Block Shot (Hoops #2)(46)

“Well we have a little time to review your changes to the proposal I sent. You have it, right?”

“Yeah.”

We both pull out our iPads to discuss the proposal he drew up.

I knew Jared must be thorough to have accomplished all that he has, but I haven’t seen this side of him. Haven’t actually done business with him. The proposal came over just before midnight. Zo had gone to bed, exhausted from off-season demands with sponsors, charities, and probably just post-season weariness. I stayed up and made notes and suggestions, which I sent over before I went to sleep.

I tap my screen, identifying the areas I had questions about. When I look up, Jared wears black-rimmed glasses and frowns down at his screen.

“So you finally did it,” I say into the headset microphone.

“Did what?” He glances up, one brow raised. It’s all very sexy professor.

“You got glasses.” I laugh lightly, disguising how yet another memory from that night penetrates the protective bubble I’ve encased myself in. “I told you so.”

His deep-throated chuckle reaches through the headset and strokes my skin. Thankfully the leather jacket hides the gooseflesh sprouting on my arms.

“Only for reading.” He takes them off and hands them to me.

I hold them up, looking through the lenses, and he’s right. There doesn’t seem to be much medicine. I slip them onto the bridge of my nose, peering at him over the rims.

“Believe it or not, I used to want glasses so badly I asked Mama to get them for me.”

“Why?” he asks with a narrow smile.

“I wanted to look smart.”

He snorts and shakes his head.

“Well how do I look?” I lift my nose in the air and touch the corners of the frames. “Smart?”

He relaxes into the supple leather like a king considering his consort, scouring me from the pointed tips of my pumps, up the length of my legs, where the fitted dress interrupts the bare skin at my knees. His eyes trace the curve of my hips and waist, caress my breasts, lingering so long my nipples tighten under the stretchy fabric. I pull my leather jacket closer around me, hiding the effect of his sensual perusal.

“How do you look?” he finally repeats. “Sexy as fuck.”

What the hell?

Not addressing his comment or that hungry look, I hastily hand his glasses back, making sure our fingers don’t touch.

“Um . . . I had a question on page three.” I drag my finger down the screen until I reach the spot. “Can we talk about the incentives for sponsors again at the platinum level?”

When I glance up, he holds my stare for a second longer, suspending the tension between us. Finally he laughs and I redirect the conversation back to the proposal.

“We’re almost there,” he says a few minutes later, turning toward the window overlooking the jeweled Pacific coastline, a shimmering sheet of emerald and sapphire butted against semiprecious sand.

From here, it appears infinite, stretching as far as my eyes can see in any direction. The hills rising up from the coastline are studded with Terracotta-topped houses dangled precipitously over the almost painfully vibrant water. It’s breathtaking. I’ve survived my first helicopter ride. After the initial rush of fear, Jared and I had been so consumed preparing for the meeting that my fears fell to the side.

“Thanks for distracting me,” I say, realizing that’s exactly what he did and why he did it.

“I threw up my first time flying out here to see Kip,” he confides with a wry smile. “So don’t feel bad about a few jitters.”

“Careful, or I’ll stop believing you’re the asshole everyone thinks you are,” I tease.

“Oh, I’m an asshole.” He tips his head back to rest against the seat and watches me, eyes heavy-lidded. “Just not to you.”

Jared admitting weakness, alleviating my fears, singling me out for kindness, feels strange. This whole sequence of events feels strange, like beneath the surface and in the air something is changing. Invisible, but affecting our every interaction. I have to keep reminding myself I don’t like him because the very fabric of our relationship is morphing so quickly I’m no longer sure what we’re made of.

Kip Carter’s helicopter lands on a carpet of lush grass in front of a Mediterranean-style mansion. He personally greets us at the front door. I’m taken aback by the warmth between him and Jared. Not the cool handshake of a business acquaintance, but an extended hug, inside jokes, and the kind of familiarity usually reserved for family.

Managing millionaires has earned me my own millions, and I’ve grown accustomed to decadence and luxury I never imagined growing up in our modest San Diego neighborhood. This Oceanside estate is beyond anything I’ve personally experienced. With its high ceilings, cool marble floors, and priceless art tucked into alcoves everywhere you turn, the house smacks of opulence, just like its owners.

Kip and Karen Carter are exactly what you would expect from an LA couple with more money than they know what to do with. His clothes are tailored. There’s an ascot at his neck and a wildly expensive boat moored in his backyard. Her face is lightly Botoxed, and the years are marked by sparkles on her fingers and throat. All the trappings of a celluloid life leap out at you, but the truth may lie in the subtle details. The way they hold hands and touch every chance they get. The kindness and genuine affection between them and the staff who keep their mammoth home running smoothly. The wistfulness in their voices when they speak over a chilled lunch of their grown children. It’s a Hollywood life, yes, but it’s real. Somehow for them, it’s still real.