Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Tahlia

July 10th

T he flashbulbs are blinding.

Jake slows just enough for the cameras to catch up—and maybe for me to breathe.

His hand is at the small of my back, light but steady.

It fits there.

I fit here.

The carpet under our feet is slick and shimmering.

We step and pose, pivot and smile.

They coach us as we go, but Jake doesn’t need coaching.

He moves as if he’s done this his whole life—and maybe he has.

Cameras, microphones, crowds—this is his world.

I’m just in it.

Until he turns and looks at me.

Really looks at me.

It's like the crowd disappears, like it's just us on this runway of flashing lights and whispered commentary.

I feel it in my spine—the attention, the heat, the quiet awe that trails behind us as we move forward.

Jake leans close, his voice pitched just for me.

“You holding up all right?”

I tilt my head, lips parted just enough for breath.

“I’m doing great.”

He grins, not for the cameras, but for me.

"That's what I was hoping for."

The next set of flashes comes faster. Shouts from the press. “Jake! Jake! Over here!”

“Who’s your date? We’ve seen her photo on social media.”

“Are you two official?”

Jake doesn't flinch. He looks right at the nearest camera and says it like it's been a fact all along.

“This is my girlfriend, Tahlia Carter.”

One hand is still at my back. The other reaches for mine.

A few gasps, a few murmurs—but mostly, more flashes.

“Who designed the dress?” someone calls out, voice cutting through the noise.

Before I can speak, Jake beats me to it.

“It’s a custom by Nicole Lynae,” he says, smooth and proud. “And no, she’s not available for commissions—this was a one-time masterpiece.”

The crowd eats it up.

I can feel the way they’re all looking now. Not just at the dress. But at me. And him. And us.

The flash of the cameras and the weight of the moment should've felt overwhelming.

Instead, I square my shoulders and smile.

Let them look.

The ballroom is full of sharp suits and sharper smiles. Everyone here is important or pretending to be, and half of them look as though they skipped dinner to fit into their outfits.

Jake fits right in.

He’s composed, loose-shouldered, half-grinning in that way that makes people think he’s harmless. He’s not. He’s a loaded weapon with a charming trigger, and I’m watching him work a room full of snakes—moving through them as if he’s the biggest one in the pit.

He keeps his hand on my back. Gentle. Intentional. A silent message to the whole damn room, Don’t even try it.

Someone tries anyway.

She walks up like she owns air, all blonde waves, red lips, and a dress that's trying too hard. I clock her confidence before I clock her tone.

“I told everyone you’d show,” she purrs, eyes locked on Jake. “Didn’t think you’d bring a plus-one.”

I feel his grip shift slightly—firmer, reassuring.

Her gaze slides to me, then back to him. “She doesn’t look like your usual type.”

I don’t smile.

I don’t blink.

I lift my chin and say, "That's the point."

Her eyes flick back to me.

“Well, I guess we’re all upgrading these days.” She laughs, sugar-laced and smug.

“Nice to meet you… whoever you are.”

“Tahlia Carter,” I say, cool and unbothered.

“His girlfriend. And the reason he’s not calling you back now or ever.”

Her face doesn’t twitch.

Doesn’t crack.

But she walks away without another word.

Jake chokes on his drink beside me.

“You didn’t even blink.”

“I’m not here to blink.”

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Remind me never to cross you.”

I smirk.

“You couldn’t handle it.”

We don't speak for a while—not out of tension, but because Jake's pulled in every direction.

Someone from the Sixers daps him up.

A tennis pro claps him on the back.

He's signing programs, posing for photos, and cracking easy jokes with people who've played on just as many stages.

He belongs here.

And I let myself watch.

It's not performative—none of it. He's not posturing or chasing attention.

He's just… him. Relaxed. Confident. Moving through the chaos like it doesn't touch him.

Like this world—bright, loud, and built on names and wins—was always his.

Still, his hand never leaves mine.

When the handlers start ushering everyone toward the auditorium, he finally glances my way—eyes warm, thumb brushing along the tips of my fingers like a quiet check-in.

We move together through the velvet ropes and into the theatre—cooler air, lower lights, the hum of pre-show anticipation.

Rows of high-backed seats stretch toward the stage, names printed on place cards like status badges.

Spotlights trace idle circles across the curtains while a camera crew sets up near the aisle.

Jake nods back at a few familiar faces.

One of them calls out, “Reynolds—glad to see you off the IL, man!”

