Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Tahlia

July 8th

J ake’s arm is slung over my waist, warm and steady.

His fingers are curled just under the hem of my top, like they wandered there on their own sometime in the middle of the night and never left.

His breathing is deep and even, which, according to his paperwork, is a great indication of his recovery.

I haven't moved, partly because I don't want to wake him and mostly because I don't want to leave.

The sun’s sneaking through the curtains now, bright enough to wash the room in soft light. Sometimes, I want the cloudy or stormy mornings. They make a compelling argument for staying in bed.

But the past few days haven’t left room for hiding.

It’s been three days since the bar fight. Three days since the apology. Four days since the kiss that short-circuited every rational thought in my body.

And somehow, even with all that time—days that felt like a whole damn year—I’m still sorting through what it meant.

Not the apology. Not even the fight.

The kiss.

Because it didn’t feel like a reaction. Or a test. Or a heat-of-the-moment mistake.

It felt like a shift.

Like something inside both of us stopped pretending.

Especially after the fight.

He didn’t just lose his temper—he made a statement.

Right there in a packed bar, fists flying and jaw set, he made it painfully clear.

I wasn’t just the girl next door anymore. I was his .

And I should’ve hated that—should’ve felt reduced, boxed-in, claimed.

But I didn’t.

I felt seen. Defended. Wanted.

And ever since, his hands have touched me as if I’m already his.

His mouth has been everywhere, but the places I ache for him most.

And I’ve let it get that far.

Pushed him to the edge and pulled back—every time.

But only because I know there's no going back once I give in.

I've taken to wearing pajamas to bed—loose shirts, drawstring pants, no shorts, nothing fitted—nothing that would make it harder to pretend I'm not thinking about what would happen if I just stopped saying no.

And yet, here I am, still in his bed.

I move slightly, and Jake grumbles low in his throat, pulling me in tighter.

His lips brush the back of my neck.

No.

Absolutely not.

I slip from under his arm as gently as I can and pad to the kitchen in my bare feet, grabbing the hoodie I tossed over the couch last night and shrugging it on.

More layers, more security.

There’s a thick stack of outlines in my bag near the door—mock essays I should be reviewing before breakfast.

But then there’s Jake.

Still asleep.

And somehow, I don’t want to miss any of it.

I start the coffee, tiptoeing around his kitchen.

This isn’t an extended sleepover; this is a shift.

Staring at the machine as it brews, I wonder how we even got here.

Not the kiss or the bed, but here where my toothbrush is already in his bathroom and our chargers are tangled with each other's, starting their own affair on the nightstand.

Where he texts me when he's leaving the facility, or where I ask what he wants for dinner without thinking.

We even have a shared calendar in both places, and I’ve started planning outfits around his scheduled appearances.

And I'm now on all his essential lists. No more, “only those on the list can come in” anymore. I had to pass a background check and everything.

Which brings me to my current mindset and why the coffeemaker is my best think partner. I fix a cup of coffee and sit at the island with my planner.

The ESPs are in two days, and we're flying out on the ninth via private jet—another impulse purchase from Mr.

Reynolds.

I have a final fitting for my dress today at one, so it can be ready for travel in two days.

The low rumble of sheets shifting calls to my attention.

Taking another coffee mug from his cabinet, I prepare him a cup and set it on the island beside me.

“Morning, counselor.” He leans in and places a chaste kiss on my neck.

Shirtless, hair a little messy, eyes still half-asleep—but locked on me like I’m the only thing he wants to see this morning.

“You’re up?”

“I’m trying to be respectful of your routine.”

“You mean not groping me before caffeine?”

He grins.

“That too.”

I hand him the mug.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low.

Still rough with sleep.

We stand there for a beat.

Just looking at each other.

Then he sets the mug down, takes mine from my hand, too, and places it on the counter.

I blink.

“What?—”

His hands slide around my waist, tugging gently as he pulls me forward and lifts me, slow, deliberate, onto his lap.

He sinks into the kitchen chair, and I straddle him before he can object.

His mouth finds mine.

Warm.

Familiar.

Possessive.

Like he’s not just kissing me—he’s claiming ground.

My fingers curl into his hair as he deepens the kiss.

His hands slip under the hoodie—one palm wide and anchoring, the other gliding up until his thumb grazes the edge of my breast.

I suck in a breath.

He keeps going.

His fingers find my nipple, teasing slowly and deliberately.

A circle.

A drag.

A flick.

And he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The kiss turns messy and needy.

