Smooth as silk.
Bend. Extend. Release. The ball sailed through the still air. Number forty-three’s trajectory appeared to be spot-on.
Retrieving the ball, he dribbled as he walked back to the line. How many nights had he spent shooting hoops rather than going home to Mari? Too many. Especially at the end. He’d been stupid enough to think things would even out in his life with Mari gone. He hadn’t counted on Hurricane Millie blowing through.
Placing his finger over the tiny valve hole on the ball, he stared down at the gleaming hardwood. He didn’t want to think about Millie now. He wanted to clear his head. A twisted part of him wished his love life had been this crappy back in his playing days, because his free throw average had never been higher.
Smooth as silk. Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Smooth as silk. Spin and settle.
Smooth as silk. Sight the shot.
Smooth as silk. Bend, extend, release.
“Forty-four.”
He stiffened as her throaty voice filled the small practice gym. Snagging the ball, he propped it against his hip. Without looking toward the door, he sauntered back to the foul line to prepare for number forty-five. “How long have you been watching?”
“Since I saw everyone leave but you.”
He nodded but kept his eyes locked on the goal. “Getting a few in.”
“Looking good.”
The click of her heels echoed off cinder-block walls. He didn’t dare look, but in his mind, he saw the shiny, red stiletto she’d swung off the tip of her toes through the whole damn meeting. The very stilettos he’d been fantasizing about all evening.
He ran through his ritual without missing a dribble. His mantra bounced around in his head, but this time, the words had little to do with tossing a ball through a hoop.
Smooth as silk.
Smooth as silk.
Smooth as silk.
He growled long and loud when he overshot. The ball hit the back of the rim with a sickening thud, then caromed toward the foldaway bleachers. Millie sat on the lowest row, her long legs crossed, that damn shoe dangling off the end of her foot again.
“What do you want?” Ty cringed even as the words left his mouth, but goddamn, the woman was making him crazy. One minute, she was hiding from him; the next, she was invading his sacred space. If he couldn’t escape her here, then no place was safe.
“I want you to make the next one.”
He slid her a side-eye known to make guys who stood more than six foot six tremble, but she only gave him the kind of encouraging smile one saved for toddlers refusing to eat peas. Collecting the ball, he stalked over to her.
“I don’t get the game, Millie.”
She looked taken aback for a moment, then lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, I don’t pretend to know all the nuances, but I think you have five people on each team, and they run up and down the court bouncing a ball and throw it into the basket thingy.” She waved a hand at the goal like some kind of game show hostess. “Whoever has the most points at the end of playtime wins.”
He fought the urge to smile at her blatant oversimplification of the sport he’d built his life around. “Funny.”
She sent him a look so wide-eyed and guileless he momentarily doubted his skepticism. “Did I not get it right? I get this one mixed up with the kicking one all the time.”
But he wasn’t buying. “The game with you and me, Millie. I don’t get this…whatever we’re doing.”
She took the time to uncross her legs, wiggle her shoe back onto her foot, then restart the entire process with the other leg topping and the other shoe dangling. “We’re having a torrid affair,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Complete with hot sex and various forms of takeout foods.”
“Yeah, well, not tonight. I have a headache.” No lie. The pounding was back with a vengeance. And so was the need to finish taking his foul shots.
He’d lined up number forty-six and chanted through two rounds of “smooth as silk” before he heard the click of her heels again. But instead of retreating, she was coming closer. Gripping the ball so hard, his fingers dimpled the rubber, he glanced over his shoulder to find her standing on the three-point line.
“No hard-soled shoes on the court,” he snapped.
Without taking her eyes off him, Millie stepped out of the sky-high heels. Her toes were polished the purple of grape jelly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then covered the insole of her left foot with her right. He met her disconcertingly direct gaze and blew out a long breath. She obviously wasn’t going anywhere until she was damn good and ready. “What?” he prompted.
“I like my life, Ty. I live exactly the way I want to.”
“Good for you.”
She ignored his snide commentary. “I like my house, my stuff, my friends, my time.” She paused, searching for words. “I have no plans to change anytime soon.”
“Did I ask you to change anything?”
Millie gave him a small, sad smile. “No, you’d never ask me to, but they would change. I’m not sure I want them to.”
“So…” He groped for comprehension, but it remained inches out of reach. Giving his head a shake, he held up a hand in defeat. “Yeah, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying I need to do this in my own way. In my own time,” she said quietly. “But I like you. Did I mention that?”
The weight inside him lifted, but he approached her confession with caution. “No. I don’t think you did.”
“I do.” She spoke firmly enough to chase his doubts away. At least for the moment.
“I’m glad. I like you too.”
She smiled, then bent to scoop up her shoes. “I’m happy we got that settled.” Jerking her head toward the bleachers, she quirked an eyebrow. “Mind if I watch? I’m kind of a team sports voyeur.”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t really
