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Had she been flirting? She didn't think she had. She had been sweaty, still riding the adrenaline of getting off stage after a perfectly executed show. So no, she hadn't been flirting, even if Jack Abbot looked better in a white t-shirt that clung to his arms like a second skin and light faded jeans than he did in a suit.
She had taken a few pictures with his niece, who was "13 going on 30". Apparently, the girl had been distraught to find out her uncle had been at an event with Samira Mohan and hadn't even brought back a good story from it. So Jack had invited the teenager to spend the weekend with him, omitting the fact that they'd actually be flying to California for the pop star's show.
"Thank you for taking the time. I actually can't imagine how tired you are after that performance, so we're going to go so you can rest. I think she's probably going to be up all night talking to her friends about it, so trying to get a head start to the hotel to avoid the screeching as much as possible," he sounded shy, almost a little embarrassed.
"I always love meeting fans, especially those who are as excited as her. To be honest with you, I probably have about an hour of full energy and then I'll pass out on the nearest surface," she shot him a quick smile. "Also, if it makes you feel better, Trinity almost strangled me when she found out you were at the event and I didn't let her know," Samira adds softly. Behind Jack, she can see Trinity taking pictures of the teenager with the backstage decoration.
"That does make me feel better. I'm not a big pop guy, but I think a few songs will make it into my running playlist." For a second, she thinks he may be lying just to make her feel good — but he says it with the honesty of someone who will actually be opening Spotify the moment he gets back to the hotel.
"I wish I could say I'll watch more football… but my knowledge stops at a ball being thrown and men being tackled into the ground." This gets a chuckle out of him, and Samira can see the wrinkles around his eyes. How old is he? She's going to have to ask Trinity. Probably his 40s. Did men in their 40s always look this good?
"Well, that's a shame. Football is a great sport. You have a few months until the season starts to learn."
"Well, if you're ever back in California, maybe you can teach me." She holds his gaze just a beat longer than necessary.
Something shifts in his expression — not quite a smile, but close.
"Yeah? I can probably do that." A pause. "Goodnight, Samira, thank you for everything."
So maybe she had been flirting.
The second time she met him — well, the third time, it really depended on how you were counting — she had certainly been flirting. But you were supposed to flirt on dates, that much she remembered, even if the last date she'd been on was over a year ago.
A week after Coachella, Samira received a text from an unknown number with a link to a study on the impact of race in heart conditions among athletes.
Hi Samira, this is Jack Abbot. I asked around and eventually Heather sent me your number. I hope that's okay.
This is a study I read a while back that I thought you might find interesting, with you starting your own non-profit.
Since then, they had been exchanging texts, which eventually turned into calls, which turned into FaceTiming. Sometimes they didn't talk for long — both tired from their days. Other times, they'd talk for hours until one of them fell asleep. More often than not, it was Jack, who was three hours behind.
When he'd told her he'd be staying in California for a week in May, helping set up a new clinic in Los Angeles, Samira had asked him if he was finally going to teach her to throw a football. At this point she knew the basics, but she'd yet to actually try. Jack had promised he'd give her a private lesson, if she agreed to have dinner with him.
That's how Samira found herself in Jack's Airbnb — he didn't like hotels, he liked to cook all his meals, know where the ingredients were coming from — making pasta and drinking wine.
That's how Samira found herself on a kitchen counter, with his lips on hers, her legs around his waist.
She had certainly been flirting when she asked if he was going to show her what else those big hands were good for.
She hadn't even tried to flirt when, minutes later, she was on the couch, legs spread, coming on his tongue and fingers.
She thinks she may have been a little mean — just the tiniest bit — when she found her way to his hips and started to grind just a little.
She thinks she was quite gracious when she finally took him all in, letting him finish to incoherent moans and repeating samira, samira, you're going to kill me.
She didn't have to flirt when, an hour later, she asked him if they could order food — she doubted the pasta would still be good after sitting in lukewarm water for an hour.
Yeah baby, we'll get anything you want.
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