Chapter

Twenty

T hey avoided the senator for the rest of the evening, though Jason felt the weight of Kendall’s glare burning into his back. Everywhere he turned, the man’s eyes tracked him with venomous precision, his disdain palpable. But Jason didn’t give a damn. He kept Stacia close, his hand finding the small of her back whenever she drifted too far, his presence a silent shield between her and the ghosts of her past.

She played the role of the perfect socialite effortlessly—laughing in all the right places, teasing the players, even dancing with a few of them. But Jason saw beyond the polished facade. He caught the flickers of pain beneath the forced smiles, the fleeting shadows in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. And he hated it.

By the time the senator stormed out, Jason was counting the seconds until they could leave. The last hour had dragged on like a lifetime, his patience fraying, his need to get Stacia alone nearly unbearable.

Now, with the charity ball declared a success—thousands raised for an inner-city ballpark—he could finally breathe. He steered his SUV through the near-empty streets, the city lights flickering in the rearview mirror.

Beside him, Stacia sat in silence, her head turned toward the window, lost in thought. He let the quiet settle between them, not wanting to break the spell.

It wasn’t until he pulled up to his condo that she stirred, blinking as if waking from a dream.

“Jason, I thought I was headed home.”

“Not tonight.”

The words came out rough, more declaration than explanation.

Her brows knitted in confusion, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t reach for the door handle, didn’t demand answers. She simply studied him, a wary trust flickering in her gaze.

The season was ending. Their arrangement—this carefully constructed, unspoken agreement between them—was on borrowed time. At any moment, her contract could be nullified. His image was restored. Her job was done. There was no reason for her to stay.

But he wasn’t ready to let her go.

A force inside him—a deep, undeniable need—demanded that he have one more night. One last chance to claim her. To see if this was more than business. More than obligation.

He had spent years building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, convincing himself he didn’t need anyone. But she was already under his skin. And instead of feeling like an irritation, she felt like she belonged. Like home.

That realization was terrifying. But not enough to stop him.

He got out of the car and moved around to open her door. She hesitated before slipping her cool hand into his, allowing him to guide her from the car, through the quiet entryway of his home.

She parted her lips, as if to protest, but he silenced her with a kiss—gentle, unrushed. Not meant to ignite, but to smolder. A slow, aching burn.

Her breath hitched.

He took his time, slipping the delicate wrap from her shoulders, folding it with careful precision before setting it on the hall table. Then, without a word, he led her upstairs.

She followed, her silence heavy with anticipation.

He didn’t turn on the light.

The full moon spilled silver light through the skylight, illuminating the room in soft shadows. The bed stood at the center, bathed in white glow, casting everything in stark relief—like an old, silent film.

Stacia was the leading lady. The heroine. And he was the man about to ruin her.

Turning her in his arms, he found the zipper of her gown and eased it down, inch by inch, his lips following the path he exposed. He placed delicate kisses along her spine, each press of his mouth a silent reverence.

She trembled, a shiver running through her, her head tipping forward as a breathless moan escaped her lips.

His hands slid around her waist, fingers spreading against the silk of her stomach. He kissed the sensitive dip of her lower back, his lips lingering there before dragging lower.

Her knees buckled.

He caught her easily, steadying her, not letting her collapse. She twisted slightly, as if to help the dress fall away, but he stopped her—holding her still, savoring the moment.

The gown slipped from her arms, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric.

She stood before him in nothing but lace and heels, her skin gleaming in the moonlight, the contrast of light and shadow turning her into something otherworldly.

Breathtaking.

He reached up, tugging free the pins from her updo. Her curls tumbled down in a wild cascade, spilling over her shoulders, the faintest scent of jasmine drifting between them.

She was everything. And he was wrecked.

His hands skimmed up her arms, fingers brushing over smooth skin, before settling on her upper arms. His throat tightened, his chest aching with something too big to name.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, voice raw with honesty.

A small sound left her lips, something like disbelief, like surrender.

He pressed light, fluttering kisses along her forehead, her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose—everywhere except her mouth. He wanted to devour her, but not yet. Not until she needed it.

