Twin shrieks of ten-year-old glee echo in the cavernous indoor pool area. Fourth-grader Charlie splashes vigorously as his classmate Emma raises her arms up high. “Me, me, me!” the girl squeals.

The man of the hour lifts a beach ball high above his head from several feet away in the deeper water. Taking aim, Jones tosses it toward the kids. Emma catches it and shouts once more in excitement as she splashes onto her back. When she pops up, she turns to the deck and waves at her mom, who stands next to me.

The trim, tired woman in a haggard ponytail smiles at her young daughter, snapping a picture of her playing in the pool at the end of the day.

“Okay to post online?” the mom asks me.

“Absolutely.”

Emma dolphins her way to the side of the pool. “Mom! This is the best day ever.” The girl dunks her head underwater, pushes off, and swims to find another ball, presumably to launch at Jones.

“She wants to be a kicker,” her mom says, gazing admiringly at the young girl. “Crazy dream, I’m sure.”

“You never know. Perhaps she can be the first female kicker in the NFL someday.”

The mom nods, a dreamy look in her eyes but a disbelieving note in her voice. “Maybe someday.”

It’s unlikely, but you never know what might happen.

“Thank you again for all this.” She waves at the pool and behind her to the rest of the rec center.

“It was all Jones,” I say, giving credit where credit is due.

This was his brilliant idea. After I called Andre last night, he put things in motion to make this day happen, but Jones is the one behind it with his generosity. He rented out an entire rec center and invited the kids at the shuttered elementary school summer program to spend the day here playing board games, shooting hoops, and cavorting in the indoor pool. We arrived as soon as the morning’s calendar shoot ended, since he had free time during the day. Jones has joined in on most of the activities, including a rousing game of Candyland, in which a group of fourth-grade girls banded together to utterly destroy him as they reached Candy Castle well before he did.

“This was a godsend, I tell you,” the woman says, adjusting the strands of hair that have fallen from her elastic band. “I answer phones at an auto-repair shop, and I had no more time off. When I heard about the problem with the school being closed, I was completely backed into a corner. I needed this”—she pauses, as if hunting for the right word—“gift.”

“I’m glad it feels that way.”

That was Jones’s hope, but he did more than simply let the quandary tug on his heartstrings. He solved the problem. I’ve spent the day here with him, hanging out with the kids, joining in as well—my hoops game is strong, and I led the girls to a victory over the boys, thank you very much—and making sure the kids had food and snacks, courtesy of Jones’s pizza party order.

The day is winding down, and most of the parents have picked up their kids, snapping photos of them with the athlete. Though I could have invited local press today, I chose not to, in part because we’d have needed release waivers from the parents. Even so, one of the keys in publicity is to know when to turn on the cameras and when to shut them down. Press wasn’t the point of this effort, nor did I want to turn this into a photo frenzy. But at the same time, we decided the kids and parents were welcome to take photos. In the age of social media, everything eventually ends up online, but I did want the photos from today to come from the parents rather than from reporters.

Though I’m pretty sure a few of the kids have Instagram and Snapchat, too, since I saw an Instagram pic of Jones, filtered so he was wearing a pair of panda ears as he languished by Gumdrop Mountain. Next to him in the shot were Malcolm and Connor, who fought valiantly to buy Park Place from a pair of industrious boys in a heated game of Monopoly, since Jones convinced his Mavericks buddies to stop by for a few hours. But mostly, it’s been the former party-boy Renegade entertaining the kids on an unexpected day off.

When I see him like this, it’s hard to imagine he ever had a questionable rep.

As I watch Jones swim to the steps of the pool with Charlie, the last kid to be picked up, I’m reminded again of what’s at stake if we were to be found out. So very much. Even though part of me is deliciously tempted to carry on clandestinely with him, to invite him over for a midnight tryst at my home back in San Francisco, to ask him if he wants to meet up somewhere, someplace, maybe out of town in another chichi hotel—that all feels like an illicit affair.

An illicit affair is precisely the opposite of what he needs right now.

I wish we could carry on out in the open, like he said he wanted to last night. Date me, romance me, take me out. My heart flutters just thinking of that.

But the risks are far too real for me to entertain it seriously. I can’t take that chance with my job, and there’s no way he could pull off dating me without it looking like I’m the next chick in a long line of his ladies.

That thought curdles my stomach. The notion that I could be an over-and-out girl, and the idea that people would see me that way. And see him that way.

As I look at him now, hanging out with the kids, I know this is what he needs, because this is who he is.

A guy who cares.

A guy who tries.

A guy who has a massive heart for families.

That’s what I want everyone to know about him, and if I keep dallying with him beyond tonight, then I’ll be risking more than my own job. I’ll risk his reputation, and his reputation matters.

He’s more than I thought he was a few weeks ago. Whether it’s animals left homeless, families who need a little extra, or even a woman’s dad trying to put together a piece of furniture, he has such a giving spirit. Seeing him toss a towel to skinny Charlie as the kid steps out of the pool is one more instance in a day brimming with moments that melt my heart and make me fall a little deeper.

