“This is the last of the dishes.” Julian’s pronouncement preceded him into the kitchen.
DeMarcus met his father halfway and took the empty serving bowls and platter from him. “Thanks, Pop.” He turned and found Jaclyn standing between him and the sink.
She extended her hands for the serving dishes. “Your dishwasher’s full. I’ll wash these by hand.”
DeMarcus hesitated. “Thank you.”
Julian sat at the kitchen table. He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Thanks, Jackie. I hate kitchen duty.”
Jaclyn carried the dishes to the sink. “It’s a family aversion.” She let the water run over the dishes before scrubbing them with the soapy sponge. “Marc, your mother did a great job teaching you to cook.”
DeMarcus settled into the chair across from his father. He extended his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “She was a great cook.”
Julian’s tone was nostalgic. “Brenda should have been a chef, but she loved teaching children.”
“So did you, Pop.” DeMarcus reached for the saltshaker in the center of the table, spinning it on the walnut wood surface.
Jaclyn pitched her voice over the sound of the running water. “I’d forgotten both of your parents were teachers. That must have been a lot of pressure on you in school.”
DeMarcus stilled his hand on the saltshaker. “Not really.” It was odd that someone with whom he was having a relationship knew so much of his personal life from media interviews. What had he read about her?
“Marc always did his best,” Julian said. “He always gave two hundred percent. He graduated with honors from high school and magna cum laude from college. I’m very proud of him, and so was his mother.”
DeMarcus swallowed twice before speaking. “Thanks, Pop.”
The words weren’t enough. He could never repay his father for everything Julian had helped him achieve. And he’d run out of time to thank his mother.
DeMarcus followed Jaclyn into her turn-of-the-century red brick mansion. The pentagonal entryway was tiled in the black and silver Monarchs colors. He slowed as he past the large, black and white framed photographs of historic Brooklyn landmarks adorning the white walls—the bridge, the museum, Prospect Park, Grand Army Plaza.
r /> Jaclyn’s stilettos tapped against the flooring as he followed her down a wide hallway to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? Ice water? Juice?”
He propped his shoulder against the archway separating the kitchen from the hall. “Water, please.”
Jaclyn took two beveled glasses from a cabinet. She filled each with water and ice, then crossed the kitchen to give him the drink. “You once told me it wasn’t the salary that interested you in the Monarchs’ head coaching position.”
DeMarcus winked. “I’m pretty sure my hourly pay is below minimum wage.”
Her eyes danced with amusement. “You have an odd sense of humor.”
“I think the same about you every time I look at my pay stub.” He drank the ice water. It cooled him from the inside out but couldn’t douse the fire her smile had sparked within him.
The muscles in Jaclyn’s throat flexed as she swallowed her water. “I think I’ve figured it out.”
DeMarcus dragged his gaze from her neck to eyes. He’d lost track of their conversation. “What?”
“You took the job with the team because of your mother. She’d always wanted you to come home and play for the Monarchs, but you were drafted to Miami and never left.”
DeMarcus gripped the cool glass in his fist. She had his full attention now. “What?”
Jaclyn’s gaze bore into him. “Why else would a multimillionaire ex-NBA player without coaching experience take a head coaching position with a franchise he claims doesn’t pay well?”
“You don’t pay well.”
“I initially thought you wanted to coach the Monarchs because of your father. I thought you wanted to help improve the team because he’s a fan.”
DeMarcus drained his glass of water. It bought him time and eased the sandpaper dryness of his throat. “So what?”
He surged away from the archway. He wanted to pace. He needed to move, but he didn’t want Jaclyn to know she was making him uncomfortable. He thought she’d asked him to take her home for a very different reason, one that didn’t involve clothing or psychoanalyzing him.