Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“Feast your eyes,” he says with a dramatic flourish, “on spring.”

Sketch after sketch comes alive with the vivid colors he’s used to articulate the clothes on paper. There are easily a hundred sketches, but only a portion of them will actually make it to the runway for Fashion Week in September.

“All of you know what a purist I am,” JP says. “But, like we always say, fashion is first art, then commerce. And commerce is where Paul comes in.”

Our collective attention turns to Paul, JPL CEO and Billie’s boss/adulterous love interest.

Yari elbows me and we silently mouth bastard to each other.

“Yes, well,” Paul says, adjusting the glasses Billie finds so sexy. “The possibilities with a theme like wearable wonder are endless. Our marketing team has been working tirelessly, and I think we’ve hit pay dirt partnering with Bodee, a sportswear company with a smaller share of the market than Nike, Reebok, or Adidas, but looking to make big moves.”

“Of course, you’ve all heard of wearable tech,” Paul continues. “Fitbit, the Apple Watch etcetera . . . We see a potential marketing intersection between our theme, wearable wonder, and wearable technology.”

“Watches,” JP says triumphantly. “Bodee has asked me to design a line of watches.”

“They’ll still be JPL designs,” Paul says. “Some of our models will even wear them in the September show.”

“And I have the perfect spokesperson,” JP chimes in with what can only reasonably be described as heart eyes. “Chase actually brought him to my attention.”

Oh, this should be great. Chase does have a good eye, obviously.

“He’s a professional athlete,” JP says, his voice going higher with his eagerness. “A basketball player. His body is . . .”

JP clears his throat and visibly tries to calm himself down. I should offer him a wind machine, à la Queen Bey, to cool off.

“As I was saying . . .” JP’s voice is only slightly more subdued. “He’s a basketball player.”

“I thought I had a picture here somewhere.” Paul flips through his stack of papers. “But it’s Kenan Ross.”

I don’t need a picture. I have perfect recall for six feet and seven inches of dark bronze skin, flexing muscle, regal bone structure, and a smile more stunning because it’s so rare. I last saw him when Chase accompanied me to a San Diego Waves Christmas party. Kenan plays basketball with my cousin Iris’s husband.

I keep my face serene and vaguely interested, but inside I’m doing a face palm and cussing in two languages. Just as I decide I’m giving up men while I figure out what the hell is broken in me, the sexiest man I’ve ever met dribbles into my life? Hard to avoid him if he’s our new spokesperson. And I have managed to avoid him in the past. The few encounters we’ve had were charged with an intensity that made one thing clear: the rules I set for other men—casual, easy, simple—do not apply with Kenan Ross.

No, thank you.

“We’ve been in talks with his agent, but he still hasn’t agreed,” JP says. “I thought it’d be nice to meet him in a more relaxed environment. Something not work-related. He’s here for the summer and would probably enjoy meeting some people. I’ve invited him to Vale’s party tonight.”

Vale, JP’s assistant, and her husband, an influential fashion magazine editor, throw legendary parties. I’ve been looking forward to their yacht party for weeks. They don’t own a yacht, but have generous friends in high nautical places.

“Aw, man,” I say, making sure to look appropriately disappointed. “I don’t think I can make it tonight. I’ve got this other thing.”

“What happened?” Yari frowns. “This morning you said you were, and I quote, ‘here for this.’ What thing do you have now?”

“It’s a new thing,” I tell her through a teeth-clenched smile.

“Don’t be a party poo. It’ll be fun.” JP breaks out his grown-man pout, bottom lip pushed to capacity. “Please, Lo. We’re all going.”

“You must come,” Vale says from the end of the table in her lilting Swedish accent. “Keir asked the caterer to add those olive hors d’oeuvres to the menu specifically for you.”

“Oooooh,” I moan. “Not the crostini?”

“Yes,” she replies with the reverence those appetizers are due. “The crostini.”

“And what, pray tell,” Yari says, “would you be doing that’s better than sailing down the Hudson with New York’s flyest?”

“All our friends will be there,” Billie urges. “And one of Anna Wintour’s minions has been invited.”

“Second or third minion?” I demand sharply.