He touches my arm lightly, but I jerk at the contact—electric and molten. He glances from my arm to my face.
“But you did,” he says. “You played because you wanted to kiss me, too.”
The truth floats between us on balmy summer air, and I can’t draw an easy breath. I bite my lip, debating what I should tell him—how much to reveal.
“That’s true.” I meet his eyes. “But it doesn’t make a difference about what happens next.”
“I’d like it to happen again, preferably without a roomful of people watching,” he says, wry humor curling the edges of his sensual mouth.
I flash him a rueful smile. “I don’t think so.”
Disappointment skitters across his face before he tucks it neatly away. He’s a man of control, discipline evident in the powerful, sinewy arms JP loves so much. In the flat stomach and the unyielding line of his mouth. His body is a well-conditioned machine—a fire-forged weapon in the battles he fights on court. How would it feel to demolish that control? I bet I could do it, but not without being crushed myself.
“Do I get an explanation?” he asks.
“Maybe I’m just not attracted to you.”
He quirks a brow, skepticism etched into the strong planes of his face. “At the risk of sounding arrogant, we both know that’s bullshit.”
“Okay then I’ll keep it real. I’m off dick right now,” I say abruptly, really hoping my crassness scares him away.
“Oh.” He nods as if I said I’m giving up dairy instead of dick. “Well what about the rest of me?”
“What?” I’m at a loss for half a second. I’m supposed to be the one throwing him off. “I don’t know about the rest of you.”
“My point exactly. You could get to know the rest of me over the summer and we can discuss my dick later.”
In spite of myself, my lips twitch. He twitches back, but the humor slowly drains from his expression. “Look, I won’t pretend I’m not attracted you. I think I’ve made that abundantly,” he says, allowing a self-deprecating smile, “and embarrassingly clear.”
I watch, waiting for him to go on.
“But my life’s kind of a wreck right now,” he says. “I don’t know how much you know about me.”
He pauses, caution in his unspoken query.
“Very little,” I admit. “I don’t follow basketball at all.”
Something like relief crosses his face before he shutters it. “I’m glad you don’t know a lot about me,” he says. “That means I can tell you myself. Not tonight, though. Suffice to say I’m coming off a very messy, very public divorce.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He chuckles, a wry twist to his lips. “I mean, I’m sorry it was messy, but not that I’m divorced. My point is I’m not looking for anything serious—”
“And I’m not looking for anything sexual,” I remind him.
“Then I guess that leaves us with a whole summer to be friends. It sounds like neither of us need complicated. We could keep it simple and see where it goes.”
The word “friends” dangles between us like a taunt, a dare. A bluff. That kiss we shared, the heat in his eyes, the spark when we touch make “friendship” an impossible lie. There’s something about this man. Simple is the last thing I think when I see him, but he’s right. Simple is what we both need.
When I don’t answer, he reaches to push the hair behind my ear, tracing my studs, and I shudder.
Simple, my ass.
4
Kenan
When Bridget and I met in college, I thought her capriciousness, her carefree approach to life would balance me out. Even then I wasn’t exactly the life of the party. Most guys on the team had two priorities: getting drafted and getting laid.
Okay. So getting laid was high on my list, too.
But even though I was a student athlete there on scholarship, I never thought I’d end up drafted into the league. My life was like Google Maps. Re-routing every so often, telling me there was a quicker or more efficient way, a better path until my future was completely unrecognizable. I was nowhere near the law student my father hoped I would be, and I wasn’t destined to be a judge like him. Things kept changing, and as flighty as Bridget could be, she was a constant. Maybe I needed that then.
Now I sit across from her in the lobby of our family counselor’s office and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I married her. She was a constant, alright. Constantly testing me. Constantly making life difficult. Ultimately humiliating me. Betraying me.
“They should be out soon,” she says, glancing at her Cartier watch, a gift from me for our fifth wedding anniversary. The diamonds, pure and priceless, mock me—mock what I tried to create with her. She also still wears her wedding ring, which annoys the hell out of me.
“Yeah.” I glance at my watch, too. One JP asked me to try out. Thinking about JP inevitably leads me to thinking about Lotus and our odd, candid conversation under the stars. She’d jokingly told everyone she was going to blow my mind before she kissed me.