Her breath came in uneven pants, her body swaying toward him. When she finally tilted her face up, seeking his lips, he let her have them—slow, sweet, devastating.

She tried to deepen the kiss, tried to take control, but he pulled away, leading her to the bed instead. She let him. He laid her down, spreading her beneath him like a masterpiece. Then, with the kind of patience he wasn’t known for, he began his slow, torturous exploration. His hands barely skimmed her skin, each feathery caress igniting a thousand nerve endings.

Goosebumps rose along the path of his touch. She writhed, gasping, her body arching toward him, pleading for more. But he refused to be rushed. Tonight wasn’t about taking. It was about showing her everything. About proving to her, to himself, that this was more than lust. More than the pull of something fleeting.

She came apart under his hands, his lips, his whispered promises, again and again—each climax more intense, each surrender more absolute. And when she lay beneath him, boneless and undone, he finally took her.

Not with desperation. Not with recklessness. But with slow, deliberate intent.

Their bodies moved in unison, perfectly attuned, and when he finally pushed them over the edge together, it wasn’t just pleasure.

It was something deeper.

Something undeniable.

And Jason knew, in that moment, he was completely, irrevocably lost.

S tacia lay sprawled against Jason, her body completely spent, every nerve ending still tingling from the aftershocks of their lovemaking. Her breath came in slow, uneven pants, her limbs heavy, her skin flushed and hypersensitive. She could still feel him inside her, the phantom imprint of his touch lingering everywhere, branding her.

This had been different. More than pleasure. More than lust.

Something deeper, something she wasn’t sure how to name. Love? A promise of something lasting? Or was it something else entirely—a final, lingering goodbye wrapped in passion and whispered touches?

A shiver coursed through her, an icy whisper of doubt tightening around her ribs. Instinctively, she burrowed closer, seeking Jason’s warmth, her bare skin molding to the solid planes of his body. He was heat and strength, a steady presence grounding her even as her thoughts spiraled into chaos.

Beyond him, reality loomed.

For years, she had clawed her way up the ranks, maneuvering through the treacherous landscape of politics, determined to prove herself. But after tonight, after everything, she knew the truth—she could never go back. Not to the campaign circuit. Not to the world dictated by her father’s rules.

Senator Kendall would see to that.

He would bide his time, waiting for her to crawl back, humbled and desperate for redemption. She had defied him openly—twice. Maybe even three times, if accepting the position with Jason had been another mark against her.

Michael wouldn’t help her either. Her boss’s career depended on political alliances, and no one crossed Kendall without consequences.

Her entire life had been a series of carefully choreographed steps, all leading to a future designed by someone else. And now, in one reckless, liberating moment, it was over. The terrifying, exhilarating truth settled in her bones. For the first time in her life, she was free. And she had no idea what to do with that freedom.

Jason’s arm tightened around her stomach, his fingers splaying against her skin, possessive even in sleep. His voice was thick with exhaustion, gravel-rough in the quiet. “Stop thinking. You’re keeping me up.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped her, though it lacked its usual bite. She wiggled closer, her breasts pressing against the heat of his chest, her legs tangling with his. “Funny, you don’t seem awake to me.”

One eye cracked open, dark and unreadable in the moonlight. “Keep wiggling, and you’ll find out just how awake I am.”

A slow, teasing smile played on her lips as she shifted deliberately, arching her back just enough to press her bare ass into the hardening length of him. His reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. A flex of his fingers against her hip.

Then he moved, gripping her waist with a firm, punishing hold, stilling her completely against him.

His breath was hot against the shell of her ear, his voice a low growl. “Stop moving. Go to sleep.”

The command sent a shiver through her, her skin pebbling at the sheer force of restraint in his tone.

She could push him. Tempt him. Drive him past the edge of control just to feel the delicious intensity of him taking her again. But exhaustion was already sinking its claws into her, the emotional weight of the night finally pulling her under. So instead, she let herself soften against him, surrendering to the quiet, to the security of his arms wrapped around her.

