Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“I will. Sorry. I wasn’t even sure what time it was there.” She chuckles over the sound of a sewing machine in the background. “I’m on button-duty today. Sewing ten billion buttons onto this dress for next week’s show.”

“Paris?” I shoot a covert look at the door.

“Milan.” She pops a bubble with her gum over the phone. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got to eat in here. These models are like robots. Seriously. They don’t require food to operate.”

I snicker, forgetting my nervousness for a moment.

“I was wondering if I can come visit when I get back?” Lo asks, still popping her gum.

“Oh, God, yes, Lo.” I release a pent-up breath. “I’m still settling in, getting to know the city. Come explore it with us.”

“I won’t be able to stay long,” she says, “but I’ve realized how much I missed you when …” Her voice trails off. We don’t discuss my time with Caleb. He hasn’t contacted me, and I refuse to put my life on hold another second fearing that he might.

Footsteps are approaching, and I practically drop the phone. “I gotta go, Lo.”

“Okay, but how does Sarai like her new daycare?” she asks in a rush. “I miss my baby. I know she misses me.”

“Yeah, terribly. We’ll FaceTime tonight. Gotta go.”

I disconnect just as the conference room door opens behind me. I’m about to turn around when a flower is placed on the table at my elbow.

Not just any flower. A gorgeous Louisiana iris in full bloom.

My heart gallops in my chest like a herd of wild thoroughbreds. A premonition prickles my skin, and there’s an uprising of the fine hairs on the back of my neck. My body knows before I do, but I’m still speechless when I zing a glance over my shoulder.

I meet those thundercloud eyes under lashes as thick and curly as I remember. Every detail of his face, his hair, his body, is the same, only better. There are so many things he’ll want me to explain—so many things I want to tell him, but right now his name is all I can manage.

“August?”

39

August

I passed on forty-five million dollars and probably a championship title.

You’d think that would be the first thing I thought about when I woke up this morning, since I can still hear Jared’s damn voice screeching in my head.

Nope.

This moment. This moment right here is the first thing I’ve thought about every morning for the last three weeks. I had so many ideas about the way it could go, but I thought the flower was my best bet. It would remind her that, though we haven’t ever been a couple, we have a history and an undeniable connection. That every time we’ve been together, we’ve gone deeper and known each other better. There is an August and Iris, and I’m ready to go all in on it. I’m sure that by the end of my life, I, like most people, will have a stack of regrets and “wish I hads,” but Iris DuPree won’t be one of them. Even if things don’t ultimately go the way I’d like them to, I won’t regret trying.

She’s too worth it.

“August?”

Shock and pleasure and confusion march across her expressive face in quick succession. She stands, the Louisiana iris held between her fingers, and I get my first full look at her in more than a year.

Sweet Jesus.

My eyes rove her from head to toe, taking in every minute detail. Except for the night we met, her hair has always been straight, but it’s not today. It’s longer, untamed waves flowing down her back and almost reaching her elbows. Thick, dark coils cling possessively to the silky curve of her throat and to her arms, touching all the places I hope to claim. Those eyes, flecked with autumn—amber, gold and green—startle me with their clarity under a dense sweep of sooty lashes and brows. Her skin has this glow. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s some new dimension to her. I can’t put my finger on it, but it adds this layer of irresistibility, and I clench my fists so I won’t reach for her.

My eyes drop to her mouth. It’s too soon to kiss her. There are explanations and questions and details. There’s all of that shit, but really, I want to set it all aside and just devour her mouth. I want to suck those lips between mine, plunge my tongue down her throat, and lick around until I’ve sampled every hot, slick inch of her.

I hazard a glance below her neck.

Holyyyyyyy shit.

Iris has one of those bodies. She’s one of those women men recall in perfect detail years after they’ve seen her. Even a glimpse would burn an impression into your memory. But to stop there is to literally skim the surface because under the fineness of her skin and the unflawed shape of her lives an opulence of spirit—a richness of strength you could overlook if you let her beauty distract you.