My hips shift forward without thinking, pressing down right as he groans against my mouth.

Feeling him beneath me.

Hard.

Hot.

Thick.

Pulsing like a live wire against the thin barrier of my pajama shorts.

He moves beneath me, just once, and I break, just a little, letting out a moan of pleasure.

My hands fist his shirt.

My mouth parts.

My body begs .

One grind.

Just one.

That’s all it would take.

But I know better.

Because if I let myself roll my hips again, if I give him that much, we’ll stop pretending and start everything.

I pull back.

Breath shaky.

Lips swollen.

He groans—frustrated, turned-on, right there with me in every aching second.

My legs are still around him.

His hands still under my shirt.

And if he begged, I might not stop him.

So, I slide off his lap.

Carefully.

Reluctantly.

“I’m making breakfast,” I say, voice rough.

“If I don’t do something with my hands, they’re gonna end up on you again.”

He watches me walk away and doesn’t say a word.

But I can feel the heat of his eyes trailing every step.

Heavy.

Focused.

Dominating.

I grab the skillet with a grip tighter than necessary and crank the burner as if it’s personal.

Breathe, Tahlia.

Think about eggs.

Toast.

Something other than the imprint of his cock still pulsing between your thighs.

He doesn’t move.

Just stays in that chair, acting like I didn’t just slide off his lap, soaked and shaking.

I hear him shift—slow, intentional.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

As if he’s giving me a minute.

Or daring me to turn around and forget breakfast exists.

I won’t.

But God, do I want to.

By the time Jake leaves for the team facility, the air in the condo finally feels breathable again.

Mostly.

I wipe down the counters, rinse our coffee mugs, and load the last dishes into his dishwasher like it's my own.

Because it kind of is right now.

My charger is still tangled on his nightstand, my toothbrush is in his bathroom, and his hoodie is on my back.

And we’ve been circling the edge of something we keep pretending we’re not already in.

The door clicks behind him, and I pause for a second.

I exhale, toss the dish towel onto the counter, and grab my bag from the hook by the door.

It takes ten steps to get from his place to mine.

Same hallway. Same floor. Different world.

I kick off my shoes and head straight for the bedroom.

I’ve got less than twenty-four hours to get it together before we’re wheels-up on a private plane I didn’t even know he owned until he casually mentioned it like it was a new phone case.

I’m in the middle of packing when my phone buzzes on the bed.

Joi (FaceTime)

Lauren (FaceTime)

The two of them together? Already bad news.

I accept the call and prop the phone against a folded hoodie on the bed. Joi’s face pops up first—bare-faced, silk bonnet on, and a suspicious amount of iced coffee in hand. Lauren appears a second later, looking far too composed for someone juggling two kids and a demanding caseload.

"Hey," I offer, cautiously.

Joi leans in, squinting. “Why do you look freshly kissed and deeply in denial?”

Lauren laughs. “She does, though.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we not start?”

Joi sips. Loudly. “I’ll stop if you tell me why you’re packing like you’re leaving for six months.”

“I’m not,” I mutter, folding another outfit into my carry-on. “I’m just… organized.”

“Girl, you’ve got packing cubes labeled by day of the week and occasion,” Lauren says, squinting at the screen. “That’s not organized. That’s a Virgo’s fever dream.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“You’re going to LA, not the moon.”

I ignore them both and refold the black slip dress I’m bringing for the dinner after the awards.

“I just like knowing I have options, okay?”

Joi raises a brow. "You're packing options for him , too?"

I pause. Slightly.

Lauren gasps. “Tahlia! You are not planning your wardrobe around his , are you?”

“I’m not!” I snap. “I’m just… picking things that won’t clash if we’re photographed together.”

Joi snorts. “Oh, so this is your soft-launch couple collection.”

I toss a pillow at the screen, and both cackle like witches.

"So," Lauren says, sobering up, "How are you… Really?"

I hesitate.

She softens. “Tahlia.”

I sit back on my heels. “I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. It’s just… a lot.”

“The bar fight?” Joi asks. “Or the fact that you’re clearly whipped and trying not to admit it?”

I shoot her a look.

Lauren raises a brow. “Wait—is this about the fireworks kiss or something else?”

I pause, sliding another pair of heels into my packing cube.

Joi narrows her eyes. “Oh my God. Something else happened.”

I shrug. “Define something.”

Lauren sits up straighter. “ Tahlia. ”

I glance down, pretend to smooth a wrinkle in a dress that doesn’t have any. “We’ve… been physical-ish.”

