sort of thing a gentleman discusses,” he pointed out, as he stroked a self-congratulatory hand down the length of his torso.
While part of me saw him for the egotistical, arrogant pig that years of adulation had made him, an annoyingly resilient part continues to turn to mush in his presence. I can see he’s having the same effect on the girl who asked the question. Her eyelids are fluttering bashfully.
“James,” Chris says, suddenly changing the focus of his attention and finding a middle-aged man standing directly to my right.
I have no idea who this James is, but because Chris is familiar with him, I assume he’s a sports reporter and wonder what cardinal sin he committed to be sent here.
“Great game on Sunday,” James nods. “Are you looking forward to the Raiders game this weekend?”
“Always,” Chris responds, tilting his head. “They’re a good team,” he nods thoughtfully. “But we’re better.”
Chuckles from the assembled crowd rise up, but I glance to my right and note that James isn’t laughing. A Raiders fan or just thoroughly depressed by his current assignment, I can’t tell.
What I quickly discover is that this press conference, such as it is, is not going to provide me with anything to contribute to an article of substance. But, before I have time to walk away Chris calls a halt.
“I believe our hosts have a few more people to introduce,” he states warmly. “But, in the meantime, why don’t you enjoy the food,” he suggests.
I remain motionless, watching Chris, as he leads the young female journalist to one side of the spacious ballroom. Placing his large palm on the wall by her head, he leans down to speak to her. His words are far too quiet for me to hear and my lip reading, sadly, isn’t good enough to make out what he’s saying. I can take a good guess at the honeyed words he’s dripping in her ear, though. Her exaggerated giggling leaves me in little doubt of her response, too.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, turning away, as I realize I’m reliving high school all over again. There will always be someone prettier, someone blonder and someone more popular. And now, even though I’m only twenty three, there is someone younger. After all this time of being the invisible woman, why the hell do I let myself get weak-kneed around him? And why am I letting all those old securities and feeling like I’m not good enough rush to the surface again?
“I must need my head examined,” I sigh, shaking my head wearily.
With a deep breath, my eyes move from the throng surrounding the buffet table to the clear path to the double doors that cries ‘freedom!’ It would be so easy to leave. To get out of here, never look back and, finally, put Chris Hays behind me. With an internal ‘fuck this’, I’m in motion. For the first time this evening, I’m moving with purpose.
Except, as I reach the double doors and stretch my hand out to push one of them open, an arm is suddenly thrust in my way.
“Going somewhere?”
Stunned by the obstruction and the question, my eyes slowly move up his muscular forearm to the blue sleeve of his T-shirt, broad shoulder and finally his face. “I…umm…” I mutter, trying to find my voice.
“We haven’t had a chance to catch up, Jasmine,” he points out.
“Wh…” I weakly breathe. “You remember me?” I manage to blurt.
His lips quirk in a half-smile as he lowers his arm. Slipping both hands into the pockets of his pants, he leans on the doorframe to his right. “Of course I remember you,” he nods.
‘Don’t fall for it,’ I remind myself silently. “Well,” I sigh aloud, recovering my senses just enough to project an air of indifferent confidence. “Then, I’m sure you’ll remember that we don’t have much to catch up on. After all, we moved in very different circles, didn’t we?” I smile sardonically, my hand resuming its mission to push the door open.
With lightening reflexives, Chris’s fingers fly from his
While part of me saw him for the egotistical, arrogant pig that years of adulation had made him, an annoyingly resilient part continues to turn to mush in his presence. I can see he’s having the same effect on the girl who asked the question. Her eyelids are fluttering bashfully.
“James,” Chris says, suddenly changing the focus of his attention and finding a middle-aged man standing directly to my right.
I have no idea who this James is, but because Chris is familiar with him, I assume he’s a sports reporter and wonder what cardinal sin he committed to be sent here.
“Great game on Sunday,” James nods. “Are you looking forward to the Raiders game this weekend?”
“Always,” Chris responds, tilting his head. “They’re a good team,” he nods thoughtfully. “But we’re better.”
Chuckles from the assembled crowd rise up, but I glance to my right and note that James isn’t laughing. A Raiders fan or just thoroughly depressed by his current assignment, I can’t tell.
What I quickly discover is that this press conference, such as it is, is not going to provide me with anything to contribute to an article of substance. But, before I have time to walk away Chris calls a halt.
“I believe our hosts have a few more people to introduce,” he states warmly. “But, in the meantime, why don’t you enjoy the food,” he suggests.
I remain motionless, watching Chris, as he leads the young female journalist to one side of the spacious ballroom. Placing his large palm on the wall by her head, he leans down to speak to her. His words are far too quiet for me to hear and my lip reading, sadly, isn’t good enough to make out what he’s saying. I can take a good guess at the honeyed words he’s dripping in her ear, though. Her exaggerated giggling leaves me in little doubt of her response, too.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, turning away, as I realize I’m reliving high school all over again. There will always be someone prettier, someone blonder and someone more popular. And now, even though I’m only twenty three, there is someone younger. After all this time of being the invisible woman, why the hell do I let myself get weak-kneed around him? And why am I letting all those old securities and feeling like I’m not good enough rush to the surface again?
“I must need my head examined,” I sigh, shaking my head wearily.
With a deep breath, my eyes move from the throng surrounding the buffet table to the clear path to the double doors that cries ‘freedom!’ It would be so easy to leave. To get out of here, never look back and, finally, put Chris Hays behind me. With an internal ‘fuck this’, I’m in motion. For the first time this evening, I’m moving with purpose.
Except, as I reach the double doors and stretch my hand out to push one of them open, an arm is suddenly thrust in my way.
“Going somewhere?”
Stunned by the obstruction and the question, my eyes slowly move up his muscular forearm to the blue sleeve of his T-shirt, broad shoulder and finally his face. “I…umm…” I mutter, trying to find my voice.
“We haven’t had a chance to catch up, Jasmine,” he points out.
“Wh…” I weakly breathe. “You remember me?” I manage to blurt.
His lips quirk in a half-smile as he lowers his arm. Slipping both hands into the pockets of his pants, he leans on the doorframe to his right. “Of course I remember you,” he nods.
‘Don’t fall for it,’ I remind myself silently. “Well,” I sigh aloud, recovering my senses just enough to project an air of indifferent confidence. “Then, I’m sure you’ll remember that we don’t have much to catch up on. After all, we moved in very different circles, didn’t we?” I smile sardonically, my hand resuming its mission to push the door open.
With lightening reflexives, Chris’s fingers fly from his
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