Page 20

Chapter Twenty

Jake

July 9th

W e touch down just after noon, and I’m not even off the plane yet before I feel the shift.

LA heat licks the edge of the tarmac, dry and steady.

Paparazzi won’t be far—somewhere beyond the gates, lenses already hunting.

And for the first time in my career, I’m not alone stepping into it.

Tahlia walks down the steps ahead of me, and I swear the breeze moves for her.

She's not dressed like someone trying to be seen. She wears a pencil skirt and a dress tank tucked just enough to show she's not afraid of her curves.

Her low kitten heels click with precision, and her posture is straight and deliberate.

She is confident without posturing.

She is effortless.

And her hair?

Jesus.

It's straight now—silk-pressed and gleaming in the sun, falling past her shoulders. Past her bra hook in the back and even. Like it's always been there, just waiting for the right moment to stun the hell out of me.

She turns, catching me mid-stare.

Raises a brow like she’s clocking my every thought.

I nod toward the luggage.

“All right, I gotta ask—what’s in all three bags?”

She doesn’t flinch.

“One’s for the dress and heels. The others have options for mixers, dinners, and emergency outfit malfunctions. And the third is a carry-on."

I lift both brows. “All for a two-day trip?”

She shrugs. “I like having options.”

“You pack like we’re fleeing the country.”

"Please. If I were fleeing, I'd have a whole different set of bags and a trunk."

I laugh as the driver opens the door.

We slide into the SUV—Tahlia first, smooth as ever, legs crossed just enough to keep my brain misfiring. I follow, closing the door behind us, and the car eases off the tarmac.

She's quiet at first, sunglasses still on, one heel bouncing slowly as we pass through the gates and merge into traffic. She tilts her head. “You holding up okay?”

I meet her eyes, and the corner of my mouth lifts. "I'm with you. What else would I need?"

She smiles and looks away from my stare.

I feel it in the silence that follows. She's here. Not because it's convenient or easy. Because she chose this and me, even if she hasn't said it outright.

After an hour in traffic for a thirty-minute ride, the SUV slows in front of the hotel, and I catch her adjusting her top like she’s prepping for battle. Not for the cameras—just for the moment. I do the same. Roll my shoulders. Straighten up.

By the time the doors open, we’re already in sync.

The hotel is all sharp lines and glass—upscale in a way that whispers instead of shouts. A concierge meets us at the curb and already knows my name. The press is scattered outside but not swarming. Yet.

“So this is what subtle fame looks like?” Tahlia murmurs, stepping out like she’s been doing this her whole life. “I expected flashbulbs and at least one reporter tripping over a stanchion.”

“Give it five minutes,” I say, sliding out behind her. “You in that skirt is about to make someone’s camera go into cardiac arrest.”

She shoots me a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t blame me if they get my good side.”

“Every side’s your good side,” I mutter. Not quiet enough.

The concierge, suited and polished, offers a short bow as he approaches. He is in his early thirties, has a British accent, and wears a crisp pocket square—the whole discretion-and-loyalty package.

"Mr. Reynolds. Ms. Carter. Welcome to The Langley. I'm Simon. I'll handle your check-in and assist with any personal needs during your stay."

Tahlia arches a brow. “‘Personal needs’?”

Simon smiles lightly. “Dinner reservations. Press requests. Room temperature preferences. That sort of thing.”

She nods once, lips quirking. “Good to know.”

Simon leads us through the glass doors as if we’re already on camera.

I stay close behind Tahlia, still not over how she looks in that skirt, still not sure how I got this lucky.

If anyone asks, I’ll just say I followed her in.

Because that’s exactly what I’m doing.

The cool air is a welcome change as we enter the hotel. The lobby is marble and quiet restraint. Not flashy, not loud. It’s designed with money that doesn’t need to prove itself.

Simon gestures us toward the private elevator tucked near the back. We step in, and I watch Tahlia's reflection in the mirrored wall as the doors close. She's calm, composed, and engrossed in her phone. But I can see the subtle shift in her posture—like she’s bracing for something. With her eyes closed, she lets out a deep breath.

I reach for her hand without thinking.

She lets me take it. Her lids open, and she gives me a subtle thank-you look.

When the doors open, another staff member waits on our floor with a sleek leather key folio.

“Your suite’s been pre-stocked. Mr. Reynolds, your stylist’s package was delivered this morning. Ms. Carter, there’s a garment rack inside with a note from your designer.”

Tahlia raises a brow, surprised. I shrug. “Had it sent ahead.”

She doesn’t say thank you. Just gives me a look like she’s still trying to figure me out or subtly acknowledging who I am to her.

Simon opens the suite door and steps aside, letting us in first. The space is light, spacious, quiet—floor-to-ceiling windows, two balconies, champagne on ice with long-stemmed strawberries on the side.

I hear Tahlia’s heels pause behind me.

“Jake,” she says slowly. “There’s only one bed.”

I turn. “Yeah?” Like we haven’t been in the same bed for the past week.

“Just stating the obvious.”

