Page 162 of ClickBack

Cam walks me out after the tour and the meeting with player services. He has spent most of the morning listening. That usually means he has questions he doesn’t want to ask in front of me.

“What?” I say when we reach the car.

“Nothing you need to answer on the curb. Parker and Devin at four, after the recording.”

“Same room?”

“Nina’s upstairs office. She’s keeping it clear for us.”

I get in beside Graves. I’ve seen where I could work. This afternoon, I want to hear what the work would be.

At the hotel, Giselle opens the door wearing the blue dress she had altered for the dinner we never got to have. I recognize it from the bag she put in the closet, then from the way she looks down when she sees me looking.

“That one?” I ask.

“I did pay to have it fitted.”

“Money well spent.”

She turns slightly, checking the side in the mirror. The dress leaves her shoulders bare, skims her waist, and moves when she does. I close the door and stand behind her so she can see what I’m looking at.

“You like it?” she asks.

“I’m trying to leave it on you.”

Her eyes come to mine in the glass. “We have somewhere to be.”

“That’s what’s helping.”

She laughs and turns toward me. I kiss her, my hand settling low on her back. She comes closer instead of warning me about her lipstick until I have already done the damage.

“Now look at you,” she says when she leans away.

“I look good.”

“You look implicated.”

She gets a tissue from the bathroom, fixes what she did to my mouth, and checks her own. I wash my hands and change my shirt while she puts on her earrings. By the time we go downstairs, she has told me about the client email she finished, asked two questions about the facility, and made me admit the recovery room impressed me.

“You can like the building,” she says as we reach the elevator. “That doesn’t mean you’ve signed anything.”

“Cam get to you?”

“No. You were answering a question about a room like I’d asked you to move into it.”

I laugh and put my arm around her. Graves is waiting at the side entrance. He opens the door when he sees us and says nothing about the time. I check my watch anyway.

“We’re early,” Giselle tells me.

“I see that.”

“Enjoy the unfamiliar sensation.”

On the way to Jawn, Zion sends a clip of a player catching the ball and driving to the basket. Beneath it, he has written, Tell me I’m not crazy.

I watch the feet twice.

“Travel,” I say.