Jazz tossed the ball lightly between her hands. “That’s the spirit.”
I started toward the bleachers to grab my water bottle but paused halfway.
“Hey,” I said. “Thanks. For real.”
Her smile was small but proud. “Anytime, lover girl.”
The noteI’d left on the kitchen island had told her what dress to wear and what time the town car would be by to pick her up. I checked my phone again. The driver had recently sent a message:
She’s on her way in.
I hoped I wasn’t sweating through my clothes. I adjusted my jacket, tugging on the sleeves and lapel of the fitted blazer I’d worn on only one other occasion.
My nerves kicked into overdrive the moment I heard the unmistakable click-clack of heels. The woman of my dreams strolled through the doorway of the rear dining room of the upscale Chicago restaurant.
Eva Montgomery in cobalt blue was a vision. The familiar dress clung to her like a second skin. The low-cut bodice made my throat go dry. Her thick braids were swept to one side, lips tinted a deep plum. And those heels—stilettos that made her legs look miles long.
Her eyes unabashedly swept up my body, causing me to stand a little straighter. “You wore the suit,” she approved with a low purr. “I wondered why you’d requested I wear this dress.”
I handed her one of the champagne flutes I’d prepared. “The outfits we were wearing the night everything changed for us.”
She stepped close to place her hand on my naked sternum. “And your tits still look bonkers.”
I had to rise up on the balls of my feet to reach her painted mouth. She hummed into the gentle kiss. Her hand stayed at my throat, soft and warm and inviting.
When I dropped back down to earth, she clasped my hand in hers. “A private dining room?”
“Paparazzi proof,” I told her with a grin. “And the restaurant staff signed NDAs.”
Eva choked out a laugh. “They did not.”
I shrugged. “Just being careful.”
I led her to the small table the restaurant staff had set up for us in the center of the room. I pulled out a chair for her, knowing how much she appreciated the chivalrous gesture. I waited until she sat before taking the seat across from her. She placed herchampagne on the table, eyes flicking once more around the room, taking it all in.
“Are we celebrating something?” she asked.
“Not exactly. I just wanted to do something special for you,” I said honestly. “We’ve been so busy since the season ended. I thought maybe we could slow things down and take some time for each other. No cameras, no calendars. Just us.”
The corner of her generous mouth lifted up. “This is really thoughtful, Lex. I love it. Thank you.”
The waiter arrived soon after, bringing the first course—an amuse-bouche that looked like it belonged on some Food Network finale. Eva took a photo of hers before trying it. Not to post on social media, just for the memory.
By the time we were halfway through the main course—hers a roasted duck breast, mine a seared halibut—Eva had silenced the ringer on her phone. But the screen lit up anyway. A message preview flashed, bright against the dim glow of the candles at the table’s center.
Her gaze flickered toward her phone, just for a second.
I didn’t say anything right away, but I felt my jaw tighten. She hadn’t picked it up, and still, I felt her slipping out of reach.
Eva swept her fingertips across the phone’s screen so everything turned black. “I’m sorry. This new campaign is launching soon and the designers keep blowing up my phone.”
My knee bounced erratically beneath the white linen table cloth.
“I’m not trying to start a fight,” I started. “And I don’t want to come across as needy or ungrateful ...”
“But,” Eva anticipated.
“But,”I concurred, “everyone wants a piece of you. And I’m worried …” I sucked in a great breath. “There won’t be anything left for me.”
