She rolled her eyes. “You need to work on your delivery. Dave Chappelle you are not.”
He only laughed harder. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the door.
Taylor followed him into the house and, for the first time in her life, knew what it felt like to have her jaw literally drop.
Holy. Shit.
Polished marble floors spanned the massive foyer, a large round table with an intricate, wrought-iron pedestal base occupying its center. It was topped by a lush floral arrangement that emitted a soft, soothing fragrance. If she closed her eyes, she would swear she was standing in a field of fresh flowers. The curved staircase to her immediate right ascended to a second-story interior balcony that branched out on both sides of the entrance.
Who lives like this?
Even as she told herself to shut up and keep walking, Taylor heard herself say, “Okay, hold on a minute.”
Jamar turned. “What’s wrong?”
Just stop talking.
“Before we go any farther, I need to ask a very rude question.” She really needed to work on her impulse control.
He grimaced, his brow dipping with his wary frown. “This is going to be about money, isn’t it?”
“Well, I did say it was rude,” Taylor pointed out. “I just . . . I mean . . .lookat this place! According to Wikipedia, you’re only twenty-five years old, and you only played one year of professional football. How much do they pay football players if you can afford a house like this after playing for only one year?”
“You really don’t know much about football, do you?”
“Other than the fact that it always causes an argument between my dad and brother on Thanksgiving? No, I don’t know jack.”
“I have a very good agent who managed to secure me a nice amount of guaranteed money. It’s a good thing, too, because I was injured before I could earn any of the performance incentives.”
“Performance incentives?”
“Yeah. I could have earned another six hundred grand my rookie season if I’d gotten more than ten touchdowns and rushed for more than twelve hundred yards.”
“Hmm, maybe we should add performance incentives to my contract.”
A quick grin flashed across his face. “Too late. You know, I think you missed your calling. You’ve got mad negotiation skills.”
“If that was the case, I would be earning a performance incentive,” she returned with an eye roll.
He gestured to her duffel bag. “Do you need somewhere to change?”
“Eventually. First, we should discuss the workout regimen I came up with for you. We need to make sure it’s targeting everything you think we need to target.” She looked around. “Let’s walk and talk. You can give me the grand tour of this palace you live in.”
“Twenty bedrooms are required in order to qualify as a palace. This house only has seven.”
She looked at him. “Another joke?”
“Was that one better than the last one?”
“No.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Taylor had to stop herself from laughing. She was enjoying his smile way too much.
They passed underneath the staircase and entered an open-concept kitchen/den/breakfast area that was the size of the entire house she and her family lived in back when they’d been on base in Germany.
Natural sunlight glinted off the veins of gold streaking throughout the pearly white marble countertop, and the Sub-Zero refrigerator and range were worthy of a high-end restaurant. She hoped to God he used it for more than cooking ramen.
“Okay, never mind about the tour,” Taylor said as she plunked her duffel bag on a kitchen island at least twice as big as her bathroom.
