“Was that one better than the last one?”

“No.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Taylor had to stop herself from laughing. She was enjoying his smile way too much.

They passed underneath the staircase and entered an open-concept kitchen/den/breakfast area that was the size of the entire house she and her family lived in back when they’d been on base in Germany.

Natural sunlight glinted off the veins of gold streaking throughout the pearly white marble countertop, and the Sub-Zero refrigerator and range were worthy of a high-end restaurant. She hoped to God he used it for more than cooking ramen.

“Okay, never mind about the tour,” Taylor said as she plunked her duffel bag on a kitchen island at least twice as big as her bathroom.

“You sure?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”

She shook her head. “Jealousy has never been a good look on me, and I will not be able to hide it if I see any more of this house.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I bought it as more of an investment than anything else,” he explained, a hint of embarrassment tinging his voice. “I only use about a third of it.”

“Well, damn. Now I feel bad,” Taylor said. “I didn’t mean to wealth-shame.”

“Is wealth-shaming a real thing?”

“You’re the one trying to justify your house to someone you just met.”

“Point taken.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she really did mean it. She’d heard stories of athletes who blew through the millions they earned and had to get jobs selling insurance or bagging groceries once their sports careers were over. Hell, she was only three years older than he was, but if she’d had access to the kind of money he did when she was twenty-five, investing in real estate would have been the last thing on her mind. She would have probably spent it all on Disney Vinylmation figurines.

“You have every right to be proud of this gorgeous house,” Taylor added. “And I reserve the right to that tour at a later date. For now, let’s talk strategy.”

Jamar pulled out a high-back stool and motioned for her to take a seat at the kitchen island. “What am I getting myself into over these next two months?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers.

She unzipped her duffel and pulled out a poly folder with the Taylor’d Conditioning logo imprinted on the front. From the folder, she slid the chart she’d created and set it between them so they could both look over it.

“I usually call this the plan of attack, but you can think of it as your playbook or game plan, or whatever they call it in football.”

“I like plan of attack better,” he said. “It makes it feel as if I’m about to do battle, which I am.”

“I like that attitude, Twenty-Three.”