“Speaking of your toes, how are your lucky socks faring?”
Stopping at the corner, I wiggle them in my shoes. “Happy as clams to be home and safe with their keeper. I even have on my purple ones today.”
“And is it your lucky day?”
With a grin that she can’t see but I bet she can hear, I say, “I’m on the phone with you. How could I be anything but the luckiest?”
“Perfect answer, Mr. Purple Socks,” she says, her laughter floating across the phone line.
“Tell me stuff,” I say as the light changes and I cross the street. “Are you stoked to come back to San Francisco?”
“I am counting down the days,” she says, but her tone is mixed—a little too cheery, and a little bit melancholy.
“Bullshit,” I say as I stride down the hill, making my way to the gym a few blocks away. “I hear a little reticence in your voice.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because you’re a Vegas woman,” I say as my gaze catches on the window display in the lingerie shop I’m passing—red lacy bras and white teddies and all sorts of itty-bitty numbers that would look fabulous on—
Whoa.
Stop, brain. Stop thinking about women. I force my amphibian mind away from pretty underthings and lovely curves, from soft skin and the scent of a woman.
“You’re going to miss Vegas, Nadia. You love to gamble. You love the neon and the billboards. You love to clean up at the poker table.”
“That is true. I do kill it at poker. Maybe I’ll just have to start my own game in San Francisco, open a casino, bring the high rollers there.”
I can see that perfectly, can picture her doing precisely that. “I’ve got all sorts of teammates who would love a high stakes game of poker.”
“Fantastic. Molly’s Game will be my next gig,” she says, then she sighs, but it sounds contented. “And truth be told, I’ll miss my friends here, but I’m excited to return to the Bay Area. It’s been a while, but it’s always good to be home, even though I have a ton on my plate when I arrive.”
“Let me know if you need anything when you get here, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to it. And it’ll be good to have you here. It’s been way too long,” I say.
“That’s why I did a crazy thing. I called as a reply to your text. Isn’t that wild?”
“Among the many reasons you’re the Wild Girl,” I say. “I mean, hell. Who does that? Calling in response to a text? You’re all about shaking things up.”
“That’s me,” she says lightly, then shifts her tone to a bit more serious. “But tell me something about this ‘buddy up’ request. Last time we talked when I was in Paris for business, you said you weren’t sure if you were bringing anyone to Eric’s wedding. Did something change?”
Do I tell her or not? Do I let her know I’ve sworn off women? “I’m not bringing anyone,” I say, not entirely answering, since I’m not entirely sure what to tell her. Instead, I seize the chance to needle her. “You just had to drop that you were in Paris for business.”
She laughs. “I’m not just dropping it in. I was actually there. I’m trying to expand the NFL into Europe more, and I had meetings with marketers.”
I hum appreciatively as I reach the next block. “It is so sexy when you talk about marketing and expanding sports to other places. Can you please do that for baseball too?”
“If I owned a baseball team, I damn well would,” she says.
Does she have any idea how hot it is that she owns a team? That is equator-level heat. A powerful woman. A confident woman. A brilliant woman. Nadia Harlowe has got it going on.
Wait.
Don’t do that either, brain. Do not think about your buddy’s sister like that. Hell, do not think about any woman like that right now. You’re in time-out with the ladies.
“Then buy a baseball team,” I say, sticking to the conversation rather than the director’s track of innuendo running through my mind.
She laughs. “Rules. The NFL has them. If I buy a baseball team, it has to be in San Francisco, so do you want me to buy your team or the Dragons?”
I wince. “Ouch. Don’t talk about buying my local rival.”
“How about I just move back to San Francisco and run the football team?”
“Fine, be that way. But you know you love baseball more.”
“I love both sports, and I love interesting stories. So what’s the story with you suddenly wanting to buddy up? And are you enlisting me as a fill-in date? Is this like the start of a romantic comedy where we agree to plus-one each other? Ooh, can we call our story Plus-Oneing with the Best Man?”
“Let’s sell the movie rights and make a mint,” I quip. Then I answer truthfully. “Yes, I was hoping you can plus-one the best man, since I’m not bringing anyone. In fact, I am taking a break from dating. I am officially off the market from now through spring training. Probably beyond too.”
She laughs as I head down the next block. “I’m sure there’s a fabulous story behind that. But I’m going to wait to hear it in person.”
“You’re already ordering up the entertainment you want from me at the wedding table? I hope I can deliver.”
“I sure hope you can too, Crosby.”
“I’ll be prepping all of my best jokes for you. All of my best stories. I’m going to be thoroughly entertaining in my blue tux. Did you know Mariana has a thing for blue?”
“Hello? Bridesmaid here. Yes, I knew that. And I have a blue dress ready for the event. Mariana has great taste in bridesmaids’ dresses, and this one is quite pretty.”
“So is my blue tux. It’s got some badass ruffles on it and bell-bottoms.”
She makes a husky growling sound low in her throat. “Mmm. Hold me back.”
I blink, processing that sound. Did Nadia always sound this . . . sexy? Maybe? Possibly. Hell, she looks sexy, so it stands to reason she sounds that way too.
“It’ll be hard to hold anyone back once you see me in my wedding ruffles,” I tease. “Consider this your fair warning, because I look pretty damn handsome in it.”
“So you think I won’t be able to keep my hands off you? Because I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” she says, a little flirtier than usual.
But perhaps I’m reading into her tone, hearing things that shouldn’t be there. She and I have always had fun together. Have always indulged in a flirty, friendly vibe.
That’s just who we are. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I guess we’ll just have to see about that. Maybe I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you,” I toss back, and then I want to smack myself as I near the gym.
She chuckles lightly, in a sort of challenging tone, as if her laugh is saying just try me. “We’ll just have to see when it comes to the big day,” she says.
“I guess we’ll see who’s best at hands-off.”
“We will indeed.”
Why am I talking to her like this? Like I’m going to be touching her? I’m not. We are friends. She’s my buddy’s sister. I’ve known her forever. I’m not going to touch her. Ever. She’s my plus-one at her brother’s wedding. That’s what I need her for.