Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(51)
He takes a long sip of his water before speaking again, and I don’t try to fill the space with words or questions. He needs to tell me these things, and I want to hear them.
“We married straight out of college right after I was drafted into the league,” he says. “My family was well-off growing up, but getting drafted meant money like I’d never seen. Millions and millions of dollars on day one. Maybe Bridget thought we’d have this rock-star lifestyle. That I would suddenly become this guy who wanted the limelight—that I wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of fame—but I don’t care about it.”
“And she does?”
“She does now.” He shrugs. “The saddest part is that I’m not sure she ever really knew me, and I’m pretty sure I never really knew her. Not if Baller Bae is what she’s after.”
His sardonic laugh comes and goes quickly. “We had Simone, but we didn’t have much else in common. My dad tried to tell me. He’s gone now, and I see what a hole it’s left in my mother’s life. They were deeply satisfied with each other. I never had that with Bridget.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling bad for them both, but especially her being married to a man like Kenan and never really knowing him.
“Well, I wouldn’t be sitting here if things hadn’t gone how they did,” he says, sobering when he looks back to me. “And I’m really glad to be here with you.”
“This is not a date,” I blurt.
His sinfully full lips compress against a smile, but he manages not to laugh. “That was a very timely reminder,” he says with false sobriety. “Thank you.”
The server brings our check, and I’m seriously wondering if the whole day will feel like this—like we’re in a pressure cooker. Like I’m boiling under my skin every time he looks at me for more than two seconds.
We stand to leave and the server comes back to the table. He’s already collected the bill, so I’m not sure what else he needs. His smile, hesitant and sheepish, clues me in.
“Mr. Ross,” he says, scrunching his face. “Could I get a selfie? It’ll only take a second.”
I imagine it requires some patience for Kenan, a self-confessed introvert, to deal with this on a regular basis.
“Sure,” he says with a gracious, if somewhat reserved, smile.
I consult the list on my phone for all the things we’re doing today while they take their photo.
“You ready?” Kenan asks once they’re done.
“I think the question is are you ready, Mr. Ross, for all that I’ve got planned?”
While we walk, he puts his hand to my back. I try to ignore the heat of it—ignore the electric storm brewing in the air around us every time we brush against each other on purpose or by mistake. With us, there’s no such thing as a casual touch.
“No,” he says, shaking his head and not smiling. “I don’t think either of us is ready for this, but damned if I’m not doing it anyway.”
For a few seconds, I’m thrown, lured deeper into his unbreakable stare, but I try to lighten the moment, break the tension, and stick to the plan.
“Well, I hope the old man can keep up with the millennial.”
After a second, he yields a grin. “I can’t believe I’m gonna be that cliché, the older rich guy dating a younger woman.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I scoff, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “Oh, no, you’re not.”
He stops us on the sidewalk, bending until our faces align and our lips almost touch in the meager space separating us.
“Oh, yes, I am.”
16
Kenan
“So you weren’t kidding when you said blisters, huh?” I ask the question jokingly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve walked a hole in my Glads. Besides one Uber ride, we’ve been hoofing it all day.
Lotus laughs, walking backward and a little ahead of me.
“Technically, Yari mentioned blisters, not me,” she says, giving her ice cream cone a long lick. “Now I know a man in such superior shape is not complaining about a little bit of walking.”
“A little bit?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and wait for her to do the same. She finally rolls her eyes and walks back to me. “You’ve dragged my ass from Bushwick to Kingdom Come—”
“Did you or did you not enjoy the Botanical Gardens?” she demands, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her ice cream cone.
“I mean, I—”
“Yes or no?”
I look down at her tiny self with narrow eyes. “Yes, but—”
“And did you or did you not love riding Jane’s Carousel?”
“A six-foot-seven-inch grown-ass man on a—”
“Yes. Or. No?” She lifts sleek brows and tilts her head for the answer she already knows I’m going to give her.
“Okay. Yes. It was fun because it was ridiculous. There were four-year-olds riding with us.”
She flings her head back and laughs with such gusto it shakes her whole body. She doesn’t care that people are strolling past us, staring at the loud woman busting up in the middle of the sidewalk with her dripping ice cream cone. I love that about her.