He walks toward the sideline—looking.
For me.
Heat blooms in my stomach, sharp and convincing. I hold his gaze for a half a second, then look away. Why?
Because I can’t let him see how undeniably happy I am for him.
I watch his sister, Noelle, a league sideline reporter, grab him and stuff a microphone in his face. She gets a quick sound bite and heads over to the New Orleans side.
By the second quarter, it’s undeniable. He’s different. Not perfect but the balls he hasn’t caught have been off target or he’s been pushed and held.
The hesitation is fading. He’s not flinching or second-guessing.
He seems to trust himself and God, the Parker that trusts himself is glorious. It might be the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m lost in post-sex haze with Parker when Sutton strides up beside me.
“Looks like your guy is back,” she says, arms crossed as she surveys the field.
“My guy?” I ask, hoping she didn’t see me go into Parker’s room.
She smirks, “Your client.”
Right. My client.
“He’s making progress.” I keep my tone even.
“Uh-huh.”
I ignore her tone.
“I know that look,” she challenges.
"What look?”
“The one where you pretend you’re observing, but you’re actually invested.”
“Iamobserving.”
Did she see me go into his room last night? Is she going to tell me to cut ties with Parker that our relationship is against corporate policy and unprofessional?
“I used to look at Greyson like that. Pretend we were less than we were.” She shoots me an omniscient grin.
I miss the snap but Parker cuts inside and I see his shoulders turn. The ball hits his hand and sticks. He turns up field, his long legs fast and graceful like a gazelle. Touchdown. The small contingent of Dillo fans erupt and I join in the celebration, and yell, “Yes!”
Helmets knock and Greyson can’t run fast enough to slap his helmet and bump his chest.
Sutton claps and a childish laugh bursts from her mouth. “He’s improving. Operation Head Play is working.” She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“He started listening.”
A few seconds later, Parker finds me on the sideline. My pulse spikes. Because this time, I stare back, and his million-watt smile ignites memories of him moving over me. I give him a thumbs up when I really want to run into his arms and kiss him. Then his offensive coordinator steals his attention.
Sutton says, “Maybe he’s listening or maybe it’s something else.”
“As long as it’s working, right?” I ask.
“Parker’sontoday. So yep, something is working.”