“Noted.” I set my bag down and glance around. “Want the window side or the one closer to the bathroom?”

She blinks. “You’re serious.”

“Unless you’d rather flip a coin.”

Her lips part like she’s about to argue—but doesn’t. Instead, she walks toward the window, surveying the skyline as if we’ve got all the time in the world.

“You can take the bathroom side,” she says eventually. “That way I’m not tempted to trip over you in the dark.”

“Generous. Thank you.”

“Practical,” she mutters—but a glint in her eyes says the boundaries are already hanging by a thread.

I don't push—not yet. We've still got press downstairs, a public event, cameras, and questions—the big reveal.

And for once, I don’t care about any of that.

I care about the woman standing in front of the window—poised and steady, already planning the next twenty steps while I’m still trying to recover from watching her walk across the room.

The hotel's rooftop bar is all soft lighting, polished wood, and curated exclusivity. There’s not a phone screen in sight, just high-end watches, stylists sipping champagne, and enough ego in the room to power an awards show twice over.

Tahlia walks in like she’s got the whole damn floor plan memorized.

High-waisted black pants hugging her hips, top molded to every curve, hair straight and shiny as hell down her back. She's not flashy, but heads still turn. Not because she's trying. Because she doesn't have to.

She’s that calm in the chaos. That silence that makes everybody else talk too loud.

And me?

I’m just trying not to stare like a rookie seeing daylight in October.

I rest my hand on the small of her back. Not dramatic. Not possessive. Just there.

“You holding up okay?” I murmur.

She nods once. “I’ve been to depositions with more posturing.”

I grin. “When you want to leave, just say the word.”

“Not yet.” Her eyes skim the crowd. “I’m watching the sharks circle each other. It’s fascinating. Besides, this is your scene. Not about me.”

“Wanna grab a drink?”

"Certainly."

We’re halfway to the bar when I hear my name.

“Reynolds! Damn—wasn’t sure you’d make it this year.”

I turn and spot one of the league's PR reps—a man in a sharp suit, with a louder smile and a hand already out.

I shake it and nod once. "Glad to be here. Didn’t want to miss this event.”

His eyes flick to Tahlia. “And who’s this stunning woman?”

“Tahlia Carter,” I say without pause. “My girlfriend.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back or correct me. Just looks him in the eye and offers her hand.

He’s polite. Impressed. Probably already wondering how to spin this into press gold.

“Pleasure to meet a walking vision.” He kisses the back of her hand.

“Jake, you brought your girl to the ESPs?” someone else murmurs. "Damn. Guess the rumors were true."

“Which ones?” I ask, still smiling.

“The Jake Reynolds is officially off the market. Guess it’s only natural after that bar fight.”

Tahlia raises a brow but stays quiet. She doesn't need to say a thing. She's wearing this moment as if it were custom-made, owning her space without lifting a finger.

I slide my hand up her back, slow and sure.

“Bar fight didn’t take me off the market,” I say, loud enough to carry. “She did—with one knock on my door.”

Then I lean in. One hand still at her back, the other slipping to her waist.

And I kiss her.

Not rushed. Not showy.

Just enough to tell everyone watching that this isn’t PR.

It’s not a fling, and it’s not just a phase.

When we break, her lipgloss is smudged and her eyes are locked on mine, sharp as ever with a wide-ass smile.

“Too much?” I murmur.

“Not even close,” she says.

And just like that?—

The launch ain’t soft anymore.

After a few more greetings and back-pats, we break from the crowd and find a quiet corner table. Tahlia's got a wine glass cradled between her fingers, her posture calm, but I can tell her wheels are still turning.

I sip the bourbon they handed me as if they already knew what I wanted.

She glances over, one brow lifted. “So… we’re public now. Official.”

I lean back, hand resting on the back of her chair. “You okay with that?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the wine catch the light as she turns the glass.

Then she says, her tone clear, “Jake, I always knew I was falling for you. I just needed to be sure I wasn’t some challenge to conquer. That once the chase was over, I wouldn’t just be… done.”

I don't say anything, allowing her the space to continue and the words to sit.

She meets my eyes, steady. “But when you showed up—and showed out? I had to stop pretending I didn’t know it was real. So… sorry I was late to the table.”

I blink once. Let it sit. Then lean in just a little closer.

“I didn’t even know there was a table. I was too busy making room for you in every part of this.”

That earns me something real, right there in the corner of her mouth.

Not a smile.

Something deeper.

She raises her glass toward mine. “To showing up.”

I don’t move right away. I just look at her— really look at her.

This woman who’s been sleeping beside me. Holding me up. Calling me on my shit without flinching.

I lift my glass, slow and sure. “To the woman who shut down the noise, called me on my bullshit, and still looked at me like I was worth betting on. I don’t know what I did to deserve that. But I’m not letting it go.”

Tahlia doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile right away either.

She just raises her glass, meets mine with a quiet clink .

Her voice low, steady, just for me.

“Then don’t.”

One word.

One promise.

Then she takes a sip, and I swear it hits lower than the bourbon ever could.