The rhythmic bouncing of basketballs echoed around The Link’s old gym as Jordan called out instructions to the kids. For the last six months, he’d been coaching these boys two afternoons a week.
The place was a total dump that hadn’t seen a renovation since it was built in the seventies. The floors creaked with every step, peeling paint covered the walls, and the air smelled faintly of old sneakers and sweat. But for a lot of these kids, it was home.
Jordan could relate to that. His neighborhood in Chicago had a place like this. Gang violence was never far. Drug dealers came right inside to sell to the kids. It wasn’t always safe, but it had basketballs, so when he wasn’t at the dojo doing martial arts training, he was shooting hoops.
For a kid who was always getting in trouble, or looking for it, it had been a saving grace. After his dad died in a workplace accident, his mom moved him and Sean to an even shittier part of town so she could afford rent, and he’d lost that place too.
Coaching these kids at The Link was a fluke opportunity.During his first month in Portland, he’d been connected, through someone at Sean’s gym, to a social reintegration program in town where ex-offenders worked with at-risk youth in a mentorship capacity. He sure as shit was nobody’s mentor, but he had skills on the court and a past they could learn from, so he’d been paired with the center and offered a chance to coach the basketball team. Turned out, he fucking loved it.
He was in the middle of giving some pointers to a tall, lanky kid named Beck when the door to the gym swung open with a loud creak.
Beck faltered mid-dribble, his gaze veering over Jordan’s shoulder, his tenuous focus evaporating. It didn’t take much to distract the young point guard, but Jordan was curious enough to look and see what he was staring at.
A woman walked in.
Not just any woman—her.
He hadn’t seen Vanessa since she’d rescued the damn rabbit, who, fuck his life, still refused to show himself when Jordan arrived for the daily feedings.
Vanessa strutted into the gym like she owned it, a flawless combination of grace and sharp edges. Her hips swinging as she made her way across the space in mile-high heels that were definitely leaving marks on the floor. A group of teenage girls trailed behind her like a brood of ducklings.
It didn’t look right, a woman like her walking through a dingy, run-down gym, with peeling linoleum floors in those fancy shoes. She belonged somewhere different. Somewhere worthy of her presence. Somewhere he would most definitely not be welcome.
She came to a stop in front of him, popping a hip and planting her hand on it.
Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t you fucking stare. He kept his gaze glued to hers, but those big brown eyes, all fire and golden flecks, turned out to be as distracting as her killer hips. Dammit, he was no better than the teenager behind him.
“What areyoudoing here?” Her demand was sharp and reverberated through the gym.
For a second, Jordan didn’t respond, caught off guard by the sheer absurdity of the situation.
“What amIdoing here? What are you doing here?” He challenged. “A long way from the Gucci runway, don’t you think, princess?”
She tossed her dark mane over her shoulder in a signature move he was becoming familiar with. The hair toss meant she was about to get real snooty, and the anticipation of it had all the blood draining to his midsection. To retaliate against his traitorous body, he planted his feet and crossed his arms, not missing the way her gaze followed the movement.
Hopefully she wasn’t catching any motion below the belt. The athletic shorts he was wearing wouldn’t do much to hide his reaction to her.
“I’m volunteering,” she stated, and he noted how the word barely made it out of her mouth. For all he knew, it was the first time she’d even uttered it.
“Volunteering?” He let the skepticism in his tone draw out the word nice and long.
Vanessa tipped her chin higher. Anymore and that pretty little nose would hit the shoddy ceiling fans. “I’m helping organize the Valentine’s fashion show, and we’re using the gym as our venue.”
Despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, he coughed out a laugh. “A fashion show?”
“Yes.” She appeared to be fully serious.
He blinked at her, momentarily speechless. Again. “Here?”
Now she crossed her arms, her right knee jutting out as her left hip popped up and a pout spread across her lips. “Why not?”
There was no need to point out the state of this dump. Hardly fit to coach basketball in, never mind host a fashion show.
“I’m going to build a runway. We’re here to take measurements.” She held up a measuring tape.
“You.” He stayed silent for a beat, giving her time to repeat herself, because surely he had misheard. When she said nothing, he clarified, “You’rebuilding a runway?”
One of her elegant shoulders lifted and fell in a casual gesture. “My father is a master craftsman in woodworking. I learned a thing or two from him growing up.”
