Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
During cleanup, Tish gave Kenji a bottle of water, then passed one to Deke, who thanked her with a wink. He carried his eyes across the room and linked them with mine as a smile materialized.
I tried ignoring the fact that he was still shirtless. He shot me a thumbs-up while mouthing the words Was I good?
I threw him a thumbs-up in return and mouthed, You did great. He sent me a wink and graced me with a dimple. I refused to acknowledge what that wink did to me internally.
When Tish came back my way, she said, “I’m going with Clarise to pick up the lunch for everyone. When I get back, we can finish up with Kenji and Declan.”
“Sounds good.”
I watched her leave the studio, before turning to look at Deke again. He was already looking at me . . . or maybe he’d never looked away. I ignored the rapid beating of my heart and turned for the snack table to grab a pastry.
I glanced over my shoulder, nibbling on a glazed donut, and was fortunate to see one of the stylists had approached him with a sheet of paper and a Sharpie. Deke smiled, graciously taking the items to provide an autograph.
While I was in the clear, I weaseled my way to the seating area and sat to check notifications on my phone.
I’d purposely kept my distance from Deke all morning, and sure, it was a bit immature, but I had to. The Davina from two weeks ago would’ve bounced on over to speak to Deke like an adult, but a week and a half ago I’d received an Instagram message from him.
I had no idea why he bothered messaging me, let alone followed me. Seeing his name in my inbox was a surprise, to say the least. I actually had to check his profile to make sure it was him. The page was verified, so it was.
I went to the app to read his message again:
You look good in that pic of us. Glad we’re working together.
He was referring to the picture of me and him shaking hands in front of the company building. The photo was posted on our company’s official Instagram page and website, and I assumed he found me because my personal account was tagged.
His message seemed like a double-edged sword. At first, I was going to respond to only the glad we’re working together part, but I changed my mind just as quickly when I looked up and saw a picture of Lewis staring back at me.
While I was on the app, I clicked his username, bishopdeke, to view his profile. I tapped the first photo on the page, an image of him on the court last season, dressed in his black-and-red uniform, the bold number seventeen in the center, sweat glistening on his sculpted upper arms.
Finishing my donut, I scrolled down until I came across an image of him with some supermodel. She was slender yet curvy in all the right places. Her hair was dark and curly, her skin a shade lighter than caramel. They were at an event, her arms draped over Deke’s neck, him hugging her by the waist. She had to be Giselle Grace, the woman he was rumored to be dating.
“You left me on read,” a deep voice said next to me.
I gasped and flipped my phone on its face as Deke stepped into view.
He looked from the phone on my lap to my face again with a funny look. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No, no—I was just . . . checking some things. Um, what do you mean I left you on read?” I asked, swiftly changing the subject.
“Sent you a message on Instagram a couple weeks ago.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m so sorry about that.” I tugged on my shirt to smooth it out. “When I saw it, I got caught up and completely forgot to respond.”
“You’re busy. I get it.” He shifted on his feet, clutching the bottled water in his hand and taking a thorough look around the studio. I drew in a breath and slid over, tapping the available cushion next to me.
“You should sit,” I offered. “Are you hungry? Tish went to grab lunches for everyone, but in the meantime, there are donuts and cookies at the refreshments table. I doubt an athlete wants to eat that junk, though.”
He chuckled, lowering to the sofa. “It’s the offseason. This is the time when I eat whatever I want, D.”
“D?” I repeated with a confused laugh.
“Yeah, D. I can call you that, right?”
“Uh . . . sure. If you’d like.”
I wriggled in my seat, twisting my wedding band. I didn’t want to tell him it was normally family who called me by that nickname. It was either D or Vina. Most times it was Vina. My dad was the one who called me D the most, so it was a little strange hearing it from Deke after not hearing it for so long.