“Don’t get your boxer briefs bunchy, Jordan,” I say, scrunching my nose, although he can’t see the gesture. “I’m the least judgy person I know.” Total lie. For most people, I’m all “live and let live.” But for the members of the male population who handle balls of all sizes? I’ve tried and convicted most athletes as narcissistic manwhores with the emotional IQs of sheep embryos. Present company—on the phone—excluded. Well, except for the manwhore part. Still, sometimes I wonder exactly how I became best friends with one of the country’s most famous basketball players. It’s still a mystery that only Jessica Fletcher could solve. “And I know none of you have taken vows of chastity. I’m actually thanking you. You and your boys’ community peens are bringing BURNED a ton of business.”
More silence. And yes, it’s ridiculous, but I canfeelthe heat simmering on the other end, sizzling down our connection to singe me. I cup my phone, pressing it harder to my face, as if I can absorb more of those smoldering embers that he never allows anyone to see. Not even when he discovered I’d lied to him about where I worked and what I did for a living to cover for Zora so Cyrus, his best friend and the man my sister loves, didn’t find out. No, Jordan never loses control. Never lets go of that fire.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve seen it—been licked by its flames—once.
When he had me under him. Over him. In front of him.
That sweet, almost painful tug in my stomach wrenches harder, blooming into a yawning, empty ache between my thighs. I cover my mouth so he can’t catch the short, soft gasp I have no hope of containing. And I have zero doubts he will hear it. I’ve never had a person more attuned to me, more aware of me. It could be intoxicating, addictive—if I permitted it. If I let myself forget that it’s not personal, but that perfect attention to detail, the ability to read the room, is just part of Jordan’s personality. It’s what makes him such a great power forward on the court and friend off of it. And amazing in b—
Dammit. Not going there. Bad enough the images of that night are flickering at the edges of my mind and my panties are going to be a lost cause. I refuse to willingly go traipsing down that road where only memories of the hottest sex of my life litter the pavement, but so does regret. And my own stupidity.
“You’re welcome, Marilyn. Our dicks aim to please,” Jordan drawls, and both relief and disappointment wind through me.
Relief, because the heat has abated and his usual laid-back manner and ribald humor have returned.
Disappointment, because the heat has abated and his usual laid-back manner and ribald humor have returned.
“That’s the rumor,” I mutter, choosing to ignore the quiver in my belly at the nickname he dubbed me with on the day we met on account of my dyed-blonde hair. Glancing toward the VIP entrance, I ask, “What’s up, Jordan? You okay? Or are you bored?”
For the last two weeks, he’s been laid up with a groin sprain. I have jokes about that as well. But damn, that’s too easy. But since his injury has prevented him from practicing or starting in the new basketball season, he’s been driving me crazy. Well, more than usual.
He calls itbonding.
“I’m fine,” he says, the answer short and inviting a whole lot of “Move the fuck along.” “Like I said, I’m checking in to see if you’re okay. To make sure Linc’s girl didn’t go for your throat when you broke the news to her.”
“You do know I’m a professional, right? I do this for a living. You don’t have to worry about me or call me every time I go out on a job. Not to mention it would be a gross breach of confidentiality if I shared with you how the evening is going since this is Lincoln’s business. And with the amount he’s paying for my discretion, my lips aren’t only sealed—they’re cemented shut with Gorilla Glue.”
“Fine.” Pause, and in the background, I detect what sounds like another language. Probably Korean. The man loves his K-dramas. “Just tell me this. Are you okay?”
A totally inappropriate flutter caresses my chest wall. Leftover champagne bubbles. Denial, thy name is Miriam Nelson.
“I’m good. But I really do need to get back to my client.” My hand tightens on the cell. “Seriously, though, before I go, are you okay? And don’t dodge my question or give me that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit. Are you in pain? Is Cyrus with you?”
“I’mfine, Miriam. It’s a groin pull, not a spinal break. And no, Cyrus isn’t with me,” he growls. “He refuses to sit around, braid my hair, and hold my hand since your sister came along.”
“Wow. We’re in a mood. You have your afternoon nap today?”
“No, dammit, I didn’t,” he snaps.
A beat of silence. Then I snicker.
Then he snorts and laughs too.
“You’re fucking death to my ego, Marilyn.”
This time, I snort. “You’ll live. Bye, Ragnar, I have to go. And tell Lincoln not to be such a chickenshit. If he wants to know if Renae wants his balls in a Dixie cup, just call and ask.”
He gasps. Honest-to-God gasps. “Linc isn’t—”
I hang up on him midlie, grinning. But when I lower the phone and realize I’m still smiling like an idiot at the screen, a sharp knife of alarm slides between my ribs. I force my lips to flatten, sliding my phone back into my rear pocket.
Another thing “only friends” don’t do.
Friends don’t allow just a phone call and the sound of your buddy’s voice to stir a honeyed warmth in your chest. Or to stretch that clenching emptiness inside you wider and deeper.
Shaking my head, I stride toward the suite’s exit.
Damn good thing we’re only friends.
