“You did not!”

Darcy collapses into a heap in the plush leather chair opposite of my desk, her legs sprawled in an unladylike fashion. Her face is bright red, head thrown back as she laughs at me.

“You know I don’t pay attention to sports.”

“But,” my sister pants, “the guy’s face is freaking everywhere, Ivy!” She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I would’ve given anything to see his reaction.”

“Well, it’s not like I have to see him again, thank God.” I exhale slowly. “He was just there for his friend.”

“You used to have a thing for athletes.”

I don’t appreciate her pointed observation. “Back in college.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.”

“That was before I realized how unnatural it is for a person to have a percentage of body fat in the single digits.” I raise my index finger in the air, ticking off another point. “Also, I have trust issues with people who abstain from carbs.”

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous.”

But I’m not finished. “Because, seriously, Darce. You can only dress up grilled chicken breast so many ways. It’s still plain chicken. Sure, maybe it has some steamed broccoli with it, but there’s no way I’m eating that every day for the rest of my life.” I shudder. “It’s inhumane.”

“Which is why you’re not a professional athlete,” Darcy deadpans. “But you have to admit, abstaining from carbs looks great on him.”

“I wouldn’t know. He had his clothes on.”

She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Do you not pay attention when you’re outside?”

I frown in thought. “I guess not. Why?”

“Those buses…you must’ve seen the side of one with him standing there in his boxer briefs holding a football.” She rolls her eyes at me.

I try to think back on when I’ve been driving through town and passed a city bus…

“Ohhhh...” That’s all I can manage to utter. Because I vaguely recall being stuck right beside a bus in downtown Jacksonville traffic and seeing a man with a disarming smile displayed along the side.

In his undies.

“Yeah,” Darcy patronizes me, “ohhh.”

Wow. Okay, I must admit grilled chicken and no carbs look good on Becket Jones. His body is hard, muscled, and well-honed. Even that much is easily recognizable beneath his clothes. Aside from that, his lips are what initially drew my attention. The infectious way they stretch into a charming smile, his pearly white teeth flashing. And his brown eyes have those tiny lines at the corners like he laughs and smiles often.

He’s tall—taller than I am, which is always a plus in my book—and his dark hair has that casual, tousled look as though he’s just ruffled it with his fingers. It’s shorter on the sides and has just enough length on top to style. I itch to thread the brown strands through my fingers and find out if his hair is as soft as it appears.

But it still doesn’t change things. I don’t mess with athletes. Too risky.

“So.” She rights herself, smoothing her dress over her legs. “Give me the rundown on Dax Kendrick.”

I open my laptop and withdraw his file. With the sensitive nature of our business, I always prefer to meet with potential clients initially at a public location instead of our offices to truly vet them. Dax Kendrick passed with flying colors, thankfully.

I dial Leif and get him on speakerphone. The three of us spend the next few hours discussing our plans to help Dax detach himself from Kayla. Thank God Leif’s talented at uncovering the fine details of people’s lives.

Well, some might call it hacking and digging through people’s internet history, but I say to-may-toes, to-mah-toes.

“Bingo.” My eyes lock with Darcy’s, and we share a triumphant smile. “Leif, you’re a rock star.”

The smile is evident in his tone when he responds. “Couldn’t do it without my favorite sidekicks.” There’s a pause, and we detect the faint sound of rapid keystrokes. “I have to say, Dax is surprisingly clean for an NFL player. Not to mention”—more keystrokes sound—“his buddy you said tagged along with him. Jones is pretty squeaky clean, too.”

Darcy pipes up, avid interest in her eyes. “Tell us more about his friend.”

“Well, he’s an adoring pseudo uncle and loves kids. He’s also doted on his female best friend for nearly a decade and was the”—he lets a surprised laugh loose—“‘man of honor’ in her wedding.”

My eyes meet Darcy’s, and she busts out laughing. “Oh, man. I’ve got to meet this guy.”

Our ears are greeted with the sounds of a tapping keyboard before Leif adds, “Interesting…his best friend has a few different aliases.”

Darcy and I flash each other a look and mouth, “Aliases?”

“She’s now Emma Jane Montgomery, formerly Emma Jane Haywood, but has nicknames of EJ and Blue.”

Oh.

My.

God.

My sharp intake of breath is loud enough for Leif to hear. “Is something wrong?”

“B is Becket Jones?” I stare at Darcy, a mixture of shock and panic edging into my voice. “How is that even possible?”

My sister appears nearly as shocked.

