Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

Jake

July 3rd

I don't realize I've dozed off until the scent of garlic and something else arouses my senses.

My stomach growls, and the soft clinking of kitchen utensils drags me the rest of the way up.

I push myself off the couch, still groggy, still not fully steady.

The second I stand upright, the room tilts just enough to remind me my body isn’t on board with this plan.

I make it halfway to the island before her voice slices through the space.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

I stop as if I’ve been caught sneaking out of class.

Tahlia rounds the corner, towel in hand, eyes blazing.

"You're still on pain meds, Jake. What happens if you eat the floor instead of dinner?"

I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

I smirk. “Thankfully, I’m cute.”

She steps in, grabs my arm, and guides me toward the stool as if she’s done it a dozen times.

“Sit. Before you bruise your other side.”

I lower myself carefully, wincing as I get situated.

She turns back to the stove without another word, picking up right where she left off.

“Hey,” I say.

She glances over.

“Sorry. I should’ve waited.”

She gives a half-shrug as she turns back to the stove.

“I was literally about to bring the plate to you, but sure—risk internal bleeding for a closer seat.”

She says it like it’s no big deal.

But when she walks away, I’m not thinking about pain.

Those shorts don’t leave much to the imagination—bare legs, high hemline, soft sway that shouldn’t look as good as it does when all she’s doing is reaching for a damn plate.

It’s not intentional. That’s the worst part.

She’s just moving through her space, calm and focused, like none of this is affecting her the way it’s messing with me.

And I’m over here, chewing on restraint as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

When she sets the plate in front of me, I stare for a second, genuinely caught off guard by how damn good it looks. "You seriously cooked all of this?"

She lifts a brow. “What, you thought I was faking it?”

“No, I just… I didn’t expect a whole-ass meal.”

She shrugs unbothered. “You needed to eat. It’s not that deep.”

“It’s a little deep,” I say, grabbing a fork. “This looks like something off the Food Network.”

She rolls her eyes but sits across from me with her own plate, leg tucked under her.

I take a bite, pause, and close my eyes for a second, allowing the flavors to finish mind-fucking me.

"Okay," I say, pointing my fork at her, "What the hell, Tahlia?"

She smirks without looking up. “What?”

“This is amazing. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“My mom,” she says. “Saturday mornings, Lauren and I would have major debates in the kitchen over chores. She said if we could argue in her kitchen, we could also learn to work in it."

“Damn,” I mutter, going in for another bite. “Brains, beauty, sarcasm, and you can cook?”

“Don’t forget patience,” she adds. “I haven’t smothered you with a pillow, yet.”

I grin. “You’re the total fucking package.” What the fuck did I just say?

That gets her attention. She looks up at me for just a beat too long, debating whether to respond or let it sit.

She lets it sit, and I'm grateful for that.

We eat in that comfortable silence again until I glance over and ask, "You're not studying tonight?"

She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m taking a break.”

I tilt my head. “You? Taking a break?”

She shrugs. "My neighbor once told me I need to live a little. So, I'm living for a few days, at least."

I put my fork down. To hear Tahlia putting her dreams on hold just to take care of me, I can't let her do it. “That’s unacceptable.”

She lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

I grin. “You’re helping me heal, and I appreciate you for that. It’s only fair I help you prep for the bar. Tomorrow, I’m making flashcards.”

She snorts. “You don’t even know what subject I’m reviewing.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m charming and I retain things quickly.”

“Oh really?”

“Absolutely. I’m also an excellent motivator. Ask anyone.”

She laughs soft and low and shakes her head like I'm too much.

But she doesn’t say no.

“Jake,” Tahlia begins. “Tomorrow, my family is having a get together. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

“As your date?”

“We’re not dating.”

“Am I meeting your family?”

“Yes, but only because you’re not house broken yet,” she deadpans.

“Didn’t I take you to Murph’s for his Gala?”

“Yes, but?—”

“It’s our second date. Just admit it so we can finish dinner.”

“Fine. It’s a date.”

“Now, see. That wasn’t so hard.”

“Just wait till you meet my dad.”

This will be a first.

I grab my phone after we finish dinner and return messages that have come in during the day.

My first call was to my parents to let them know I'm okay, not great, but breathing. My mom cried a little. My dad tried to pretend he wasn’t listening on speaker, and they may have moved their trip up. We didn’t talk long—I just needed them to hear my voice. Talking is still uneasy, and I did much of it at dinner.

My agent wants a quote for the press. My sister sends me a voice note saying she’ll beat my ass if I make her cry again.

And the DMs… same thirsty chaos as before.

The team chat is filled with memes, messages, a few poorly photoshopped RIP Reynolds jerseys—typical bullshit. But every one of those guys checked in, and that means a lot to me, especially since we are in the throes of a nine-game stretch.

I text them, I'm good. Because I am.

But I don’t tell them where I am or who's taking care of me tonight because I don't want to share this. For once, it's not about status, stats, or headlines.

It’s just about her.

The volume from the TV and the glow reflecting off the muted colored walls are the only noises in the condo. Every now and then, I'll glance over at Tahlia, who is busy with her tablet.

Whatever she's reading has her full interest.

I ease off the couch so I can go get ready for bed.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she asks, glancing up from her tablet.

I lean against the hallway wall, hand braced above me like I’m posing for a calendar shoot. “Gonna shower. Figured I’d give you the option to supervise—y’know, for safety. Or curiosity.”

I toss her a wink.

She finally looks up. Deadpan.

