Page 31 of A Little Crush (The Little Things #6)

RORY

H e isn’t fine.

And for being a rock, Jax sure knows how to…

crumble. Throwing his iPad against the bench, he curses as the final buzzer sounds in the arena.

Grizzlies win three to one. I left Hades at the hotel, unsure if I wanted to juggle the public chaos of an NHL hockey game, a baby, and a dog who hates humans.

As the Grizzlies’ fans cheer around me, I decide I made the right decision.

One by one, they each funnel into the main aisle before filing up the stairs until only the cleaning crew is scattered around the seats, sweeping up spilled popcorn and empty candy wrappers.

It sucks. Witnessing the first loss of the season.

But the really crappy part? It’s the fact that I can’t do anything about it.

It might only be a game to most people. But to my family?

It’s work. It’s passion. It’s life. And I hate to see them hurting or stressed.

Balancing Poppy on one knee, I keep my arm wrapped around her little belly and send out a handful of texts. To my dad. To Reeves, Ev, and Griff. To Crowther. And last, to Jaxon. I hover over his name, unsure what to say or how to help while knowing the silence will only make it worse.

Keep it simple , I decide.

Me

I’m sorry about the loss.

There. It isn’t much, but at least it’s something. My phone buzzes with his response.

Jax

Yeah, it’s a bitch.

Me

The agenda your assistant sent says you have a few interviews. Do you want me to wait?

Jax

I’ll meet you at the hotel.

Me

Okay.

I snap a quick photo of Poppy in a gold and black Lions onesie and send it.

Me

She’s still your biggest fan.

Blue dots appear almost instantly.

Jax

Needed that. Thanks, Rore.

I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up.

Text me when you get to the hotel.

“Always thinking of others,” I mumble under my breath.

Me

Will do. And seriously. You did great tonight. Don’t beat yourself up too much, okay?

As I wait for his response, I balance Poppy on my knee, bouncing her up and down in a gentle rhythm. “Your daddy’s gonna be okay,” I tell her. “He’s just a little bummed.”

I check my phone again, but there aren’t any notifications.

With a sigh, I slip my phone into one of the diaper bag’s pockets. “He’ll be fine.”

My lips curve toward the ground, but I slip the diaper bag strap over my shoulder and head outside with Poppy.

After grabbing us dinner, I head back to the hotel room, ready for some downtime.

Thanks to the flight and the late game, Jaxon’s still-packed bags sit next to mine just inside the door.

After laying out Poppy’s elephant blankie in the main area, I grab their things and place them in the larger bedroom before sending a quick follow up text to Jaxon, telling him we made it to the hotel. He doesn’t reply.

I like hanging out with Poppy. I like her smell, her little coos, the way she flaps her arms when she’s excited, and how her eyes light up anytime I’m in the room.

Honestly, she’s the best distraction I could hope for after tonight’s loss, and I’m almost sorry she’s stuck with me when she should be working her adorable magic on her daddy. I bet she could make him feel better.

A crib is set up next to the king-sized bed, and after a few stories, Poppy rubs at her tired eyes.

“You tired, Little Miss?” I brush my lips against the crown of her head, and she squirms in my lap, letting out a quiet fuss.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I add with a smile.

Tossing the book onto the coffee table, I start her bedtime routine.

Jaxon walked me through it when he first hired me.

Change Poppy’s bum, feed her a bottle, zip up her sleepsack, then lay her in the crib so she can get some sleep.

It should be easy, and on paper it is, but this is the trigger I’ve yet to voice aloud.

The seemingly ordinary routine that leaves me anxious and on edge.

Scanning her up and down, I do one more run-through of my mental checklist. Changed bum?

Check. Clean jammies? Check. Bottle on the nightstand and not in her crib where she could possibly choke?

Check. Baby monitor pointed directly at the crib but out of arm’s reach?

Check. Sleepsack fully zipped and buttoned so she can’t wiggle out of it and possibly get it wrapped around her neck or cover her face or become a hazard?

I crouch down and drag my hand along the zipper and snap one more time. Check.

“Check,” I repeat under my breath, hoping the verbal acknowledgement will keep my OCD from triggering.

It’s funny that way. The way it manages to weave itself into the things we care about most. Like taking care of an innocent little girl.