He laughs, but doesn’t let go of me.

We take our seats toward the front—not center stage, but close enough to feel the pulse of it all.

I cross my legs slowly, aware of every flashbulb, every glance.

I don’t shrink from it.

I fit beside him like I was always supposed to.

He leans in again, voice low and smug.

“You still breathing over there, or did I knock the wind out of you earlier?”

I don’t even blink.

“Please. I’ve had tighter hugs from my niece.”

His grin spreads, shameless and slow.

“Damn. Might have to up my game, then.”

“You’ve been saying that since June,” I say, settling back like I didn’t just gut him in five syllables.

The applause swells as the final segment wraps, and they announce Chase Thorne—Comeback Athlete of the Year.

Jake’s up on his feet before anyone around us moves, clapping hard, jaw tight with pride.

"Let's go, Thorne," he mutters, almost like it's personal.

And it is.

Tennessee Terrors don’t just ride for each other on the field.

They ride for each other here, too.

When Chase walks across that stage, polished and grinning and finally looking like the man who almost lost it all last season, Jake whistles low between his teeth.

I glance at him. He’s not smiling for show. This is pride. Loyalty. Brotherhood.

It settles something in me I didn’t realize was still unsettled.

After Chase’s speech, the lights shift again—brighter now. A signal that the show’s over. Time to move.

All around us, people stand—adjusting tuxes, fixing heels, grabbing programs and gift bags. Handlers appear like shadows, guiding nominees and winners to back exits, press corridors, and greenrooms.

Jake stretches to full height as a few players cross the aisle to dap him up. There's laughter. A couple of camera flashes. He's still in it—genuine, relaxed—but scanning for me.

His eyes find mine.

He doesn’t speak. He just reaches back, palm open.

And I don’t hesitate.

My hand slides into his as if it belongs there—and maybe it does.

A handler materializes near the end of our row, headset crackling as she eyes Jake. "Mr. Reynolds? They're ready for your final photos and a couple of press touches."

He nods once, casual. But he doesn’t let go of me.

Not even when the cameras start flashing again.

Not even when the lights shift.

Not even when the world watches.

We're standing near the velvet ropes waiting for the car service when I feel Jake's arm tighten around my waist. His hand slips into mine, fingers brushing slow and easy like he's grounding both of us. His chin rests against the side of my head.

We’re not talking. Don’t need to.

That’s when a voice cuts in from the side.

“Reynolds!”

Jake turns toward it, a half-smile already forming. “Troy. Thought you’d already ducked out.”

Troy steps forward, dressed like always—designer suit, smart loafers, and a presence turned up to eleven. "Client's still glad-handing. Figured I'd find you before the night got away."

His eyes flick to me, and his smile goes warmer. "Ms. Carter. I've heard nothing but good things."

“Can’t say the same,” I reply, offering my hand.

Troy laughs. “Fair. But your dad’s one of the reasons our agency tightened up our code of conduct. He’s a damn legend.”

Jake squeezes my waist lightly. "She's been keeping me in line, too."

Troy nods, a little more serious now. “Good. You needed someone who’d actually call you on your shit.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, unapologetic. “She’s it.”

Troy glances between us, like he’s seeing the full picture for the first time. “You look happy, Reynolds.”

“I am.”

He nods again. “Keep it that way. I’ll check in tomorrow. Go enjoy the rest of your night.”

And with a nod, he fades back into the crowd.

Jake leans in, lips brushing the side of my temple. “You handled that like a pro.”

“I am a pro,” I murmur. “You forget I come from greatness.”

He grins and pulls me closer. “I could never forget that.”

The car pulls up the moment I glance toward the street, headlights catching the sheen of Jake’s suit jacket.

He opens the door, palm brushing my lower back as I slide into the seat.

Then he follows, close behind, hand settling over mine the second the door clicks shut.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet. Comfortable.

Jake leans back against the seat, eyes on me but not pressing. One finger lazily tracing the inside of my wrist as if it's something he's memorizing just for himself.

Our concierge is already waiting when we reach the hotel, offering a small nod as the driver opens the door.

Jake helps me out with the same steady grip that’s been anchoring me all night.

And when we step into the elevator, it’s like everything softens. No cameras. No whispers. Just us again—back in our own orbit.

By the time the elevator doors close behind us, something’s changed.

We're no longer in full gala mode. There is no need for polished smiles or press-ready posture. I slip off my heels, leaning into the mirrored wall as the elevator hums upward.

