“Jazzed about taking you and H apart, you mean? Oh yeah!”
I had no doubt he would do well, but I wasn’t ready to to be mowed down just yet.
“So, not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but why are you here?” He lived in Detroit, so he wasn’t staying at the hotel.
“Hatch and I were supposed to be meeting for a bite, but he’s not answering his phone. I sent you a bunch of texts as well.”
“Yeah, well—” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her exiting the parking elevator and heading to the front desk. She was right—she did stand out but no one would recognize her, I was sure of that.
Conor followed my gaze, so I distracted him with a hand on his elbow. “Let’s head into the restaurant and call Hatch to come down. I left him in the room, talking to Summer.”
“They’re having phone sex, aren’t they?”
“Thought I’d give them some privacy.”
Conor grinned. “That’s considerate.”
“I’d do the same for you if you managed to stick to one girl.”
“What? I wouldn’t get phone sex privacy because I like to play the field?”
“You’re an exhibitionist. You don’t care.” We made it to the restaurant entrance, just off the lobby. I could already see NoBo waving at me from a large table, and a couple of the guys were with him.
“You want it to be just us, or are you ready for a little trash talk?”
The Kershaw smile broke out in full. “I wouldn’t mind getting into the heads of a few Rebels.” He gestured to the hostess that we were joining their table, then turned to me, his expression curious. “J, are you sweating?”
Bricks. I looked over my shoulder. No sign of the sixties film star or her big-face sunglasses. Looked like we were in the clear.
Chapter Eighteen
Franky
* * *
My entire body was buzzing.
I couldn’t recall ever being this excited. The disguise, the sneaky ascent up the elevator, keeping my sunglasses on during check-in, which I hoped came off as mysterious rather than rude. The only thing missing was a fake ID, and I was glad the desk clerk didn’t say my name aloud when I handed over my driver’s license. She probably surmised I wanted privacy.
Most thrilling of all was spotting Jason with Conor in the lobby and watching as he surreptitiously steered him away from me to the restaurant. In the mirror behind reception, I spied them standing at the host podium, chatting away as they waited to be seated. I wanted Jason to look at me, but of course that would have defeated the purpose of going under the radar.
And also, why? Because we were partners in this subterfuge, I supposed. It couldn’t have been because the idea of sneaking around was sexy.
Jason had looked so good in his gray sweats and Rebels zip-up. I couldn’t help noticing how his pants had clung to his strong thigh muscles as he sat in my car. How his sheer bulk ate up all the space and made me feel petite. Not that I felt like some Shrek-like ogre in most men’s presence, but I did feel oddly feminine in Jason’s.
Most likely it was because of how crazily hormonal I usually was whenever he was around. After all, his role was to appear as I was ovulating, and our relationship was wholly focused on what needed to happen to get me pregnant. It definitely placed us in certain biological lanes. Him the provider of sperm, me the vessel for nurturing a child. A heteronormative viewpoint that was strangely arousing.
I sent him a text with my room number, then immediately regretted it. What if someone saw my name pop up on his screen? He was with his nephew and possibly other teammates now, sharing a meal. It wasn’t as if he could leave them?—
A knock sounded on the door.
I checked the peephole. Jason stood there, hands in the pockets of his sweats, staring straight at me. I had sent that text two minutes ago.
I opened the door, positively giddy with excitement, and grasped the zipper of his jacket to pull him inside. He kicked the door shut behind him.
“I can’t believe?—”
“We almost got?—”