An innocent little girl whose life is in my hands.

All it takes is one minor slip-up, one minor mistake, and?—

Stop!

Forcing my body to move, I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me, ignoring the itching beneath my skin at the prospect of closing the door entirely on the off-chance it’s locked or gets blocked and I’m not able open it if I need to.

Yeah, OCD’s a bitch, and it doesn’t matter how much childhood therapy I endured, or how many hours I spent learning about the disorder, or the fact that my degree is literally in child psychology.

It’s always there. Always. Some days it’s stronger, and some days it’s so quiet I’m almost convinced I finally managed to get rid of the beast forever.

But ever since my first night watching Poppy—the weight of her safety entirely on my shoulders—the intrusive thoughts have reached a new pitch, proving to be louder than they’ve been in a very long time.

Did I leave the bottle in her crib?

No, I don’t think so, but maybe I set it too close to the edge of the nightstand and it could fall in?

Stop.

With a deep breath, I lean my forehead against the doorframe, well aware that if I don’t walk away and find a distraction, I’ll repeat the checklist and will likely wind up pulling Poppy from her crib, change her bum, top her off with another ounce of milk, and?—

“Stop,” I whisper before twisting the door handle and closing the door with a quiet click, despite the insistent screaming in my mind to go inside and check on her again.

There. She’s safe. Fed. Clean. I’m sure she’ll be out like a light within minutes.

Stretching my arms over my head, I yawn, then check the time on my phone. My fingers itch to unlock my cell so I can check the baby monitor, but I force myself to slip it back into my pocket.

Jax hasn’t responded to my text yet. It’s been hours. Is he okay? Of course, he’s okay. The interviews should be over by now, but he probably needs some more time to calm down. Maybe watch tonight’s footage and come up with a game plan for the rematch? Maybe. Probably. He’s fine.

Yeah, I definitely need a solid distraction tonight, especially when I know I’ll be up before 5:00 a.m. just like every other morning.

Unsure what else to do, I head to my side of the suite, brush my teeth, and climb beneath the thick white comforter.

I must check my phone a dozen more times as the television plays a mindless sitcom before I finally give in and shut it off.

Checking on Poppy one more time through my phone’s app, I fall asleep to thoughts of all things Jaxon with a sprinkling of a certain little girl’s safety in the other room.

The bed dips, and I jolt awake. But it’s the smell that gets me. Alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Hell, it practically punches me in the face. My nose wrinkles, and I blink the sleep from my eyes, finding a hot, shirtless body slipping under the sheets.

“What are you?—”

A drunk Jaxon cuts me off. “Fuck, what are you doin’ here, Rore?”

What am I doing here? Is the guy delusional?

“Uh, sleeping?” I offer. I can’t decide if I’m more amused or confused as my eyes trail down Jaxon’s bare chest before I can stop myself.

Uh, why is he shirtless?

“Sleeping?” He chuckles loudly. “What are you doin’ sleeping in my bed?”

My hand finds his very naked pectorals in an attempt to stop his movements, but his massive body collapses onto the mattress, jostling me beside him and rendering my effort useless.

Yup. I am officially sharing a bed with Jaxon Thorne.

A very drunk Jaxon Thorne. I stare at the man beside me, unsure what to do.

Do I leave? Go to his bed? Do I kick him out?

He scoots a little closer, and I shouldn’t like it.

Feeling his bare skin against me. The light dusting of hair.

The steady beat of his heart. The heat of his body.

Seriously, is this guy a furnace? He sure as hell feels like one.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Jax, this is my bed,” I point out.

“Your bed?” he mumbles.

“Yes? ”

Can’t he tell it’s a queen-sized bed and not the king-sized one on his side of the suite?

Finding my waist, he tugs me toward him, using me as his own body pillow.

“Sorry about that.” His body melts into me even more, molding to mine.

I stay on my back and stare up at the ceiling while trying to ignore how easily we fit.

“Sorry about a lot of things,” he slurs before his words turn into a defeated sigh. “Can’t believe I fucked up tonight.”

Fucked up? How did he fuck up? By climbing into my bed or pulling me closer or…oh. Hockey. Right. Because some people care about more than their messed-up libido.

Get your head out of the gutter, Rory!

“I fucked up so bad, Squeaks,” he rasps.