“What opportunities?”
"I can get you working on the HR department of any of the teams in the league. Easy."
"HR? As in human resources? Do I look like a fucking human resources paper-pusher to you?"
"I can try to get you a few endorsement deals. I've got insurance companies up the wazoo who'd hire you as their spokesperson. Movie cameos. Do you even know how much Mike Tyson got for The Hangover? And there's always high school football coaching opportunities if you're looking for something low profile."
"Insurance commercials? High school football coaching? This is a fucking joke." I huff. "Paul, I am a two-time ESPY award nominee. I am a motherfucking star! I want to play ball."
He cuts me off mercilessly. "You were, Jude. You were. And the sooner you get your head out your ass, the sooner we can start grabbing all the opportunities floating around while you're on your way down, before your star crashes and burns completely."
“Y’know what? I’m getting off the phone. ‘Cause I don’t wanna have to fire you today, too.” On that, I end the damn call.
My blood is boiling. I try to push the conversation out of my brain as I move around the grocery store. I don't need all that naysaying fucking with my focus.
Using the shopping cart as a crutch, I find myself mindlessly stocking up on everything. Before long, I'm piling meat, cheeses, pasta and snacks on the conveyor belt.
Iris’s pantry and fridge had nothing but the bare essentials. I was lucky to find what I did this morning.
It doesn’t make sense to me. Single or not, the woman needs to eat. She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who eats out every day, so if she’s not eating a home, what the hell is she doing?
Is she broke? Maybe she is. I mean, she's renting out a portion of her home. People don’t do that unless they need the extra income or…they’re lonely.
I’m not wild about either of those options.
Dammit, I’m not supposed to care. We’re not friends, and I’d be a fool to think otherwise.
The cashier gives me a stammering, wide-eyed greeting. "H-hi...Jude Kingston?"
Get it together, Kingston. Iris Merlini's eating habits? None of my business. Just like the rest of her life.
I have my own problems to solve.
Instantly, I snap back into superstar mode. I flash the starstruck woman my money grin as I grab my wallet from my back pocket. "Hey, what's up, gorgeous?”
Her cheeks glow neon pink at the endearment. The twenty-something redhead’s blush is a jumper cable to my ego. And dammit, after the morning I’ve had, my energy-drained self-image definitely needs the boost.
7
Iris
I’m in the front yard, muddy and sweating, hands covered in dirt. I can feel perspiration trickling down the length of my spine as I yank weeds from the flower beds.
Foxxy keeps me company, lounging on the wooden bench in the shade of the maple tree. The warm days are getting fewer as fall creeps in, so we might as well take advantage of an extra sunny day like today.
While I do the mindless work, I’m mulling over some search engine optimization strategies I read about earlier today. Sometimes it’s easier to let the ideas marinate in my brain when my hands are occupied with something else. The information is overwhelming and there are so many moving parts to this online business thing. It gets exhausting trying to figure everything out on my own. I just wish I had a team, a few people to bounce ideas off of and share the workload with.
I’m so caught in my head that I don’t hear Jude approaching until he’s walking right by me. He has a brown paper bag overflowing with groceries tucked under each arm. When our eyes meet, he gives me a cold greeting. “Hey.” He keeps limping along.
Self-consciously, I drag my forearm along my sweaty forehead. Now, I wish I’d at least taken the time to brush my hair after my morning run. “Hey.”
His biceps bulge under the weight of the heavy bags. They’re a golden tan from the sun.
Without even realizing it, I’ve stopped what I’m doing to gape at his sexy form as he retreats up the flagstone pathway. He climbs the porch and, right as he’s about to step through the front door, he throws a glance over his shoulder in my direction. Of course, I wasn’t prepared for that so—again—he catches me staring.
Yes—I’m down on my hands and knees, flushed and sweaty, staring at the man’s ass.
This is the part where I expect him to gloat, to give me a pitying look or throw out a snarky comment that will make me feel three inches tall. But right now, he looks far too distressed and distracted to bask in the attention. Instead, his eyes move over the garden where I’m working. “You gonna need a hand with that?”
The offer takes me by surprise. I dart my tongue over my bottom lip. “No. I’m good. Thanks.”
I’ve got the yard work covered and even if I didn’t there’s no way I’d ask a man with a knee injury to involve himself in this. But it was nice of him to offer and it’s hard not to count the moment as a point in his favor. I let myself toy with the idea that maybe the two of us can find a way to coexist here peacefully for a while after all.
On a slight nod, he resumes his trek into the house and the screen door closes behind him.
Turning my attention back to the garden, I replay the soft look that lingered on his face, the agitation I saw in his eyes.
His limp is more pronounced now than it was this morning. I can’t help but wonder if that’s a good sign or not. I wonder how his physiotherapy session went, if it helped or made the situation
