He shakes his head, chuckling.
“My bad. It’s kind of a running joke that the middle child gets overlooked while the parents worry about the other kids. My brothers are all crazy successful—Henry’s a lawyer like my dad. Noah was almost a lawyer, but became a Hollywood agent instead. Cory used to work on Wall Street before he quit a little while ago. And Adam is a tech whiz.”
“And you’re a famous basketball player,” I supply, not liking that he omitted himself.
“I’ll give you ‘professionalbasketball player’,” he laughs, “but I was hardly famous.”
“And what about now? What are you doing post-professional basketball?”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding my eyes. My interest is piqued.
“Nothing big like a lawyer or stockbroker,” he hedges, “but I did get a job as an assistant coach at a high school in Brooklyn.”
“No shit! Which school?” I press. His eyes widen, like he’s shocked I even care.
“Centerpoint High?”
I gasp, dropping my bread.
“No way! My little cousin is a power forward at Ridgefield. I’m pretty sure they’re Centerpoint’s rivals.”
Damon nods, still shocked.
“Preseason hasn’t started yet, so I’m still getting the lay of the land, but, yeah, I think I heard that…Wow!” He sits back in his seat. “Small world.”
After a bumpy start and a few more sips of my wine, my nerves finally ease. He tells me more about his new job, including a difficult student he’s just starting to reach.
“He’s a pain in the ass, which sucks, because he’s also the best player on the team. I know it’s cliché to say he reminds me of myself at that age,” he grins, “but he does.”
I return his smile.
“Are you telling me you’re like the Michelle Pfieffer of Centerpoint’s basketball team?” I tease. He laughs out loud.
“Yeah, whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “Coolio’s not around to write a song about us, but weare, in fact, hosting an exhibition game with a few other Brooklyn schools for Homecoming in October. It’s to raise money for new equipment, team travel to tournaments, hopefully including the state championships, flights and hotel for scouts coming to watch the seniors. Stuff like that.”
My ears perk up at an opportunity to lend my support.
“That actually sounds cool! Would you maybe want me to post about it on my socials to drum up awareness? Depending on when it is, I might even be able to stop by.”
“Seriously?” he balks.
“Yes, seriously,” I confirm, trying not to be offended by his surprise. “I told you my cousin plays ball. He’s always fundraising for one thing or another, and I have a ton of followers.”
“Kendra, that…,” he trails off, looking into my eyes. “Thank you. That would be amazing.”
I shrug off the tingly feeling his undivided attention and clear adoration has been giving me all night, and change the subject to highlights from some of my more exciting shoots. People think being a model is all glitz and glamor and, while it can be, it’s also lots of auditions, dealing with the catty behavior of the other models, and often uncomfortable shooting locations, like a swimsuit spread in 40-degree water. And I had to take shitty economy flights to get to my shoots for years.
Before I know it, the waiter is clearing our plates and bringing my long-awaited tiramisu.
“Excuse me,” Damon calls after the retreating waiter, “can the lady also get a snifter of brandy?” With the order acknowledged, he turns back to my confused face.
“Brandy? I’ve already had more than enough wine.”
“My bad,” he says with an amused quirk of his lips. “After almost a year, I figured you might want to finish the meal with something stiffer than wine.”
My jaw drops, and I poke him in the ribs, eliciting a laugh from him.
“Keep it up and that’s the only stiff thing I’ll be putting in my mouth tonight,” I taunt. That shuts him up, though the reminder of our after-dinner plans ignites the lust that’s been simmering below the surface since we got here.
