for the photo shoots, since we have one every morning, inclu
ding the day we leave. And after this trip, we’ll be done with the calendar photography so goodbye temptation, thy name is no longer Sleeping on Jones.

  As we turn away from the front desk in the sleek, teal-blue lobby of the Blue Dreams Hotel on South Beach, the moment of truth arrives. Will we do that awkward “should we have dinner” thing that business traveling companions do, or can I pull off another dart and dodge to avoid the dangerous five-foot radius around Jones that usually reduces me to unexpected cuddling, snuggling, and flirting?

  I wish my friend Andre was free tonight. He lives here and works for the local NBA team, but he has a date this evening, so I can’t use seeing him as an excuse to keep my distance from Jones. I’ll need to be strategic and find ways to maintain space between that man and me for the next three nights.

  I take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  “I’m going to hit the gym,” he says, at the same time as I utter, “I’m going to take off for an evening walk.”

  He shoots me a grin. “Jinx.”

  “Jinx,” I say with a laugh.

  See? I’m pulling this off with panache and humor. Almost as if we never entwined our bodies in the middle of the night.

  I drop off my bags in my room, telling myself it’s better that we don’t hang out. It’s better if I feel zero temptation to curl up with him. Besides, the shoot tomorrow with the local shelter is a sunrise one, so I’ll need to be up early.

  I leave the boutique hotel and make my way to the ocean to take care of business. That business involves my phone, my bare feet, and the beach. Because tonight, the thermometer reads in the high seventies, a rarity for late July in Miami. The beach is my kind of bliss, with sand that’s soft and sugary and water that’s crystal clear and calm. I drop my big silver shades with rhinestones on the frames over my eyes, and drink in the tropical contrast to San Francisco. Back home, I’m surrounded by water and beaches, too, but the Pacific is colder, harsher, and our beaches are better suited for melancholy, solitary strolls while wearing jackets and thinking deep thoughts.