“I’ve already seen you half-naked. Wasn’t impressed then, won’t be impressed now.”

She sets her tablet down, not even pretending to be in a hurry, and starts walking toward me like she owns the space between us.

And damn if she doesn’t.

She’s not like any other woman on any given day throwing themselves at me. She doesn't even try to impress me. Not doing anything extra. No strut. No hair toss. Just… moving. But her steps are sure. Measured. Confident in that quiet way that hits harder than anything loud ever could.

Oversized T-shirt skimming her thighs. Braids pulled up, with a few loose strands hanging down as if they couldn’t be bothered to behave. She smells like cocoa butter and mint toothpaste—fresh, clean,

Effortlessly sexy.

Like she’s got nothing to prove and somehow still proves everything.

She stops in front of me, her gaze already scanning my torso.

“Let’s get that wrap off before your ego swells worse than your ribs.”

I almost respond with something smart. Almost.

But all that comes out is a quiet, “Be gentle with me.”

She snorts. “You wish.”

She steps in close. No gloves. No hesitation. Just those steady hands, and it looks like she's about to dissect me with a legal pad and zero sympathy. Her fingers find the edge of the wrap, tugging gently.

And I swear to God, her skin brushes mine.

Barely.

Just the backs of her knuckles grazing along my waist as she unwraps layer by layer, slow and methodical. But it’s soft. Too soft.

The kind that makes me think about her skin under my hand, not just against it. The type of soft that reminds me how long it's been since I've touched anyone I actually gave a damn about.

I shift, trying not to react—but my body has other plans.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t seem to notice.

But I do. And so does the part of me that doesn't need to be standing at attention right now.

She finishes unwrapping and takes a step back. “Do you need anything else?”

Yeah. Air. Distance. A five-minute head start to get my shit together.

Instead, I clear my throat and say, "Uh, yeah. When I'm out, I'll need you to re-wrap it and apply the gel, too. The team doc said it'll help with the bruising."

She nods. “Just put the tube on the counter and let me know when you’re ready.”

She turns to walk out, and I glance at her back—at the curve of her hips, the way that oversized shirt clings to the edge of her frame as she disappears down the hall.

And I think about this morning.

The towel. Her bare back. That flash of skin I wasn’t supposed to see.

I need to stop.

I really need to stop.

Cold shower, it is.

I step out of the shower, towel slung low around my waist. Water runs down my chest in slow trails, my body still tight from the heat and the tension that didn't go anywhere. The mirror's fogged up, and the floor cools under my feet as I open the bathroom door.

"Tahlia?" I call out, voice low and rough. "I'm ready. Are you?"

She doesn’t answer right away, but I hear her feet padding across the floor. Then she appears in the doorway—eyes scanning, mouth set as if she’s trying not to let it twitch.

“God help me if this is some elaborate excuse to show off your abs,” she mutters, walking in like she didn’t just clock every inch of me.

I smirk. “You think this is me showing off? Sweetheart, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She gives me a look. Not impressed. Not amused. But not looking away either.

“Turn,” she says, gesturing with the wrap. “Back toward me. Let’s go.”

I do what she says, hands braced on the counter.

She steps in behind me. Close enough, I can feel the heat from her skin.

The first contact is cold—the gel against my side. But her fingers? They’re warm. Careful. Her touch smooths over the bruise, slow and focused, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.

Every pass leaves something behind—tingle, pressure, a pulse I can’t control.

I tense.

She pauses. “Does it hurt?”

Her voice is too soft.

Like she already knows the answer.

“Not really,” I lie.

“Jake…”

I shake my head. “It’s fine.”

She keeps going. Her touch is gentler now, but not less charged. Her fingertips skim just beneath the wrap line, chasing the edge of pain with something worse: restraint.

“You keep flinching,” she murmurs. “Am I doing something wrong?”

She says it like she’s worried—but I hear the shift in her tone. The edge behind it. The question under the question.

I exhale through my nose. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

She stops again. This time, I feel her looking at me before I turn my head.

Our eyes lock.

And everything stalls.

She steps around to face me, with the wrap in hand, and starts winding it across my ribs.

Her fingers move, but her eyes don’t.

Neither do mine.

She finishes wrapping, her palms smoothing the edge of the bandage with one last pass. Her hands fall away slowly, as if reluctant to break contact.

Our eyes lock again.

Neither of us moves.

I can feel her breath—shallow, quiet. She’s right there. Right in front of me. No excuses left. No distractions. Just her and me and this… thing crackling in the space between.

My gaze drops to her mouth, just for a second.

And she sees it.

Her lips part—barely. Not an invitation, not yet. But not a rejection either.

I know she'd kiss me back if I kissed her right now.

But I don’t. Not because I don’t want to. Because I do.

Too much. And maybe that’s the problem.

I swallow hard. “Stay in here tonight.”

She blinks, but doesn’t move.

“Just sleep,” I add. “No pressure. No lines crossed. I just… I want you here.”

There’s a flicker in her expression. Like she doesn’t quite trust how much that got to her.

She steps back first. Just a half step. Just enough to breathe.

“I’ll, um…” she clears her throat. “Go turn off the TV in the living room. Be right back.”

Her voice is steady, but her fingers twitch slightly when she sets the gel tube on the counter.

“Okay,” I say, voice lower than I meant.

She nods once, then turns and walks out.

I stay where I am, ribs tight, jaw tight, fists clenched.

Fuck. One move. That’s all it would’ve taken.

But the way I want her?

It’s not just want. It’s something deeper.