“Yeah? Would you be saying that if he hit on Tessa in front of you, but you couldn’t do a damn thing about it?”
“He’s interested in Dixie?” Levi looks stunned again. “Dude, is your life always a soap opera, or is this a new thing?”
I flip him two middle fingers this time. “Very supportive, dick.”
“Sorry. I honestly wish I had advice for you, Eli,” Levi says as he walks toward me. “She might have feelings for you, but giving up her job is a lot to ask.”
“I know.” I nod. “That’s why I’m not asking.”
He nods. “If I think of anything helpful, I’ll let you know. And not to add to your list of problems, but make sure when it’s time, Jude finds out from you and her and not someone else. He’s not going to forgive you otherwise, and as much as they love to annoy each other, the Braddock kids would kill for each other. Remember that.”
“Kind of like you would kill for me?” I joke.
“I wouldn’t kill for you, but I’d help you move a body,” he quips back as I open the door and he leaves. I close the door behind him and drop back on the bed and close my eyes. How the hell am I going to make this work?
23
Dixie
I pick a soft, loose, long white blouse, fitted black ankle pants and leopard-print heels. Pants are the key to getting through this night. I need to have minimal exposed skin so Elijah can’t touch it. I’ve missed him like he’s a limb that’s been severed. And seeing him on the plane, feeling our bodies brush, Jesus, I was on fire. That can’t happen again, especially not with fans around.
I stare at my refection in the mirror as I apply my lipstick. I look healthy and relaxed with glowing skin and clear, glassy eyes. It’s not just makeup tricks, it’s the fact that as soon as I walked into my hotel room, I stripped down and touched myself, coming hard with his name on my lips. He had me that worked up, and I thought climaxing would clear my head and give me focus, but it didn’t. I still want him. I still feel myself falling in love with him. I can’t. Not right now. I have a lot to work out.
I smooth my hair and heave a big breath, exhaling slowly. I love my job, but I’m starting to love him too. Jude knocks on my door. I know it’s Jude not just because I asked him to swing by but also because he’s knocked in the same rhythm since he was a kid. I glance at the clock on the table as I walk past the bed to the door. I have half an hour before I have to be in the restaurant downstairs for the fan dinner.
I swing open my door. Jude is in Thunder sweats, flip-flops and a heather-gray T-shirt, and his hair is askew. He must have just woken up from a nap.
“Hey! Come in!”
He wanders over to my bed and falls back onto it like he’s practicing a trust fall. His eyes are closed when he hits the pillow. I smirk. “Tired, princess?”
He lifts a hand and rubs his eyes, then yawns. “I can’t sleep like I used to. I keep trying, but I mostly just lie awake and think about the million things that can injure babies or how quickly I can get home if she goes into labor again. Or the billion ways I might fuck up this parenting thing.”
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s not being flippant. He’s serious. “FYI, just the fact that you’re stressing out about all of that makes you great dad material. And this kid is a Braddock. It’ll be tough and smart. And Zoey is tough too. She’ll do just fine in labor, even if God forbid you don’t make it back in time. Have a little faith in your woman and your DNA, Jude.”
He gives me a small smile. “Thanks.”
“About DNA, the reason I asked you to come see me is I need your help on something I’ve pitched to the ALS Foundation,” I explain. “It’s a social media campaign.”
“Is this for the Thunder?” He grabs a second pillow to put under his melon.
I shake my head and lean my ass against the TV console. “No. It’s just me contributing on my own. I had this idea, something that might bring it more coverage, like the ice bucket challenge did.”
“I didn’t know you were doing that.” He looks impressed. “That’s great, Dix.”
“Thanks. It started this week,” I explain. “But big names are key to making this work. I know you know a few really well, like the supermodel Stella Ascott and that TV actor who you party with in Toronto. The one from the teen paranormal show that’s so popular.”
He nods, and I spend the next ten minutes explaining my campaign, which involves celebrities, like the ones he knows who have massive social media accounts, going dark, posting nothing but one written fact or statistic on a symptom from each stage of ALS every day for a week until, on the final day, they post nothing, or just blackness, to show how the disease robs you of everything. He listens intently, sitting up as I get to the end of my pitch.
“I don’t know these people like you do, and I don’t think I’d get anywhere cold-calling them, and I can’t use my position with the team because it’s not for the Thunder, so can you help?”
“Yeah, of course.” He smiles and I see pride in it. “It’s a great idea.”
“Thanks!”
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to take this on on top of all the work you do for the team?” he asks, standing. “Between this and your job and all the time you’ve been spending at Mom and Dad’s, you’re going to have no life.”
“I’m okay with that for now,” I reply vaguely.