Jake watches me quietly. His hands are in his pockets. Tie loosened just enough to hint at the night winding down, but his posture still carries that easy tension—the kind he wears like skin.

“You tired?” he asks, voice low, a little raspier than usual.

“A little.” I tilt my head his way. “You?”

He shrugs. “Wired, honestly. You looked…” He trails off, eyes dragging down and back up like he’s still catching his breath. “Unreal tonight.”

My cheeks heat, but I don’t look away. “You clean up okay yourself.”

He reaches for my hand as the elevator glides to a stop. I let him.

Back in the suite, I set my shoes by the door, unzip my clutch, and glance over at him loosening the buttons on his shirt with a deliberate speed that's not rushed, but not casual either. Like he knows the rhythm between us is changing again. Slower now. Heavier.

I turn my back. “Can you unzip me?”

His footsteps are silent against the rug. Close. Steady. Fingers brush the back of my neck, then dip lower. Cool metal meets skin, the zipper humming down inch by inch.

He doesn’t say a word.

Neither do I.

My dress drops to my waist. I step out of it, then glance over my shoulder to find him still there, watching but not devouring.

“You always wear dresses like that under pressure?”

“Only when I know someone’s gonna be looking.”

He exhales through his nose, something close to a chuckle, but heavier.

I step into the bathroom, heart thudding like I just walked through fire barefoot. Wash off the night makeup, heat, questions I'm not ready to answer out loud—and slip into one of his T-shirts. It smells like detergent and him.

When I come out, he’s traded the suit for grey joggers and a black tank. Sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling. He looks up when he sees me, and something about the way he smiles—tired, real, kind of wrecked—makes my throat tighten.

“Come here,” he says, voice lower than it’s been all night.

I do.

I don’t crawl in with ceremony or hesitation. I just lie down. Next to him. With him.

Our legs tangle without asking. My thigh brushes his. His arm slides around my waist as if it knows where it belongs.

And I let it.

“Tonight was a lot,” I say after a long moment, eyes tracing the ceiling.

“Yeah. But you didn’t flinch.”

His hand slides higher. My tank rides up. His palm is warm, steady, resting just below my ribs like he’s holding the breath I haven’t taken yet.

“You either,” I whisper, answering too late, too distracted. “I think your healing is improving.”

Jake smiles—real slow—and shifts. His mouth brushes the edge of my jaw, soft but hungry.

“You wanna test that theory?”

I don’t answer. I just climb on top of him.

His breath catches, sharp through his nose, but his hands move quickly—one gripping my thigh, the other sliding up my spine as if he's memorizing every inch of me.

Our mouths crash. No pretense. No tease. Just heat.

His kisses deepen, hands wandering under my shirt, fingertips grazing the underside of my breast. I let out a soft moan and feel him throb beneath me.

I grind down once. Just once.

His head drops back with a hiss. “Tahlia…”

I press my forehead to his. “We can’t.”

“I know,” he says, voice rough and full of everything we’re holding back. “But tell that to my dick.”

I bite my lip, almost laugh, but his thumb brushes just under the waistband of my panties, and the sound dies in my throat.

“You sure?” he asks, low and hoarse, like it’s killing him to offer the out.

I nod, but it’s shaky. “Don’t go past second.”

He grins, all teeth and sin. “I’ll slide into home another night.”

He kisses me again—deeper, slower—while one hand cups my breast, thumb grazing my nipple through the fabric. I arch, press closer, but I don’t move to stop him.

Not until I’m panting into his neck, clinging to the edge of something we both want too badly.

He eases off first, breath ragged, forehead resting against mine. “Fuck, Tahlia.”

I nod again. Still shaky. Still on fire.

We don't move. Just breathe.

My heart’s racing. My thighs ache. And I’m not even sorry.

Eventually, I slide off his lap, readjust my shorts, pull my tank down, and run a hand through my hair like it’ll fix any of what just happened.

Jake shifts to adjust his position.

Meanwhile, I grab a blanket, drape it over both of us, then curl into the space beside him, one hand resting on his chest.

Still clothed. Still buzzing.

Still us.

“Don’t worry, I’ll behave,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my temple.

“You better,” I whisper. “’Cause if you don’t…”

His chest rises with a slow laugh. “You’ll what?”

I smile against his shoulder. “Bench you again.”

His arm tightens around me.

And finally, we let the silence take us.

But sleep doesn’t come easy.

Not with this much heat pulsing just beneath the surface.