“Oh, he doesn’t hate Kelce. It grates on his nerves to constantly be compared. I get it all the time with Tom Brady. It’s exhausting feeling like you have to live up to the best that ever played your position.”
I’m silent for a moment, thinking about my high school days. I mostly kept to myself. Sure, there were some individuals who were more likely to harass and bully me those years, but I didn’t hate them. But I certainly haven’t been compared to them as an adult. I was, however, almost always compared to my sister. It never mattered that I was smarter, worked harder, and got way better grades. All my parents ever cared about was connections. Paige married into another wealthy Denver family, thus making her so much better than me in my parents eyes.
“What about calling the event ‘The Paw-suit of Love?’” Jamie asks suddenly, jolting me from my trip down memory lane.
“Paw-suit? I bet people think it’s a misspelling.”
Jamie frowns, his brow furrowed in concentration. “There are so many neat names I’m thinking of that my teammates will completely destroy. I can’t use anything with the word ‘ball’ or‘balls’ in the title. I thought using the word ‘collar’ could be neat, but then at least one guy will comment about BDSM, so that’s out.”
“What about just calling it ‘The Perfect Catch?’ I ask. “It implies finding a romantic love interest, but also a play-on-words with a game of fetch. I don’t think there are any euphemisms your childish adult teammates could run with.”
“For the most part, they’re incredibly professional and respectful. But the locker room talk can get a little out of control.”
“That would make me so uncomfortable,” I confess. When Jamie’s eyebrow lifts, his blue eyes locked on mine, I continue. “I think there’s a time and place for discussions like that. At work isn’t where I’d choose to chat about BDSM.”
A hint of a smile ghosts across Jamie’s face. “I don’t think there are many places where I’d feel comfortable talking about that.”
Oh, thank God. For a moment, I worried I’d stepped in a metaphorical landmine. “Let’s move on.”
Jamie’s breath whooshes from his lungs. “Good call. So we’ll call the event ‘The Perfect Catch,’ and add a subtitle about it benefiting the charity.”
“Sounds good. What else do we need to do?” I ask.
Jamie pulls out his phone, opening his notes app. “The board already approved the location, but they’d like us to finalize a menu. A DJ has signed on, waiving his normal fee if we allow him to leave flyers and business cards around the room, and the board agreed. They have asked us to look through a long list of songs the DJ typically plays at events and veto some of the ones our more esteemed guests may disapprove of.”
“So anything with foul language or raunchy lyrics? I guess no BDSM talk then,” I joke.
“Such a shame. I fully intended to offer up collars to each winning woman.”
“How have I never noticed a woman wearing a collar in public? If they’re so popular, why don’t I notice any?” Before I have time to feel embarrassment at my innocent question, Jamie answers.
“A guy I went to college with was big on the BDSM scene, and he collared his college girlfriend. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I did some research. I don’t know about you, but once a topic gets imbedded in my brain, it’s incredibly hard for me to move past it without some kind of closure or redirection.”
Wow. He’s pretty much describing me. “I’m the same way. I suddenly remembered a vacation to New England years ago, where I had the best clam chowder of my life. I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know the recipe. I stayed up all night trying to find it.”
“Did you find it?”
I shake my head. “Not the exact one, but I found a good substitute. I always make it on the first snow of the year.”
“I bet it was good.”
“It was. I’ll send you the recipe, if you want it.”
“I’m actually allergic to shellfish, but thank you for the thought.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah. Typically my reactions aren’t too bad, but I have an EpiPen just in case.”
“I’m so sorry. You’ve accidentally ingested some seafood? That’s awful.” Without thinking, I reach over to rest my hand on his forearm. The movement stuns me, and my eyes drop to stare at where my hand meets his skin. While I’m not averse to physical touch, I never make the first move. I don’t reach out to hold a man’s hand, or initiate a hug. I’ve never leaned in to kisssomeone, and I’ve certainly never felt sparks just by touching a forearm.
Until today.
By Jamie’s quick intake of breath, I wonder if he’s as shocked as I am. I quickly glance up, finding his gaze locked on my hand as well. Did he feel the sparks too?
But then the anxious side of my brain takes root. Maybe he wants to recoil. Or throw up again. What if I truly offended him? Perhaps I invaded his personal bubble, and I should apologize. Would this be considered flirting? When is physical touch okay in a neutral setting? While we are alone, this isn’t a date, and I’m not touching anything that could be called an erogenous zone. Reading social cues has always been a challenge for me, no matter what I do.
And then Jamie’s hand covers mine, and it’s like a million bees are buzzing against my skin. His eyes are intense as he watches me. “Thank you, Audrey.”
