Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(46)

It’s her.

Bridget Ross’s eyes are chilled, blue curacao in a frosted glass. I look away quickly, wondering why she’s staring at me. I’ve felt something connecting Kenan and me ever since the first time we met. Is she astute enough to discern the invisible ribbon tying us together across the room?

“You ready for this train?” Yari asks me once we’ve all paid our bills, boxed up what’s left of the cake, and are preparing to go our separate ways. “Girl, we gotta make this hump back to Brooklyn.”

“Yeah.” I snap myself out of any thoughts about Bridget and Kenan. “I’m gonna use the restroom before we start home.”

I rush off to the bathroom, hoping no one from our table follows. I need a minute to compose myself—to regain the resolve I had at the beginning of this journey to keep things simple. To be just friends. Because somewhere along the way, things changed, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. If there’s one thing I have to be, it’s sure.

I’m walking down the dimly lit passage, almost at the women’s restroom, when one word from behind steals all the things I’m sure of, and dares me to take a chance.

“Button.”





14





Kenan





She stops midstride, but doesn’t turn.

She’s arresting enough from the back. While I was in Philly, she reinstated the braids. Bright and platinum in the half-light of the hall, they are gathered high at the crown of her head and held tight by chopsticks. She’s like a China doll, slight and curvy. Her emerald green dress with its high Mandarin collar and printed with pink cherry blossoms fits lovingly to the sinuous lines of her body.

She turns slowly, giving me plenty of time to brace for her, but I’m still not ready.

When she faces me, my mind scrambles a little. I reach for something to say, but my tongue feels heavy, clumsy. She always has this effect on me. I used to resent it, but now it just confirms that we’re meant to be special, not simple. If Lotus, with her trust issues and her temporary celibacy weren’t complex enough, my ex-wife waiting out in the dining room ensures that things will not be simple.

Make-up and false lashes exaggerate the already-dramatic tilt of her eyes. Tiny jade tassels dangle from her ears. Her mouth is scarlet and pouty and, if memory serves me correctly, sweet.

“I thought I told you not to call me Button,” she says by way of greeting.

“I thought we agreed I would when we’re alone.”

And we are alone in this narrow space, but there’s an elephant in the hall, and I address it right away.

“I’m here with my ex-wife,” I say, leaning against the wall. “And daughter. We had family counseling tonight. Simone’s been asking if we could all do dinner after the sessions. Our counselor thought it was a good idea.”

“That’s nice,” she says, lowering her lashes instead of looking at me. “I did see your . . . ex.”

“We were alone because my daughter noticed a friend from school and left the table to say hi.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Kenan,” she replies, winged brows drawn in. “We’re not dating or a couple or . . . anything but friends.”

“Funny.” I reach for her wrist and gently tug her the few inches separating us to stand in front of me. “I didn’t think about my other friends every day while I was away.”

I tug a little more until the silk of her dress licks between my denim-covered thighs. She tilts her head down so all I see is a coronet of braids.

“And I certainly wasn’t tempted to text them every day,” I add. “My friends, I mean.”

“But you didn’t text,” she says softly, lifting her lashes to stare at me. “Me, I mean.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should.” I pause. “I’m not sure what we’re doing or which lines to cross. We have two absolutes. No sex, because you’re ‘off dick.’”

She snort-laughs like I hoped she would.

“And no kisses until you make them happen,” I continue. “but those are lines drawn for our bodies, not for our feelings.”

“And what do you think you’re feeling, Mr. Ross?”

The miniscule moment of silence following her question is a fork, two diverging paths. One is paved with self-preservation. I tell her I’m feeling nothing—protect myself from the wiles of a woman I don’t know well enough to trust. The other road is cobblestoned with hope—it’s uneven, maybe a little bumpy, but gives her the truth in the hope that she’ll return the favor.

“I’m feeling . . . more,” I say, sliding my hand down her wrist to link my fingers with hers. “More than I planned to feel. More than, if I was smart, I’d let myself feel.”

“If you were smart?” she asks, her eyes trained on our fingers meshed together between us.

“Yeah. The last woman I trusted ruined my life.”

I’ve never said it that way, but it’s true. When the news leaked about Bridget’s affair, I was living the dream. I’d won two rings with a team on its way to another championship season. I had a beautiful wife, a daughter I adored, success, and wealth. But it was just that—a dream. A frail illusion shattered by one choice and many lies.