Block Shot (Hoops #2)(53)

“But we—”

“Could you go now?” I’m over this and missing the beginning of the dance I’ve plotted all night for.

Banner’s throaty chuckle draws both of our attention.

“I’ll call you Monday, Kyle,” Banner says, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It was great chatting with you.”

He takes her polite dismissal much better than mine, nodding and walking off.

“That was rude.” She sips her lemonade and blinks hard and fast like she did with Kyle. “And I was just getting started.”

“I think,” I say, plucking the champagne flute from her fingers and setting it on a nearby ledge, “we should retire those batting eyelashes for the night. They got what they came for.”

“Yes, they did,” she agrees. “Quinn’s been calling Kyle’s office for weeks asking for help with her app. When I saw his name on the guest list, I saw opportunity knocking. I answered.”

My equinox, indeed.

“Well, there’s music,” I point out. “And dancing.”

“Yes, everybody’s doing it apparently,” she intones, glancing around at the partygoers coupling off on the makeshift dancefloor.

“A shame if we don’t.”

“I do like to dance.” She angles a mischievous glance up at me. “Though I don’t typically fraternize with the enemy.”

I glide my hand down her back until it rests at the dip of her waist and steer her to the floor.

“Oh, I’m the enemy, am I?” I pull her into my arms and her hands rest on my shoulders.

“I’ve always thought so,” she says, glancing down at our feet and swaying to the music.

“No, you haven’t,” I remind her softly. “Not always.”

It’s the golden hour. The sun is in flux, not quite down and not high. It’s a breath before sunset, and the whole sky explodes with a final burst of color like fireworks over the ocean. The same blush washing the horizon rises on Banner’s cheeks.

“No, not always,” she agrees, eyes still trained on the ground, none of the coquettish blinking and drop-gathering she treated Kyle to for me.

Thank God.

“You know I’m not the enemy, right, Ban?” I press her closer until there’s no space between our bodies and my mouth is at her ear. “We’re on different teams, but not really enemies. Would that be an accurate assessment?”

A slight shudder ripples through her body at my breath in her hair, at her ear. She nods slowly.

“I’m seeing that. Bent confirming that you weren’t in on . . .” she looks up at me, her eyes guarded but showing more than she probably wants to “. . . that you weren’t in on what Prescott did has made me see things differently. Clearly.”

“Good.” My hands venture subtle inches from the dip of her waist to the rounded curve of her hips. “I’ve wanted to sort that out for years, but I guess we both had other things going on.”

“Yes, living in different cities.”

“Working at different firms,” I add.

“Separate paths,” she whispers, eyes locked with mine.

I twirl us in a half circle, sliding my thigh between hers, and the only thing separating us is the linen of my pants and the cotton of her dress. Her warmth seeps through the thin layers, and I want nothing more than to push under her dress and squeeze that lush ass.

Thong? Bikini? Shit. What if Banner isn’t wearing any panties at all?

I insert a small space between us so she won’t feel how hard I am imagining her bare pussy under that red dress.

“But now our paths seem to keep crossing,” I tell her. “So it feels like time to repair things. To pick up where we left off.”

“You’re right.” She smiles, the dimple denting her smooth cheek. Her makeup conceals my seven freckles, but I could tell you exactly where each of them rests on her nose. “I think reviving our friendship is a good thing.”

Friendship? That’s a start.

“I love this song,” she says, tilting her head to pick the song out from the noise of the crowd.

“Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer.

“So do I.” I twirl her again and gather our joined hands against my chest.

“Oh, we finally agree on something,” she says with a laugh.

“Don’t get used to it,” I tease back.

When the song ends, Banner pulls her phone out and grimaces.

“I should get going,” she says.

“Zo’s waiting at home for you?” I force myself to ask.

It sounds so domestic and permanent and settled. I glue my smile in place, though the thought of her still sleeping with Zo Vidale makes me want to vomit my champagne lemonade on his head.

“Uh, no.” She licks her lips and slides her glance to the side. “He’s traveling. He’s actually in Argentina for a few weeks working with an orphanage down there.”

Because he’s a saint.

“But I have an early morning workout,” she says. “I’m tired and we’ve done what we came to do.”

Speak for yourself, Banner. I came to chip away at that wall around you, and I’m not sure how much progress I’ve made. We say our goodbyes to Kip and Karen, thanking them for a great evening, and zip back down the drive.