I’ve met the guy a few times, and I don’t think we’ve ever had a full conversation. I’m sufficiently weirded out by his sudden interest. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I tell him. Blunt is always the way to go with unwanted attention.
His smile falters but only for a second. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a wine drinker.”
I finish serving my food then turn to face him. “I drink beer and wine, but that’s neither here nor there. I don’t go out with Bates’ teammates. Ever.” I turn to the fridge, grab a beer, then kick the door closed before I scoop up my plate and leave Jonesy staring after me.
Bates steps into my space, crouching at my side the second I sit. “Was Jonesy hitting on you?”
“Meh,” is my only response.
“Meh? What the fuck does that mean? He either was or he wasn’t,” Bates bites out.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I handled it. He won’t do it again. Trust me.”
“You sure? You want me to talk to him? Tell him to back off?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Now go get some before it’s all gone.”
“Just say the word,” he says with a wink then ruffles my already messy hair and pushes to his feet.
Archer is noticeably absent from this impromptu dinner party, and I can’t help but wonder why. Maybe he’s giving me space to process what he told me today. Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll punch him in the balls for not saying something to me sooner.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad for the breathing room—not that my usually spacious apartment feels very roomy tonight.
I scarf down the suspiciously amazingly tasty food then escape to my room unnoticed. I’m not in the mood for socializing—not with so much on my mind that it feels like it’s about to explode.
Once in the safety of my own space, I rip the hoody off, toss it over the back of my armchair, and flop face-first onto my bed. With thoughts and memories of Archer swirling through my head, I fall asleep just like that.
“Oh my God, this is delicious,” Mary-Jane says, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
I grin. “I know, right?” I stab my fork into the last tender sliver of steak in my own salad bowl then pop it into my mouth. My eyes roll as it practically dissolves on my tongue.
I could rave about the food here at Alberto’s all day long, but we’ve got shopping to do. Holding my hand up, I signal the waiter. “Could I get the check please?” I ask then turn my focus back to Mary-Jane. “So, what do you want to get first—shoes or dress?”
“Umm, dress?” she asks then chews on her bottom lip.
I arch a brow. “You’re not sure?”
She shrugs, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth. “I suck at this stuff.”
“Not a problem, because I’m great at it,” I assure her. If there’s one thing I’m good at—besides being a kick-ass agent—it’s shopping. “Look, I don’t know how other women do it, but I like to start with a killer pair of shoes. Then I match my outfit to them.”
Mary-Jane smiles. “Whatevs, I don’t mind either way. Just know, you’re working with a complete novice. My wardrobe consists of tennis shoes, skorts, and polo shirts.”
I eye the outfit she’s currently wearing, tipping my head to the side to get a full view around the table. “You’re not wearing a skort right now,” I say.
“Okay, I might own one or two pairs of denim shorts.”
The waiter returns with our bill, and I slip my card inside the little folder and hand it back to her.
“I can get my lunch,” Mary-Jane says, an embarrassed blush coating her cheeks.
I wave her off. “I told you today was on me, and I meant it. Well, it’s on the company, actually, but you know what I mean.”
Mary-Jane tilts her head to the side, her perfect blonde waves falling over her shoulder. She is the picture of innocence. “Why are you doing this for me, Lennon? I’m a little fish in a big pond. I know there are athletes out there who deserve your time and commitment more than I do.”
After picking up my water glass, I take a long, slow drink then place it back on the table before answering her. “Because you have what it takes to be more. Part of my job is spotting talent and making sure they’re seen by the right people. You might be a small fish right now, MJ, but give me some time, and you’ll be up there with the best of them.”
Her eyes shine with tears, and I have no idea what to do. I don’t do emotions; they make me uncomfortable. I swipe my unused napkin from beside my plate and toss it at her, hitting her square in the face. “Shit, I’m so sorry!”
She laughs, wipes her eyes with the napkin, then grins. “It’s okay,” she chuckles.
I blow out a relieved breath then finish off my glass of water right in time for the waiter to return with my card. “Shall we go?”
“Sure,” she says, smiling wide. Not a trace of tears left. Thank God.
We make our way to one of my favorite little shoe boutiques where MJ immediately points out a pair of silver sparkly flats. “These ones are cute.”
I cringe and shake my head. “How do you feel about heels?” I ask, holding out a pair of black, three-inch pointed stilettos. Her answer is written all over her face before she even utters a word. These are definitely not MJ’s style, but I want to push her out of her comfort zone—just maybe not this far, judging by the horrified expression on her face.
“Those are what my mother would call ‘Satan’s calling card,’” she says, blushing furiously.
A harsh bout of laughter bubbles up my throat. “Okay, well, let’s not piss off your momma.” I place the shoes back on the shelf.
“Or break my ankle,” MJ chuckles. “I’ve never worn heels that high or skinny in my life.”
“Noted.” I nod and continue perusing the shelves.
We spend the next twenty minutes scouring the boutique for the right pair of shoes before MJ declares, “These ones!”
I turn around and grin at the sight of her in a pair of black and tan wedge heels that do incredible things for her legs. “They’re hot.”
She beams. “And I can walk in them.” She demonstrates by strutting along the aisle and striking a pose at the end before returning.
“I think we have a winner,” I say, giving her the slow clap her little performance deserves. “Now let’s get you a dress to match these babies.”
It’s nearly five o’clock by the time we make it back to my apartment building, dress and shoes in hand.
“Oh, I should warn you, my brother might be home. He moved in a couple weeks ago, and he’s . . . let’s just say Bates is a lot,” I inform MJ as we ride the lift to the seventh floor.
She side-eyes me. “What exactly does a lot mean?”
“You’ll get it when you meet him,” I say, stepping out of the elevator and approaching my front door. After sliding my key in the lock, I swing the door open then screech, “What the fuck, Bates?!”
MJ lets out a little squeak beside me as she drops her shopping bags and covers her eyes, muttering, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”