Jason quieted the storm inside her. Made her feel safe. Made her feel… loved. The realization nearly stole her breath.

She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes, and let sleep claim her in his arms.

S tacia’s quiet, rhythmic breathing filled the darkened room, a soft counterpoint to the steady pounding of Jason’s heart. The world outside was still, bathed in moonlight and shadows, but inside his mind, chaos reigned.

He pulled her closer, tucking her against him, the heat of her bare skin branding his own. She sighed in her sleep, her body instinctively curling into his as if she belonged there. His arm draped protectively over her waist, a gentle yet unyielding cage, anchoring them together. He willed himself to sleep, to let the exhaustion of the day claim him.

But sleep refused to come.

His body should have been spent—an afternoon game, hours of schmoozing at the charity event, a confrontation with Senator Kendall that had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and then her. Stacia, beneath him, around him, pushing him past his limits, making him feel everything when he had spent years feeling nothing at all.

He had given her everything tonight, and she had taken it, met him stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss, need for need.

And yet, here he was, lying awake, his mind tangled in the mess she had made of him.

How had she gotten under his skin so deeply? How had she cracked open wounds he had thought long healed—wounds he barely remembered having until she pressed her hands right into them, forcing him to see?

One woman. One dinner. And suddenly, she had unraveled him.

Stacia murmured something incoherent in her sleep, her breath warm against his chest. She shifted, burrowing closer, and reflexively, he tightened his arm around her, holding her tighter. She released a soft sigh, her body going pliant, sinking deeper into slumber.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering traces of his own skin on her.

This wasn’t just sex. It hadn’t been for a long time. But what was it?

Would she still want him when the season ended? When the press moved on to the next scandal, when the cameras no longer needed a polished version of Jason Friar? Would she still be here when he was no longer the name on everyone’s lips, when the roar of the crowd faded and all that was left was the man beneath the jersey?

Was he fooling himself, thinking this was real? Was she?

The thought curdled in his stomach.

He trusted her. More than anyone. And yet, the tiny, insidious whisper clawed at the edges of his mind, dark and cruel. What if you’re just another job? What if she’s here because it’s easier to stay than to walk away?

But no—no. Stacia wouldn’t do that to him. Would she?

A part of him, the broken part, told him that everyone leaves eventually. That love was just another illusion, a temporary high before the inevitable crash.

But another part of him—the part that had learned to feel again because of her—knew.

She loved him.

He didn’t know how or when he had realized it, but the truth sat heavy in his chest now, undeniable. Just as he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he loved her.

Now, he just had to figure out how the hell to tell her.

J ason headed downstairs, his muscles aching with the remnants of sleep, but his mind already churning. He swung through the living room, grabbing his tablet from the coffee table, flicking on the television more out of habit than interest. The hum of the morning news filled the quiet space as he made his way into the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air.

Stacia was still asleep, wrapped up in tangled sheets upstairs, and for now, the house was peaceful. A rare, fleeting moment of calm.

The morning light streamed through the windows, casting long golden streaks across the polished hardwood floor. Everything about the day seemed lighter, brighter—as if last night had stripped away something heavy inside him.

For the first time since stepping back onto a baseball field, Jason felt at peace. Rested. Whole.

And it was all because of her.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, the ceramic warm in his grip, then settled at the kitchen table, flipping open the tablet. He intended to scan the sports section, maybe check on standings, but the moment he saw the headline, his breath locked in his throat.

Representative Glazier and Image Consultant: Love Affair or Convenience?

The blood drained from his face.

Right below the bold, black print was a picture.

Stacia.

She was clinging to Representative Glazier’s arm at some political event, her body pressed close, her face tilted up toward his with an expression Jason recognized all too well—adoring, intimate.

His stomach turned to stone.

Jaw clenching, he scanned the article, his pulse hammering with every word.

Stacia Kendall was hired to be Glazier’s image consultant, tasked with crafting a picture-perfect family man for the campaign. But was her job strictly professional, or did it extend into the bedroom? According to Patsy Hillenbrand, Glazier’s former mistress, Kendall ensured she was cut off from the Representative entirely—then took her place in his bed. The woman known for cleaning up reputations seems to be up to her old tricks.

