to.”
A fling. The words drifted unspoken between them. She’d met his double entendre and raised him. Ouch.
“I can’t do it. There’s no way I can be Jordan Serenghetti’s physical therapist.” Sera drew her line in the sand. Or rather, on the hockey ice—or whatever.
“You have to,” Bernice, the clinic’s manager said, her short curly brown hair shining under the overhead fluorescent light.
“He needs a babysitter—” of the centerfold variety “—not a trainer. Or a physical therapist.”
“We’re counting on you to help us land this client.”
And Jordan Serenghetti was counting on landing her. His appointment had ended over an hour ago, and still she was suffering the lingering effects. Annoyance. Exasperation. Indignation. She’d spent the time since naming her emotions.
True, Jordan emanated charm from every pore. She wasn’t immune. She was still a woman who liked men, and she wasn’t dead. And okay, maybe she was the one with long-suppressed needs. But that didn’t mean Jordan was getting anywhere with her. Again. She still remembered the feel of his lips on her. And he didn’t have any recollection—none whatsoever. She’d just been another easily forgotten face in a cast of thousands. That much had become clear once she’d reencountered him years later while waitressing at the Puck & Shoot, and there’d been not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
She knew the score these days, and this time she was determined that the game would end Sera 1, Playboy 0.
Endure months of close contact with Jordan? It would test her nerves and more. So after her session with him had ended, Sera had sought out Bernice in her office to plead her case. Standing just inside the doorway, she focused on the bobblehead dolls lining her boss’s bookshelves. All the major sports were represented there—including hockey. Scanning them, Sera didn’t see Jordan. It gave her hope that she had a small chance of convincing Bernice. How big a fan could her boss be?
“How about you reassign me and I bring you another baked lasagna to thank you?” Sera cajoled.
“Ordinarily I’d consider a small bribe,” Bernice parried, her desk chair turned toward the office’s entrance, “especially if it’s one of your homemade dishes. But this time, no. The staff has been enjoying the big pan of baked ziti you brought in for lunch today, though.”
Sera lowered her shoulders.
“If we do a good job,” Bernice continued, “we should get regular business from the New England Razors. It’ll be a huge boost for Astra Therapeutics and for your career.”
Sera held back a grimace. As far as her boss was concerned, there’d be no getting out of this gig.
Bernice tilted her head. “You’ve dealt with difficult clients before. We all have.”
Sera opened and closed her mouth. This was different. But she could hardly explain why. “Isn’t this like nepotism? I get the plum client because he’s related to me by marriage?”
Bernice chuckled. “The fact that you’re practically family should make this assignment a piece of cake.” Her manager looked thoughtful. “Or if he’s a bad in-law, well then, we’ve all had those, too.”
Sera pressed her lips together. Damn it. She’d worked so hard to get her physical-therapy degree. She’d moonlighted as a waitress and endured three grueling years back at school for a graduate degree. And now Jordan Serenghetti stood in the path of her advancement.
Bernice gave her an inquisitive look. “On the other hand, is your problem that Jordan has too much magnetism? Some people get starstruck by celebrities and have a hard time focusing on the job.”
Sera spluttered. “Please. The fake charm is a big turnoff.”
Her manager raised her eyebrows.
Sera’s face heated, and she quickly added, “I’m not taking it personally. There isn’t a woman alive Jordan doesn’t try to charm.”
“You know, if I were a little younger, and my husband would let me, I’d consider dating Jordan Serenghetti.”
“Bernice, please! You’ve got gold with Keith. Why trade it in for pyrite?” Sera knew her manager had just celebrated her sixtieth birthday and thirtieth wedding anniversary.
“What makes you think Jordan isn’t genuine?” Bernice countered.
Sera threw up her hands. She wasn’t about to dig into her past with her boss—and explain how she’d honed her instincts about men the hard way. She was wise enough these days not to be taken in by ripped biceps—hadn’t she seen them up close an hour ago?—and hard abs. Probably those lips were still magic, too. “The problem is he knows he has the goods.”
Bernice laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with a man who’s confident.”
“Try arrogant.” Sera knew she had to talk to Marisa. Perhaps her cousin could convince Jordan that this work arrangement wasn’t a good idea. If she couldn’t get out of this assignment herself, maybe Jordan would back out.
Knowing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Bernice, Sera decided to back off and change the subject. But when her workday ended at four, she made the short drive from Astra Therapeutics’ offices outside Springfield to Marisa and Cole’s new home in Welsdale.
Sera pulled up to a classic center-hall colonial and thanked her lucky stars for May in western Massachusetts. The breezy, sunny day could almost erase her mood. She had texted Marisa in advance, so when she got out of her beat-up sedan, her cousin was already opening the front door.
Marisa wore a baby sling and raised a finger to her lips but exchanged a quick peck on the cheek with Sera. “Dahlia just fell asleep. I’m going to lay her down in her crib and be right with you.”
“You and Cole have gone all Hollywood with the baby naming,” Sera remarked wryly, because even months later, the baby’s name brought a smile to her lips.
“If Daisy is acceptable, why not Dahlia?” Marisa said over her shoulder as Sera closed the door and followed her into the house.
“And here I thought Rick and Chiara would go all name crazy, but no, nope, they had to settle on something traditional like Vincent.” Frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if the middle Serenghetti brother and his new wife, actress Chiara Feran, who resided in Los Angeles most of the time—home to the weird Hollywood baby-naming craze—had come up with something like Moonlight or Starburst.
Sera bore only a passing resemblance to her cousin. They shared the amber eyes that were a family trait, but she’d grown a shade taller than Marisa by the time she was fourteen—and her dark blond hair set her apart from her cousin, who had long curly brown locks. When Sera had been younger, she and Marisa had been deep in each other’s pockets, and sometimes she’d wished the similarities had been strong enough that they could easily pass as sisters.
“I’ll be right back,” Marisa
