Block Shot (Hoops #2)(45)

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say woodenly.

“Ban, if you would just—”

“Eleven you said?” I cut in and school my face to look at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting it into a silky mess I remember too well. The way the strands clung to my fingers.

“We will have this out one day, Banner,” he says, his voice rough and impatient.

“Not today we won’t,” I lob back at him. “I don’t need a walk down memory lane, Jared. We have a job to do, and we’ll do it. No need to talk about the past. It’s dead and gone.”

“The past isn’t all gone,” he says, his voice suddenly softer. I’m unprepared for him to eliminate the protective space between us, for him to touch my face. He runs a finger over my nose. I jerk back, startled. “You still have the freckles.”

“What?” I rub my nose, wiping away his touch.

“You had seven freckles on your nose then,” he says, one side of his mouth canted up. “You still do.”

That’s the last mystifying thing he says before turning and walking up my short drive to the convertible sports car at the curb. I lean against the closed door for a minute, maybe more, reassembling my splintered composure. I don’t know what’s happening between us. My greatest defense against Jared has been my anger and bitterness over his treatment that night. When he denies it, when he makes me think it could have been real . . . that the fiery connection, the perfect give and take of our bodies, the closeness we shared before the sex and even more so after may have been real, my defenses flag. I can’t allow that to happen. If my armor slips, if I’m exposed. I don’t want to think of all the ways Jared could ruin my life.





14





Banner





The thing about flying in a helicopter is I’ve never flown in one. I was so preoccupied with Jared’s unexpected visit and all the ways I could maintain some distance, I forgot that I would probably be scared to death. I’m faced with that reality once we approach the helicopter, a giant bug-eyed insect with rapidly rotating wings. The helipad sits on top of a thirty-story building downtown, overlooking LA’s flat-topped Lego-like skyline. The Staples Center lies in one direction, the Sheraton in another. Those are the only buildings I distinguish. The rest are just a blur of glass and stone as I drag my feet toward the bullseye where the helicopter waits.

“Are those shoes slowing you down?” Jared yells over the noise of the spinning propellers.

“No,” I yell back, speeding up my steps in the black Balenciaga pumps I splurged on last year. “I’m fine.”

“Agreed,” Jared says, giving my appearance an appreciative quick scan.

I chose the paper-thin leather jacket and form-fitting black pencil dress carefully, knowing Kip Carter, Bent’s dad, is a big deal. I may be thicker than a lot of the girls in the circles I move in, but I know this dress highlights the toned curves I’ve literally worked my ass off for. Some of my hair is pulled into a half-up top knot and the rest spills in loose waves down my back. For better or worse, image is a lot in this town, and I want to put my best foot forward meeting such an influential man.

Even if his son is an asshole I hope to never see again. Fingers crossed Bent won’t be around at all. Last I heard, he lived in Boston, tearing his way through a string of women unfortunate enough to be fooled by his gorgeous face.

My heart pounds harder the closer we get to the helicopter with Carter emblazoned on the side. I’m not short of breath trying to keep pace with Jared’s long-legged stride. I’m short of breath because I may hyperventilate before this is all over.

“You’ve been in one of these before, yeah?” Jared asks offhandedly.

“Uh, no. I haven’t actually.”

“What’d you say?” Jared yells, stopping at the two steps leading up into the helicopter.

“No!” I scream, less for volume sake and more because of my rising hysteria.

“Oh.” He searches my face, and I’m sure he doesn’t miss the signs of strain. “Sorry. Come on.”

Hand at the small of my back, he helps me up into the helicopter. The red leather seat wraps around my body and gives me a reassuring squeeze. Jared greets the pilot with familiarity and takes two headsets from him, offering one to me. I slip mine on and buckle up, mimicking Jared’s actions. I jump when his voice comes in my ear.

“We can talk using this.” He taps the headset microphone at his mouth. “It’s only about fifteen minutes to the house.”

My stomach roils when we lift off and I grip the armrests tightly. Riding in a helicopter is nothing like flying on an airplane. That’s probably self-evident. It’s not a smooth gradual ascent, but a more immediate lift. More exhilarating, rawer, without the insulation of thick steel separating you from the air and the ground growing smaller below you. It’s loud, and the machine sounds like it’s working hard to overcome the laws that would chain us to the ground. I’m more conscious of what a miracle flight is, more aware that we are defying gravity with every mile we travel and every foot we rise.

“You okay?” Jared asks, pulling me from my thoughts and my senses absorbing the experience.

“Getting there,” I say wryly.