She did.
She tasted wild and sweet like some exotic spice. A wildflower. The taste, her scent may have faded, but the memory hasn’t, and I want it again.
Blow my mind again, Lotus.
I should be cautious. Maybe once I thought the woman sitting across from me was a wildflower, but she turned out to be a Venus flytrap.
Bridget answers her phone on the first ring, says a few words, and then sends me a triumphant grin.
“My crew is coming up,” she says, walking past me toward the elevator.
“Your crew?” I ask, puzzled. “Like your friends?”
“No, the Baller Bae production crew.”
“Not here.” I stand and cross over to stand in front of her at the elevator. “Bridget, if you even think about—”
The elevator opens and a group of people carting cameras and cords walk out.
“Where should we set up?” one of them asks Bridget.
“In hell,” I snap. “I hear it’s freezing over. You can re-load your shit and go back to VH1 or BET or wherever you came from.”
“You can’t do that, Kenan.” Bridget gasps. “This is my livelihood.”
“Your livelihood?” I ask incredulously. “I think you’re confusing this narcissistic exhibitionism with actual work. Ironically, it’s my work that even has them interested in you in the first place. Now tell them to go, or I will.”
“You’re not going to ruin this for me,” she says, her voice pitching higher, her face crinkled into a scowl.
“Who’s in charge?” I ignore my ex and raise my voice over the crew’s low hum of laughter and conversation. “Where’s the producer?”
No one steps forward right away.
“I said—”
“I heard you, Mr. Ross,” a woman says, stepping from behind a tall cameraman. “Is there a problem?”
“What’s your name?” I really want to ask her age because she looks about sixteen.
“I’m Lilian James,” she says calmly, “but everyone calls me LJ. Is there a problem?”
“There will be if you don’t get the hell out of here.”
“Sir, we—”"
“Don’t ‘sir’ me. Are you aware I have a court order stating my daughter and I are not to be seen on your show?”
“Yes, but Bridget said it would be fine for us to get footage of her entering and leaving counseling.”
“Well, Bridget was wrong,” I say before she can spout more nonsense Bridget erroneously authorized. “Simone’s coming out of her session any minute, and if she is in even one shot, I promise you I will shut your shit down. You understand that?”
Lillian swallows and nods solemnly.
“You’re overreacting as usual,” Bridget says, sounding bored and longsuffering.
“And you’re acting irresponsibly as usual,” I fire back. I turn to Lillian, leaving Bridget to find some common sense.
“This is our family counseling session. Our daughter’s having a hard time with this divorce, and we’re doing this to help her,” I say. “This is real life. She needs to take it seriously. Coming out to a circus for fake reality TV does not help.”
“And where do you suggest we go?” Lillian asks, one brow flicked imperiously. I gotta give it to the kid. She’s got balls to be standing up to me when I’m in a mood this foul.
“That, Lillian James, is your job.” I point a thumb over my shoulder to the closed door of the therapist’s office. “My daughter is my job. You can park under the Brooklyn Bridge as far as I care, but get the hell out of this lobby before Simone comes out of that office.”
“Maybe you can wait in the parking lot across the street,” Bridget suggests impatiently. “Get some instant reactions from me after the session.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ross. I was told,” she says, shooting a hard, pointed look at my ex-wife, “this had been cleared.”
“To be safe,” I advise, “anything you’re shooting with proximity to me or Simone, you should clear with my team.”
“Okay. So I’ll contact you if—”
“No, this is the last time you and I speak. If you need anything, you’ll go through my agent, Banner Morales. You think I’m an asshole? Wait’ll you meet her.”
Lillian turns to Bridget. “We’ll be in the parking lot when you’re done.”
I stand by the elevator with arms folded until the last person has left and there’s no sign of a camera, cord or mic.
Bridget watches me in simmering silence, resentment tightening every line of her body. As soon as they’re gone, she unleashes all that banked vitriol on me. “What the fuck, Kenan?”
“What the fuck, Bridget? How could you think it was okay to bring a camera crew to our family counseling session?”