“Hell, yeah dirty thoughts.” I swipe a hand down my face, over my grin. “Filthy as charged.”
“Keep it that way,” she says, her voice softening even as it heats.
“Oh, what I’m feeling, it’ll keep.”
15
Decker
“Who’s next?” Seated on the couch of the San Diego hotel suite, I stretch my arms above my head.
“It’s the last of the day.” My assistant Marla looks up from my schedule on her iPad.
“Thank God for that.” I crook a grin at her. “Is it too early to start drinking?”
“You drinking?” she scoffs. “What? One of your protein shakes?”
“That would be nice.” My smile beseeches. “Could you?”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile is good-natured and longsuffering, two things anyone working with me needs to be.
“Let me get you set up for this last interview,” she says. “And I’ll run up the street to grab one.”
“From that place I like, right?” I push my luck.
“Yes, from the place you like.” She shakes her head and swipes across the iPad screen. “Gimme a sec and I’ll brief you on this last one.”
I’ve lost count of how many reporters I’ve talked to today for the San Diego Waves’ media blitz. I, along with other front office executives, have made ourselves available to the press for questions about the new NBA expansion team, our draft prospects, and the upcoming first season. My canned responses have started losing their shine. The more tired I get, the more I feel like the jock still wet from the shower, no compunction giving half-naked interviews, and less like the guy in the suit scoping talent and making multimillion-dollar decisions. Thank God this is the last of the day.
“It’s your old network,” Marla says with a smile. “SportsCo.”
I stare at her, my heart banging against my rib cage. I’m holding my breath like some lovesick chick waiting to hear Avery’s name. She texted me congratulations when my position was announced, but didn’t really engage much beyond that, even when I tried. Not that I’ve tried much in the last three months. She asked for space, and I’ve given it to her. Though I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. We only worked in close proximity for three weeks, and we only had one night and a few conversations, but I miss everything about her. I lick my lips before I ask the next question.
“Oh yeah? And uh . . . who’d SportsCo send for the interview?”
“Huh? Oh. Lemme see.” Marla trails her finger down the screen until she reaches the bottom. “Mike Dunlov. Ring a bell?”
“Sheesh.” I suck my teeth. “Ring a bell? More like a gong. Can’t stand that guy.”
Disappointment settles on my shoulders, but I square them, refusing to droop. When she’s ready she’ll come. Avery’s too strong-willed for me to force the issue. She knows how good we are together. She’s told me more than once she needs time to heal, and I’m giving it to her. That’s the thing with a full-court press. You have to know when to apply it, and when to let up, or it’s useless.
When there’s a faint knock at the suite door, Marla disappears from the sitting room to answer. I look up, grinning at Jerry, the cameraman who danced with Sadie at the Christmas party.
“How you doing?” I stand and wait for him to shift enough of his equipment to shake my hand.
“Good, Deck,” Jerry replies with a smile. “Congratulations on all of this.”
“Thanks, man. I . . .”
The words disintegrate from my lips and from my mind when Avery, not Mike Dunlov, walks into the sitting room with Marla. She looks beautiful as usual, but her hair is different. It’s curly, the way I told her I like it. The way it was the day we met in the locker room. She gives me her professional smile, but there’s a glint in her eyes that says she knows what I look like under this suit. We are intimately acquainted, and the closer she gets, the thicker the air becomes with our knowledge of each other. Unspoken, the memory of our moans, our rough fucking, our tenderness charges the room, and even though we’re having a silent conversation, it becomes obvious that Marla and Jerry sense something.
“Uh . . .” Jerry’s eyes move between Avery and me staring at each another. “Where should I set up the camera?”
His question jars Avery, setting her into motion. She assesses the room and directs Jerry. She doesn’t look at me again until everything is set up and we’re ready to begin. We maintain a friendly formality, just starched enough to be professional, but with the ease of former colleagues. I answer her questions patiently, forcing myself not to stare at her breasts, or the way her waist cinches, or the length of her legs. I don’t stare at those things, but I’m aware of them. I remember what she looks like and I’m hard as a motherfucker by the end of the interview. To avoid the awkwardness of my hard-on, I stay seated when we’re done and Jerry walks over to shake my hand.
“Good to see you again, Deck.” He glances at Avery. “You ready?”
She better not go with him. I’ve been good, controlled myself and given her this interview, even gave her a scoop on things I told no one else. If she tries to leave this room, I’m tying her to the bed.