Sometime soon enough

Conversations with the Cat

Zeus

He padded toward the bathroom on the quietest feet in the home. The woman had gone in there the second she woke, springing out of bed.

She never bolted up in the morning. Perhaps she needed to stroke his soft fur to feel better about whatever was making her nervous. He’d sensed her nerves. He was talented like that.

Now, as the man slept deeply, Zeus nudged his shoulder against the ajar door, pushing it open.

The woman was perched on the toilet bowl, holding a stick. He cocked his head to the side, watching her. She stretched her arm to push the door closed.

“Shh. I don’t want him to know I’m even taking this.”

Zeus parked his rear on the tile and stared at her, while she stared at the stick.

Tick tock.

She set the stick on the sink and flushed. She watched the stick more as she washed her hands.

Zeus never looked away from her.

At last, she peered at the stick once more. She gasped.

She dropped down to him, scooped him up in her arms, and pressed her lips to his furry face. “You’re going to be a big brother.”

Then she set him down and burst out of the bathroom, waving the stick and waking up the man, who erupted into the kind of cheer that Zeus could only assume accompanied a fresh can of tuna.

Whatever was exciting the man and the woman, he found great satisfaction in the fact that he had known first.

Chapter One

Jones

I’m buck naked.

I often am.

I’m not an exhibitionist. I simply don’t find I have a need for clothes most of the time, unless I’m on the field or at a public appearance. Obviously.

Pretty sure I was one of those naked kids. You know the type. Runs around in the sprinkler in his backyard in the buff. Streaks down the hallway with nothing on. Oh wait, that was me in college too, and I did that stunt on multiple occasions. So often in fact, I was nicknamed Flash. I was fast. Still am. Like a motherfucking silver bullet.

Right now, I’m all in with the birthday suit style of attire, the costume for the annual Sporting World body issue.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. I do have one thing on — my Adam’s fig leaf comes in the form of my hands holding a strategically-placed football to cover the goods.

The pigskin is doing its part to make this photo printable in the magazine, though all the shots of star athletes in this issue are in the nude. A tennis player will lob a ball, the racket covering her breasts, and her lunge obscuring other Not Safe For Work parts. Or a swimmer will glide through crystal waters, the angle ensuring it’s not a triple X centerfold shot.

The photographer with the ponytail and lip piercing, snaps pictures of me and asks for a smile.

I oblige.

“Love it,” Christine says emphatically, her lips and that barbell in them the only parts of her visible since the lens covers most of her face. “How about a little tough guy look now?”

Because tough guys hold footballs in front of their junk.

“This is my best badass pose,” I say, narrowing my eyes, staring at the camera like I’d do the secondary of the Miami Mavericks.

“Oh yes, more of that, right Jillian?” Christine shouts to the other person here in the studio with us.

That person is Jillian, and she hasn’t looked my way since I strolled in here and dropped my drawers. Damn shame.

From her spot leaning against the far wall, the team publicist answers in a crisp professional tone I know well. “Exactly. We love his tough guy face.”

She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

I keep working it for Christine, doing my best to make sure my blue eyes will melt whoever is looking at the picture when the magazine hits newsstands and Internet browsers in another few weeks.

It’s an evergreen kind of issue, since the body edition is one of the most popular. Gee, I wonder why. Maybe it’s because so little is left to the imagination. I’ve no doubt this shot of me with a football for my skivvies will quickly surpass the most-searched for image of yours truly — the game-winning catch I made in the end zone in the SuperBowl two years ago.

But, to be fair, there’s another shot of me that’s searched for maybe a tiny bit more. I like to pretend that that shot doesn’t exist.

“The camera loves you,” Christine croons, as the snap, snap, snap of the lens keeps the rhythm.

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I say, pursing my lips in an over-the-top kiss.

Christine laughs. “You are my favorite ham in all of sports, Jones. That’ll be a perfect outtake for our Web site.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Jillian chimes in. “Make sure to send me a copy for social, please.”

“Absolutely,” Christine answers.

I sneak a peek at the dark-haired woman by the wall, that silky curtain of sleekness framing her face, as she smiles a bright, buoyant, outgoing grin at the photographer, then snaps her head back down.

Damn.

Jillian Moore is one tough nut to crack.

I’m nearly naked in front of her and she hasn’t once looked my way.

As the woman behind the lens shoots another photo with my favorite ball covering my favorite balls, Jillian doesn’t even proffer another glance.

I’m going to need a whole new playbook to get this woman’s attention.

Here’s a sneak peek of , a swoony, sweeping, sexy, utterly romantic, brand-new standalone set in Paris…

Prologue

Joy

Forget oysters. Screw candlelight and champagne. A sexy accent is the true aphrodisiac. I’m talking a weak-in-the-knees, flutters-all-over fast-track to euphoria.

I’ve tried to analyze precisely why accents can elicit this reaction in, frankly, millions of women. But when I break down an accent and study it like a chemical reaction, it’s nearly impossible to draw a logical conclusion. The ingredients in and of themselves don’t seem swoontastic enough.

And yet, accents have been known to induce major swooning.

That’s why, in my professional opinion, the sounds aren’t the rocket fuel for the tingles. Instead, it’s the associations evoked. Italian is food, wine, and days that drench you in the pleasures of the senses. Australian is the laid-back twang of a surfer. A Southern drawl says a man will take his sweet time. Oh, yes, darling, will he ever.

But British? Dear god. A delicious British accent to my oh-so-American ears triggers wave after wave of goosebumps across my skin. My knees wobble. My stomach swoops. My skin heats. All the turned-on centers in my body are cranked to high.

A British accent is James Bond in a bottle. It’s sex, it’s style, it’s sophistication, and it’s the man who’ll find his way out of any jam, save the damsel, and do it all with silver cufflinks on.

Wait. Make that platinum.

Charmed, indeed.

That’s why I say it’s a damn good thing I’m moving to a country that won’t be chock full of my personal vocal kryptonite, since I don’t have the time or inclination for distractions in my life right now. Look, I don’t have a single problem with the French accent whatsoever. A hot French man can voulez-vous avec moi, if you know what I mean.

But it’s a British accent that turns me to silly putty, so in Paris I’ll be mighty fine.

Then, I meet him.

will release in March…