With exposed red-brick walls, flickering candles on the tables, and framed photographs of a couple tangoing on the streets of Buenos Aires, the restaurant has a romantic feel.

Perhaps I should have met him at the office.

Or at a playground.

Or a hair salon.

My dad’s house, even.

Anyplace at all besides the private room at a trendy French-Brazilian establishment that’s earning all the raves.

Deservedly so.

The scallops are to die for. They’ve been melting on my tongue. Jones spears a piece of the grilled potatoes, since he insisted we share two appetizers. That’s not romantic at all. That’s totally what business associates do. That’s what I tell myself, at least.

“Try this,” he says, offering me the food on the end of his fork.

My eyes widen. My heart thumps stupidly fast. Am I supposed to eat off the end of his fork? That’s kind of intensely couple-like.

Why did I pick this perfect place? The mood is too seductive, and he looks like a dream. That black shirt and the way it fits him should be criminal. It stretches across his pecs and hugs his biceps. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his muscular, ropy forearms.

His hair is freshly combed, like he took a shower right before he arrived. My breath catches at the thought of Jones in the shower, soaping up that big, sexy body, running his hands across that chest, along his arms, down his legs. I wonder if he touches himself in the shower. Oh God, there’s a five-alarm fire raging in my body now as I picture finding him in his shower as he pleasures himself, and it is literally the hottest Tumblr feed my brain has ever edited.

I press my thighs together and think of bunnies and baby chicks.

“It’s tasty,” he says, waggling the fork at me.

I bet he’s tasty.

Then I realize he’s not offering the food to me romantically. He’s toying with me again. This is probably a brand-new game. Just like how he tried to get my goat on the phone earlier today. That thought cools me down a few degrees.

I smile and take the fork, since I don’t like being fed. I eat the grilled potato, and it makes my mouth sing. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”

“Well, I did pick a great place,” he says, shooting me a grin.

I laugh, feeling better now that we’re back to familiar ground. I know the rules to this game. The teasing game. The toying game. “Oh, sure. You truly have amazing taste in restaurants, Jones.”

He squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest, as if I’ve just shot him straight up with a hearty dose of pride with my compliment.

“I’m so glad you approve of my choice,” he winks, knowing full well it was my pick. He raises his beer and offers a toast. “To the person who truly has great taste in where to eat.” His eyes lock on mine, and for the briefest of seconds, there’s no teasing in them. Just that flash of heat I swore I saw at the photo shoot. He holds my gaze for a moment longer than I’d expect. Then another. And it both unnerves me and turns me on to a vastly inappropriate degree. He won’t look away from me. His blue eyes are melting me. My body hums, and my bones vibrate.

Must. Find. Strength. To. Break. Hold.

“That poster is so great,” I say, tapping my glass of iced tea to his as I glance at the picture of a couple tangoing.

He follows my eyes. “Yeah, they look totally hot for each other.”

Okay. That was not the best deflection strategy. I bring the glass to my lips and nearly drink the whole thing down, praying it reduces the red-hot temperature in me.

“That must be some delicious iced tea,” he says drily.

One more chug. One more gulp. Done. I set it down with a smile. “Delish,” I declare.

I don’t drink when I’m out for work. I don’t drink at all with players. People make foolish decisions when they drink. I can only imagine letting my guard down with him. I can imagine the words that would fall stupidly out of my mouth after a few glasses.

Take me home tonight. Put your hands on me. All over me.

I growl at my inner voice, a reminder to never say those words out loud. Or in my head, either, frankly.

“Are you ready for my proposal?” I ask in my most professional tone, as I brush several strands of my hair away from my face, my fingertips dusting my stainless-steel earrings.

Setting down his glass, he angles closer, studying me. My ears, I think. “Are those . . .?” He points at my earlobe. “Cherries?”

I smile, raising a hand to touch the jewelry as if I need to remind myself. “Yes. They’re my favorite.”

“Favorite fruit?”

“Yes, but also favorite symbol. They symbolize luck in Chinese culture.”

“Oh yeah?” A lopsided grin forms on his face. “I’m fascinated with superstitions and symbols. Is that because of cherry trees or cherry blossoms? I thought the cherry blossom was more a Japanese thing?”