“What am I missing here, ladies?” our friend poses hesitantly.

I bury my face in my hands, and Darcy answers, “Just an odd coincidence. Anything else important?”

“Well, since there’s some interesting connection between Ivy and Mr. Jones…” Leif’s apparently enjoying digging up “dirt” on Becket. “He’s done a lot to give back to the community. Seems like a good guy.”

Interesting.

“Um, Ivy? There might be something else useful here…” The way Leif hesitates elicits a sudden wariness.

“What is it?” Darcy and I exchange a worried look, and we lean closer to the phone.

“It seems this friend, Becket Jones, has been dating a woman he recently met.”

My head snaps up, and I stare at my desk phone. “What?”

Silence greets us on the other end of the call. “Gotcha.”

The uncharacteristic tinge of jealousy in my gut dissipates, and my shoulders slump in relief. Which is absurd since I don’t do relationships or anything that goes hand in hand with that sort of thing.

I dart from my chair and begin pacing my office.

Luckily, Darcy picks up my slack. “Thanks, Leif. We’ll work out some dates and coordinate with you.”

They end the call as I draw to a stop at my windows.

“This can’t be. It just…can’t.” I lean my forehead against the cool glass windowpane and allow my eyes to fall shut.

“And this is a bad thing because?” She poses her question gently without any recrimination.

I whirl around, my panic and upset rising to the surface and bubbling over. “Because we both know it’s a risk I can’t take. I can’t be friends or anything else with someone like him!”

“Someone in the public eye, you mean.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and blow out a long breath. “Yes.”

“You like him.”

I part my lips to answer but snap my mouth closed. Because I can’t admit the truth.

I do like him. And that can’t happen. Not with someone who’s in the limelight. I can’t afford it.

“Oh, Ivy.” Darcy crosses her legs and fixes a concerned look at me. “You know it’s okay to like a guy, right?”

Distressed, I shake my head because I know what she’s getting at. “You and I both know I’m not made that way in the first place. I don’t date or do relationships. And even if I did, a guy like him? I can’t take a chance on anyone finding out about me.” I swallow hard, and my voice sounds tiny to my own ears. “Or worse, a guy being put through the wringer because of me.”

I stare down at the polished hardwood floor.

Darcy’s voice is muted. “When are you going to realize that people finding out about you isn’t the end of the world?” She rises tentatively and steps toward me, but I maintain my averted gaze. “Don’t be ashamed of what you overcame.”

She heads over to the doorway but pauses. Clearing her throat, she’s back in professional mode, attempting to help me refocus. “You know, if we carry out this project flawlessly for Mr. Kendrick, it could open more doors for us. It would be great for the company.” She heads down the hallway to her office, the clicking of her heels echoing in a slow staccato on the flooring.

At Darcy’s quietly spoken remark, I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding roll over me.

Because I know better than most that some doors need to stay closed.

* * *

I decide to bite the bullet once I’m showered and have crawled into bed. With a shaky hand, I reach for my phone on the bedside table and lean back against my pillows, attempting to compose the right text to B—or Becket. Hell, I’m not sure what to call him now. My head’s still reeling.

After typing and erasing multiple times, I finally end up composing a simple, Hey, it’s me. I think I discovered something today.

“Shit, shit, shit!” As soon as I hit send, I immediately want to take it back.

I’m leaning over to set my phone on the table when a text comes in.

B: Did you discover that soy milk is just regular milk, introducing itself in Spanish?

I laugh, staring at his response. Sobering, I type, I realized today you’re Becket Jones. My client’s friend.

There it is. It’s out there. I physically cringe, waiting for his response. What shocks me is when my phone suddenly rings.

My tone is decidedly hesitant when I answer. “Hi.”

“Ivy.”

“Yes?”

“You’re Miss Hayes? The woman I met today?” His voice is laced with disbelief and a hint of something else I can’t identify.

“Yes.”

He exhales loudly. “Holy shit.”

I wait for him to continue, but when he doesn’t, I prompt him. “Holy shit, that sucks? Or holy shit, that’s cool?”

His laugh greets my ears. “Oh, it’s very cool. Very cool indeed.” There’s a pause. “You really had no clue who I was?”

“Not a one.” As an afterthought, I hurriedly tack on, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I hear him shift and think I detect the sound of covers rustling. “In all honesty, I didn’t think it would be my luck that the Ivy who’s been entertaining me with her calls and texts could possibly be the same beautiful woman I met today at the coffee shop.”

