So I thank Jet for his amazing—and possibly deadly—offer but tell him I can’t possibly accept. He seems to take it okay, even pokes fun of himself for asking, but for the rest of the day, he drops juicy teasers here and there about his upcoming trip. Or he tosses out something about the other players bringing their girlfriends or families. It isn’t a hard sell—if he cajoled, wheedled, or whined, it would be easy to stand my ground—but it’s enough to get me drooling at the prospect of going. Kansas City in the middle of winter isn’t the worst place to be, but it’s not Hawaii, either.
And by the end of the day (yes, it only takes a damn day. I’m weak!), I realize I’m only saying “no” because that’s the less conventional answer to such an attractive proposition. Creepy Dateline Guy is on crack. Jet Knox isn’t a killer. He mentors kids and has pictures of his nieces and nephews on his mantle. He loves his family and thinks a good time is hosting all of them at his house for a week. I probably have a better chance of being killed in his isolated house, alone with him, than I would in the middle of a hundred NFL players and their families at a Hawaiian resort.
So when he takes me home and kisses me goodbye inside my front door, I ask, “Is that trip to Hawaii still on the table?”
His face lights up like a handsome, well-chiseled jack-o-lantern. “You bet! Have you changed your mind?”
I nod. “Maybe. It sounds like fun.”
“It is! It’s also work for me, but not hard work. Fun work. It would be mega-cool if you were there with me. When you said no, I started stressing about who else I was going to ask. Picking one of my siblings doesn’t seem fair, and I guess they could all go, but that gets distracting and hectic. Bringing my parents seems lame. Nice for them, but not very fun for me.”
I place my finger against his lips. “Well, I guess now you don’t have to worry about making that decision. If you still want to take me.”
His features relax, and his eyes zoom in on mine. What feels like a cocktail of soda and pop rocks bubbles in my belly. “Definitely,” he answers. “More than anything.”
“Then I guess I better buy a swimsuit.”
“Or not. My suite has its own private infinity pool.”
And with that teaser/promise/ultimate distraction begins the longest two-and-a-half weeks of my life. I want to go to Hawaii right now. Hop on a plane with no luggage, no stressing about what to bring and what I’ll wear to the events when we get there. No endless phone calls from my brother, with his ridiculous requests for me to get this or that player’s autograph or carry him around on my cell phone the whole time. No snide remarks from Rae about how I’m turning out to be much less of a challenge than Jet probably originally thought and wondering if that means he’ll tire of me more quickly. No Creepy Dateline Guy talking to me every night before I drop off to sleep, reminding me that nobody believes they could be falling in love with a psychopath. “Everyone thought Ted Bundy was a swell guy, too, you know.”
Oh, my gosh. Shut your hole, Creepy Dateline Guy!
We’ve finally made it, though. We’re in sunny Hawaii. Getting lei’d on the tarmac after stepping off the Wise brothers’ private jet. Checking into the hotel on the resort being taken over by some of the largest people in America. Staring at the bed in Jet’s suite, wondering what will be happening here during the next few days. Escaping to the lanai to get some fresh air, under the guise of verifying that the private infinity pool is as amazing as promised. (It is.) Realizing that the dirty fantasies are as intense out here as they are in the bedroom. Returning to the room and trying to become as relaxed as Jet seems while he bounces on the end of the bed like a mattress tester.
“Seeing if it squeaks,” he says with a cheeky wink. His face falls when I don’t laugh, because I’m about to cry. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
What is wrong with me? I shaved, I waxed, I buffed, I wrapped, I polished, I bleached. I did things to myself to prepare for this week that took a huge chunk out of my film fund and made me feel like a vain, shallow idiot. Now that the moment I’ve been dreaming about is here, I’m experiencing some major stage fright. Major. Like, the last thing I want to do is take off my clothes for this guy so he can compare me to every other naked woman he’s ever seen.
What is that number, anyway? Probably huge. Probably mind-boggling. Probably stomach-turning.
If I let him add me to the tally, does that make me a glorified Pro Bowl escort? “Take me to the Pro Bowl, and I’ll have sex with you”? It seems so— so… crass. And unfair. Because he and I have been on several dates now, and we’ve been to each other’s houses, and if he was any other no-name guy, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But he’s not any other no-name guy. He’s All-Pro quarterback Jet Knox. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been able to somehow forget that. But now, surrounded by his contemporaries, all of whom are here in a professional capacity, no matter how fun it’s billed to be, I can’t ignore it.
He stands and approaches me like one would greet a skittish dog, minus the flat hand to the nose. Gently, he takes both of my hands in his