I smile, loving his enthusiasm for the topic. “The cherry blossom is, but red is a very special color for the Chinese people, and since cherries are red, they’ve become a sign of luck and good fortune. Even though I wasn’t really raised in a Chinese household, I’ve picked up a few little things that I like from the culture. Besides just rice,” I say, with a little laugh, “which I do love.”

He cracks up. “That’s awesome. And do you wear the earrings for good luck, then? Are they your good luck charm?”

“I suppose they are. My parents gave them to me when I started my job with the Renegades.”

“They totally work. You’re a rock star.”

I raise an eyebrow playfully. “And maybe I also just like cherries.”

His blue eyes twinkle. “And I like good luck. I’ll take as much good fortune as I can possibly get on the field,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table, reminding me that Jones has always been one of the more superstitious athletes. Last year, he asked me to cut his teammate Harlan’s hair, saying the guys needed to start up a new ritual because an old superstition had been broken.

“You hardly need good fortune,” I tell him.

“But I’ll take it. Also”—he leans closer and cups his hand over the side of his mouth—“I love cherries, too.”

My lips part, and my skin heats. It’s nearly impossible to talk about cherries without sounding sexual, and it’s inevitable that Jones would sound that way to me. Cherries. The word seems to hang between us like it means something else.

I snap myself out of it. It means he’s a player.

And I’m not his type, so I won’t let myself linger on the dirty ways he says sexy-sounding fruit. I swallow, trying to center myself. “Proposal time.”

He waggles his fingers at his chest. “Give me all the deets. Just lay it on me.”

I clear my throat, launch into my pitch, and tell him what I have in mind.

He nods excitedly, raising both arms in victory. “You had me at puppies.”

“I did?”

“There’s literally nothing more to say.”

“You’ll do it?” I ask, my voice rising in excitement. I’m not asking him to build houses in the 110-degree sun, but I didn’t expect a yes in seconds when I pitched him on my idea for a charity calendar benefiting local animal rescues. Twelve months of photos of Jones, posing with adorable animals.

“You’re surprised?”

“Yes, but I’m also thrilled. I just didn’t know if you needed to talk to anyone first.”

“Nope. I don’t need to consult Ford or Trevor or anyone. I want to do this.”

“Seriously?” My smile widens.

He laughs, leans forward, and pats my hand. “You say that like it’s a surprise I’d do something nice. I did your bachelor auction last year, and the year before.”

I flash back to the auction last season. I was tense, wound up before it started. I wanted it to be an amazing event. Jones found me backstage and reassured me that everything would be great. For a moment, I linger on that sweet memory of his voice, his kind words. That didn’t feel like toying with me at all. It felt real.

“You were great at the auction. It meant a lot to me,” I say softly.

He squeezes my hand, and I tense, then give in to the momentary sensation of his big hand covering mine, reassuring me once more.

“And I’m all in with this, too.” He lets go of my hand, and I wish he’d touch me again, even though I can’t let my mind go there.

“This is a one hundred percent volunteer project,” I say, making sure he’s clear on the terms. When I mentioned the project to Jess, a talented photographer, she offered to waive her fee and work for a day since one of the shoots coincides with her trip here. “You’d be donating your time freely.”

“Puppies, Jillian. Puppies.”

I smile. “There will be kittens, too.”

“Meow,” he says, brandishing his hands as claws. His huge hands. My mind flickers briefly to how those hands would look wrapped around my waist. They’re so big, they’d cover me, hold me, dig into my hips. A ribbon of heat unfurls in my body, and I can feel my cheeks flush.

“You okay? You just thinking about me and all the pussycats?” he asks with a wink.

God, I’m thinking about him making me purr, and it’s filthy. It’s wanton. The way my body reacts to him is dangerous.

I need to keep my head in the game. “I am. I have some great shots planned. We’ll do them all in the Bay Area to support local rescues. It shouldn’t take up too much time. Probably a week or ten days, and it would end shortly before training camp begins.”

“Sounds perfect. I only have one stipulation.”

My heart sags. There’s always a catch. “Sure. What is it?”