A little later, as Emma and Charlie head for the exit doors, Jones gives me a big hug. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. I’m sure you had a ton of other work today, but I appreciate you being here.”

“There’s no place I’d rather have been.”

“Smile!”

I freeze for a second at the sound of Emma’s voice, but then remind myself we’re doing nothing wrong. We’re simply two colleagues hugging. As we break apart, we turn and grin for her as she lifts her mom’s phone and snaps one more shot. Though Jones’s arm is draped over my shoulder, I reassure myself there’s no way to tell my stomach is flipping, my insides are melting, and I can’t wait to see him again tonight.

The picture can’t possibly capture all that, and it certainly can’t photograph what’s inside my heart for him.

Which is far more than I ever expected.

As Emma’s mom waves goodbye, there’s a tug on my purse. I turn, looking for the girl, in case she has something else to say. But she’s out the door, and only Jones is here.

I give him a quizzical look, and he simply shrugs impishly.

* * *

“Rock star.”

The praise comes from Ford Grayson. He’s on the other end of the line, and I swear I can see his animated face, pointing at his screen, thrilled at the photos that have made their way across social feeds. “The world is seeing how motherfucking awesome this dude is. And check out the two of you.” I brace myself as Ford whistles his appreciation while checking out our picture, clearly. “You look like such a great team.”

I breathe a private sigh of relief, grateful that my feelings for the man were indeed shrouded in the image. All pro, that’s the goal.

“He’s been easy to work with, as he’s always been,” I say, pacing across my hotel room, checking the time. Jones said he’d text or call as soon as he finished his workout, and to say I’m an eager beaver would be an understatement. Though, it’s not just the beaver that’s eager; all of me wants to see all of him.

“When he gets back in town, Liam wants him to shoot some commercials and some online ads for Paleo Pet right before training camp,” Ford continues, chattering away about the deal. “Then they can roll that partnership out big-time. The sky is the limit. And you know, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this so well without you. Jones says you’re a dream to work with.”

Dream. I fear that’s what these two days will feel like when tomorrow comes and we go home. Nothing but a lovely, dirty, wonderful dream that’s ended far too soon.

“It’s been my pleasure,” I say tightly, and once more the double entendre isn’t lost on me. Everything with Jones has been more pleasure than I imagined.

And more pleasure than I should allow.

A frisson of guilt washes over me as Ford heaps on more praise for my work. But I bat the feeling away. I am a damn fine addition to the team. I have helped. I’ve done good work for Jones. I can’t let my feelings for him obscure the reality that we are well and truly a great team professionally.

I thank Ford, and as I hang up, a lump forms in my throat. Dumb lump. Stupid emotions. I roll my shoulders like a boxer, trying to shake off the wayward emotion. Touching my cherry earrings, I tell myself to keep my head clear. There’s nothing to cry over. Nothing to get all sad and mournful about.

Everything is going great for Jones. Everything is going great for me at work.

Work—the word clangs in my mind. My mother taught me to act with honesty and integrity in all endeavors. Perhaps that’s why there’s a lump in my throat and a churning in my stomach. Maybe I’m not behaving as I should at work.

I honestly believe Jones is a good guy. I truly want the world to see his real heart. That has to mean I’m acting with honesty and integrity, I tell myself, as I wring my hands.

I can’t ask my mom for advice, though, and I don’t know what she would have told me. Instead, I picture my dad’s face—my sarcastic, sweet, lonely-but-dealing-with-it widower father. He’d understand, surely. He’s been a fan of Jones. He’s always been a softie, a romantic. He would side with the heart. He always did.

Even so, I can’t expect him to fully understand all the risks. I can’t trick myself into believing what I’m doing is okay, simply because my dad thinks we’d be a cute couple.

I vow to remain realistic, to make my own choices. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this brief and fantastic fling, as well as its inevitable ending.

I square my shoulders, grab my phone, and turn to my playlist. I love me some sexy music. Always have. That’s the mood I want to be in tonight, so I find Zayn’s “Pillowtalk” and crank the tune all the way up. Closing my eyes, I sway to the slow jam, moving my body to its languid notes, its sensual words, its filthy lines, too.

It’s a promise of a long, lingering night rich with the kind of tempo I want with Jones. As I listen, I don’t think about good ideas or bad ideas. Roles or places. Right or wrong.

I let go of the daughter I am, the hard worker I am, the career woman I am. Tonight, I want to be only one part of me.

The woman. The lover.

When my phone rings, I’m turned on before I hear his voice. I’ve already set my own mood.

“Can you meet me in five minutes?” His gravelly voice rumbles over me.

“Yes.”

“Come down the hall to my room. You don’t even have to knock.”

“I don’t? Are you leaving the door open?”

“No. There is a key in the side of your purse. I put it there at the pool,” he says, and I remember the tugging I felt on my bag. That was him. “Let yourself in. You’ll understand why.”