I curl up beneath my comforter, my phone at my ear. “You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s the truth.” His voice drops an octave, sounding deeper, more intimate. “I thought of you today in that meeting. I wondered what the woman I’ve become addicted to talking and texting with looked like.”

I catch myself smiling. “So do I call you B, as your friend programmed you in my phone, or Becket?”

There’s a millisecond of a pause before he speaks, his voice low and husky. “Becket’s fine.”

My eyes fall closed at his words, at the seductive way they wrap around me.

But I can’t lose focus.

Before I can inform him that this—whatever this might be between us—can’t continue, he asks me the million-dollar question.

“What made you get into this line of work, Ivy?”

God, his voice, the way it softly rumbles in my ear acts like an auditory seduction at play.

“It’s a long, boring story really.”

His husky laugh sounds. “Somehow I doubt anything about you could be the least bit boring.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Nice try, smooth talker.” I stare at the comforter’s edge, and my expression sobers. “In high school, I realized I had a gift. My sister was the one who pushed me to make it a business. And it’s something I take pride in. I help people get past that awkward moment when they need to move on without the other person.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug even though he can’t see it. “Simple.”

“Fascinating.”

I can practically hear his brain working.

“If you were married, do you think you’d still be able to work your magic?”

My breathing stutters, and I immediately work to calm my voice. “I’m not getting married.”

“Ever?” he poses quietly.

“No.” My response is firm. No room for misunderstandings.

Which is why I press on. I need to do what’s necessary. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you these past few weeks.”

His laugh is stilted. “That sounds like you’re trying to cut me loose.”

Because I am. For both of our sakes. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not comfortable being in the spotlight by default.” There’s far too much at stake for me.

He swears beneath his breath. “Never thought a day would come when a woman wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me because of my job and the attention that sometimes goes with it.”

I remain silent, not knowing what else there is to say.

“Did you see any cameras today? When I came with Dax?” he suddenly questions.

“No,” I answer slowly, cautiously, unsure where he’s going with this.

“How about when I talked to you outside the coffee shop?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Because the bulk of the paparazzi know and respect me enough to understand that I’ll give them photo ops at events, but my private life is just that: private. And this city, the people here, are supportive of that. I give back to this city and its people because they’re special to me and take care of me.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Ivy. We can go grocery shopping, or we can go get some frozen yogurt. Doesn’t matter.”

“But on the off chance it does happen—”

“Then I’d deal with it.” His tone brooks no argument. “I don’t let anyone mess with my friends.”

Something churns in the pit of my stomach at the one word, but I can’t quite fathom why.

Friends.

“We’re friends?” Way to succeed at sounding needy and pathetic, Ivy.

“Friends.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I don’t think this is a good idea. And in full disclosure, I literally have one guy friend. He happens to also be a co-worker. I’ve never been…” Shit. I’ve talked myself into a corner.

“You’ve never been…?” Becket prompts gently.

I shift beneath the covers. With a wince, I answer, “I’ve never been interested in anything serious with guys. Casual…that’s as far as I go.”

There’s no way this conversation could possibly be more awkward. No possible way.

“What you’re saying is”—there’s an undeniable hint of amusement in his voice—“you only hook up?” He pauses. “Because relationships aren’t your thing.”

At his softly spoken reiteration of what I’d initially declared to him, I scrunch my face in response. Admitting this has never bothered me before—has never made me feel so shallow—so why now?

“Right.” My voice sounds small, timid.

I hate it.

He exhales slowly. “Okay. So here’s the deal. I need to be up front with you.”

“Okay,” I murmur hesitantly.

“I think you’re funny, smart, and I really like talking to you. And after today, I can add that you’re beautiful, too.” There’s a pause. “You okay with that?”

“Please tell me this isn’t going to be a compliment sandwich.”

His laughter rumbles, and I find myself smiling at the infectious sound. “I don’t do compliment sandwiches, so rest easy. There will be no but involved here.”

“Okay.”

“However,” he continues, “I want to go on record and say that I think you’re pretty amazing already.”

My grin spreads wider. “Thank y—”

“And I don’t plan to let your anti-relationship stance get in the way of things.”

My smile drops. “Becket,” I start.

“Ivy.” He murmurs my name with gentle reverence, and threaded in it is a hint of affection that should send me running away in a frenzied panic.

For some reason, it doesn’t. Instead, it has me asking, “What things?”

And it’s his answer that has me reeling.

“Ah, now. I never reveal my key plays before the game. Because, Ivy? I play to win.”