“We need to take one of the pictures at the Miami Humane Society.”

“That’s in Florida,” I say, after a beat.

“It is?” he asks in mock surprise.

“Jones,” I chide.

“I had no idea where it was located. Are you sure it’s in Florida?”

“Ha ha.”

“Where is Florida? Is that all the way on the other side of the country?”

I sigh playfully and then hold up my hands in surrender. “Why do you want to—?” Then I remember. “Cletus is a hurricane dog.”

Last year, Jones helped one of the local rescues that had taken in animals evacuated from shelters during the big hurricane. He’d donated time then adopted a dog.

“His name would have been Irma if he’d been a girl. I’m glad he’s a boy, though, and it would mean a lot to me if we could support the shelter where he’s from.”

“From one adoptee to another, I completely understand.”

He smiles, that same winning grin he flashed in the studio.

Of course, this also means I’ll be traveling with Jones. Across the country. Alone.

And I’m not sure my libido will be able to take it.

* * *

The top floor of Nordstrom in Union Square is packed. The sleek black chairs are filled with sharp-dressed women in pretty blouses, trendy skirts, and hip slacks. Some men are here, too, their form-fitting button-downs and designer jeans making it clear they’re visiting to buy for racks in their stores.

My friend Katie grabs two seats reserved for her in the second row from the front. She’s a buyer for a chain of upscale boutiques, and she snags invites to all the private shows put on for those inside the industry. Since I have a long-standing love affair with clothes, I’m the lucky duck who accompanies her from time to time.

“I’m dying to see the new Angel Sanjay line,” Katie whispers as she tucks her blond curls behind her ears. “He has the best work clothes that make you look hot, but not slutty.”

“I find it’s always a plus to go to work looking like something other than a ho,” I say, tucking my purse under the chair. “Plus, we’re going shopping after this, right?”

Katie rolls her green eyes. “Duh. Obviously.”

“I’m dying to get a new outfit. Because . . . new outfit.”

She waves away that nonsense. “There is never a need to justify the purchase of a new outfit.”

I hold up a hand to high-five. “You speak the truth.”

As we wait for the designer to show off her new fashions, I tell Katie I’m heading to Stinson Beach tomorrow for the first day of shooting with Jones for the calendar. “But I think I’ll wear jeans and a nice blouse,” I say, musing on the outfit choices for an outdoor photo op.

Katie laughs. “How do you think that’s going to help your crush? When the guy you’re hot for cuddles a puppy on the beach—I mean, that’s so not going to make your ovaries explode.”

I roll my eyes, just to prove how immune my ovaries and I are to Jones. “It’s going to be fine. If I’ve managed this long, I can manage even longer.”

Katie arches both eyebrows. “And then when you fly across the country with him. That ought to be a piece of cake.”

I snap my fingers. “Easy as one, two, three. I’ve only traveled with him at least eight times a year for the last few years—more if you include all the playoff games the team went to.”

“On a jumbo jet. With fifty-three other players, not to mention coaches, staff, and personnel,” Katie adds, shaking her head in amusement, a smirk on her freckled face.

“It’s going to be fine. Yes, I’ve lusted after him for years, and yet, amazingly, not once have I thrown myself at him. I think I can handle this,” I say crisply. “Plus, I didn’t even think about Jones when I dated Kevin last year.”

“Kevin,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “Kevin Stone, aka, VP of Dickhead Decisions. Is he still with the wench? I didn’t see her at the fundraiser we went to.”

I shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on him personally.” Breaking up with Kevin when I found out he’d been cheating on me was, obviously, a no-brainer. Cutting him out of my life has been a teeny bit harder since he’s the sports anchor at one of the San Francisco TV stations. It’s impossible to avoid him when we run in the same circles, but even though I find him highly irritating as a man, I’ve mastered keeping our professional interactions focused solely on the team. Most recently I spotted the pair at a summer carnival fundraiser that all the local teams sponsored along with his station. All things being equal, I’d rather not run into him and his new woman, but they both waved to me and tried to make small talk like they were utterly charmed we’d met. I swear the guy is missing a key strand of DNA if he thinks I want to chitchat with the two of them. I said hello in my best professional tone then joined our quarterback and his fiancée at the Skee-Ball game.