Joi practically lunges through the screen. “Define physical .”

I side-eye her. “Let’s just say… the kitchen chair is no longer a neutral zone.”

Lauren chokes. “I’m sorry— what?! ”

“It’s not like that,” I say quickly. “We haven’t slept together. But it’s been… heated.”

Joi’s eyes go round. “Like second base heated?”

I say nothing.

She shrieks. “You’re rounding the bases!”

Lauren’s trying not to laugh, but she’s failing. “Oh my God, you’re almost in love .”

“No,” I snap.

“Yes,” they both say at the same time.

I bury my face in the packing cube. “This is a mistake.”

Joi grins. “No, this is the best FaceTime I’ve had all week.”

Lauren leans closer to her screen, chin resting on her hand like she's prepping for a cross-examination. "So. Let me get this straight. You've been playing live-action Bases Loaded with a pro athlete, you’re flying to California with, and you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not all in?”

“Thank you,” Joi adds, gesturing with her coffee like she’s passing a baton. “Because if I had a man who looked like that and touched me like that ?—”

“You don’t know how he touches me,” I snap before I can stop myself.

Both women freeze.

Joi’s mouth drops open. “So he touches you?”

I cover my face. “God, I walked right into that.”

Lauren howls. “You ran into that like a wide-open door.”

Joi fans herself. "No wonder you've been walking differently. I knew something was up when you said ‘scrambled eggs’ like it was a love language.”

“I hate both of you.”

Lauren softens. “No, you don’t. You’re just scared because it’s starting to feel real.”

“It was already real,” I mutter.

Joi narrows her eyes. “And yet… you’re still saying not-my-boyfriend. ”

I sigh and flop back on the bed. “Because I don’t know what this is. Yeah, he said I was his—but we haven’t actually talked about it. Not really. Not when we’re both clearheaded and not wrapped around each other.”

Joi whistles. “He said you were his? Out loud? In public?”

“Bar fight public,” I say.

Lauren’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, that’s declaration energy.”

“He was pissed,” I say quickly. “It wasn’t a relationship talk. It was a watch-your-mouth-before-I-break-your-jaw kind of talk.”

Joi smirks. “Still counts.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I argue. “That’s adrenaline. That’s testosterone. That’s not, 'Hey, let’s define what we are over coffee and a safe emotional space.’”

Lauren leans in. "But would you want to define it… If he asked?"

I go quiet.

Joi gives me a look. “Girl.”

“I don’t know,” I lie.

“You do,” they both say at once.

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “I hate that y’all know me this well.”

Lauren smiles. “We know you because we’ve seen you go through everything but this. And now that it’s here? You’re terrified.”

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” I whisper.

Joi’s voice goes gentle. “Then don’t.”

Lauren softens. “You okay with going public at the ESPs? ’Cause you know that’s what’s going to happen.”

I nod slowly and let out a deep breath. “I think I am.”

They exchange glances.

"I actually… have a dress," I add. "I'm having it custom-made. I wasn't going to wear it—thought it might be too much."

Joi’s jaw drops. “Tahlia Simone Carter, you mean to tell me you have a tailor-made dress and were planning to leave it behind?”

Lauren gasps. “Girl.”

I lift my hands defensively. “I was trying to be lowkey!”

“You’re walking a red carpet with your not-boyfriend, who fought someone for you in public,” Joi says. “The time for lowkey has passed.”

“Pack the damn dress. Let people stare and remind him exactly why he’s with you,” she adds, smug.

“And lay claim to your man,” Lauren finishes.

I smile, despite myself. “Thanks, y’all.”

Joi raises her coffee like a toast. “Now go finish packing before I come over there and redo it for you.”

I laugh. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Love you, little sis,” Lauren says.

“Love you, too,” I echo.

Joi smirks. “Love you, too—even though you’ve been holding out.”

“Bye, Joi.”

“Love you, Joi.” I roll my eyes, grinning.

The screen goes black.

And for the first time all morning, I let myself exhale.

I grab my phone again and stare at my contacts for a second.

Then I scroll.

Tap.

Hold it to my ear.

“Hey,” I say when the line picks up. “You got room for one more today?”

“Girl, I always got room for you,” my stylist says. “How early can you get here?”

“On my way.”

“Got you down. See you soon.”

I walk back to the bed, zip my carry-on, and close my luggage with a quiet finality that says it all.

Because tomorrow, I’m not just stepping onto a plane.

I’m stepping into whatever this is with Jake.

And I want to look—and feel—like I own every inch of it.