Jason’s grip tightened on the tablet, his vision going red.

Ms. Kendall is now linked to our very own Georgia Knights’ first baseman, Jason Friar. We all remember his highly publicized image issues, but it appears Kendall is once again blurring the lines of professional and personal. She’s been traveling with the team, spending nights in Friar’s hotel room, even serving as his date at official events. So the question is—is Stacia Kendall a skilled image consultant or a high-priced escort? Or is that just a fringe benefit?

The article punched him square in the gut, the words slicing through him like a blade.

His eyes drifted back to the photo, bile rising in his throat.

Sonofabitch.

She’d played him. She was no different than the others. No different than the women who had used him, traded sex for favors, clung to him for status. Rage simmered in his veins, his pulse a roaring drumbeat.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

He didn’t look up as Stacia entered, still yawning, wearing his bathrobe, her hair tousled from sleep, her face soft with lingering warmth. She smiled when she saw him, the kind of smile that used to make his chest tighten in ways he didn’t understand. She leaned down, arms opening to hug him?—

Jason shot to his feet.

She froze, startled, her expression flickering from warmth to confusion. Without a word, he slid the tablet across the table. Her gaze dropped to the screen. The color drained from her face.

“What?” she whispered, then snatched up the tablet, scanning the article in a rush.

He watched as her fingers tightened around the device, her body going rigid. Then, her eyes flashed, her lips curling back.

“That bitch,” she seethed. “This is all lies. Glazier was done with her. She had already moved on to his campaign manager, and he got fired too. My father encouraged me to pose as Glazier’s girlfriend for a few events—to sell the family image, to make it seem like we had potential for something more. But it was never real. I never slept with him. We weren’t even interested in each other.”

Her gaze lifted to Jason, desperate now. “You have to believe me.”

He should believe her. He wanted to. But the rock wall around his heart, the one he hadn’t even realized he’d let crumble, slammed back into place. Her words skittered off his defenses, useless against the weight of his anger, his hurt, his betrayal.

Stacia stepped forward, placing a hesitant hand on his forearm. “Jason. I never slept with him.”

His muscles locked. He glanced down at the picture, then at her. The robe. The bed upstairs.

“Then explain this,” he said, his voice razor-sharp. “Because it sure looks like you were cozy with the guy.”

She let out a sharp breath, dismissing the image with a flick of her wrist. “It was my job, Jason. That’s all. He was a liability, constantly hitting on women, and I was asked to keep him in line. My father thought if I played the part, it might lead to something real, but neither of us wanted that. We abandoned the idea early in the campaign. Glazier couldn’t keep it in his damn pants, and I told the team to be ready for jilted lovers causing a scene.”

Jason’s lip curled. “Interesting job description. Sleeping with your clients—is that part of the package, or just an added service?” His voice dripped with venom. “Or do you let your father pimp you out for political gain?”

She recoiled as if he had hit her. Pain flickered across her face, her breath catching in her throat.

Her voice dropped, raw and shaken. “I told you—I never sleep with my clients. I never slept with Glazier.”

His gaze swept down her frame. His robe. Nothing else underneath.

He let his eyes flick back to the article, then back to her, his stare icy. “Are you sure?”

Her entire body trembled. “Of course I am,” she whispered. “This… this has nothing to do with my job. It’s about you and me.”

She stepped forward again, placing her palm against his chest. A desperate plea. The touch burned. Jason flinched away, as if scalded. She dropped her hand.

A tear slipped down her cheek, but his heart had turned to stone.

“We’re done,” he said coldly. “My image is probably ruined now, thanks to you.”

A soft, shattered breath escaped her lips. “I saved your image.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “And you destroyed it in one fell swoop. Even I couldn’t have done the job this well.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.

“I’m going for a walk,” he bit out. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

Then he turned, shoving open the front door, stepping out into the crisp September air, leaving Stacia standing in the wreckage?—

Tears streaking down her face.

Her entire world crumbling beneath her feet.