I didn’t let it gnaw at me. I wasn’t in love with him, so I refused to let an asshole like that claim squatter’s rights on any of my mental real estate.

Katie pats my leg. “I love your laser focus, Jillian. I love the way you don’t linger on men who are total shits. God knows, I’ve needed a year’s worth of yoga classes to let go of some of the bastards of this world. And I teach the damn classes.”

Katie’s like a superhero—fashionista by day, yogini by night. It’s rather impressive the way she balances it all. But then again, I suppose that’s what yoga is all about. Or so she tells me. I prefer faster forms of exercise.

I toss my black hair off my shoulder. “It’s an art. I learned it from my dad.” My father worked in the news business his entire career. He had to learn to compartmentalize, to shrug things off, to keep moving forward. I picked up that skill from him, and am I ever glad I did.

“You could teach classes in it.”

“I’ve already devised a full syllabus,” I say, peering ahead to the runway to try to catch a glimpse of any backstage action. It’s still quiet behind the wings.

“But let’s not ‘art’ the topic of Jones,” she says in a low voice, sketching air quotes.

I scrunch my brow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

The designer jumps onto the stage, and all eyes turn to the beanpole man with golden skin and hair cut at several angles. Angel Sanjay says a few words about his vision for this collection—giving voice to the natural feminine desire to look pretty while still looking professional—saving me from the friendly inquisition from Katie. As he exits the stage, pop music plays overhead, and a high-cheekboned brunette sashays down the runway, modeling a classy black pencil skirt and a blouse with a geometric print. The neckline is sexy but still appropriate for work.

As the model turns the other way and the next one slinks down the runway in a pretty pink sheath dress I’m sure I need to possess, Katie leans close and says, “You want to know what I really think?”

“Obviously. I asked you.”

As the music pulses, she whispers, “I want you to know that I absolutely applaud your spirit and your commitment to resisting jumping Jones Beckett. In fact, I’m thinking of giving you a trophy.”

“Thanks. It’ll look great on my mantel, even though it’s completely unnecessary.” I wave my hand as I hunt for analogies. “Jones and I are like east and west . . . hot pepper and ice cream . . . a bikini for a ski weekend.”

She arches a brow. “Some people like pepper on their ice cream.”

I crinkle my nose. “The point is, we’re not going to happen. I’m not his type, and that’s fine. I like my type. I don’t need to be his type to be happy.”

Katie gives a quiet slow clap, and I take a tiny bow in my chair. Then she leans closer. “But you do know some girls wear bikinis when skiing?”

I point to my chest. “Not this girl. I wear ski gear when I race down the hills of Tahoe and leave everyone in the snowdrifts,” I say with a smirk, since skiing is my jam. “Also, he can’t ski. It’s not allowed. So that just proves my point even more.”

Katie tsks quietly. “I don’t buy it. I think Jones Beckett wants to ski down your mountain.”

“I love you, girl. Truly, I do. But there is no reason for me to believe the attraction is mutual.”

“There is every reason. You’re a total babe, with hair I covet, a body to die for, and a face that would launch a thousand ships. You don’t realize that because you’re so focused on work you don’t think of yourself that way.”

“And yet Kevin still found it necessary to stick his dick elsewhere.”

“Because he’s a dick,” Katie says loudly, so loudly that the woman next to her shoots her an admonishing stare.

Katie clasps her hand to her mouth in an oops gesture. Then she cups her hand over my ear. “Just think about it. I saw the way he looked at you at the fundraiser a few weeks ago, when you and I were playing Whac-A-Mole . . .” She stops, adopts a saucy tone, and says, “Like he’d been playing whack a mole to thoughts of you.”

I give her my best I-can’t-even-believe-you-said-that face. Ever. “I won’t even pretend that’s, one, dirty, or two, accurate.”

“Think about it.”

No way. There’s no way I’m going to think about it.

Katie’s a friend. She’s supposed to think I rock.

I won’t ever confuse that for Jones wanting to jump my bones.

Even though I kind of can’t wait to go to Stinson Beach with him tomorrow.