Page 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jake

July 14th

T ahlia’s still asleep when I crack one eye open.

Her side of the bed’s a mess—comforter kicked down, tank strap slipping from her shoulder, one leg angled toward my side as if she owns half the mattress.

Which, lately…

she kinda does.

She’s been here since we got back from L.

A.

—still in her own condo technically, but none of her important stuff’s there.

Her suitcase lives against my wall now.

Her purple toothbrush leans cocky beside mine.

And the faint smell of her lotion lingers in the hallway.

I should be weirded out by how fast all this settled.

But I’m not.

It feels like something I’ve been easing into without noticing.

Her presence.

Her chaos.

Her tiny label maker that’s somehow upgraded every spice jar and drawer in my kitchen.

(“The ink was fading,” she said with that lawyer voice like she was arguing for her life.

“Now it’s functional and pretty.”)

I didn’t argue.

Not because I agreed.

Because I liked how proud she looked doing it.

I roll out of bed carefully, ribs still tender but not screaming.

The pain’s dull now, manageable.

D’Andre cleared me to sit with the team this week—no throwing, no drills.

Just presence.

Which, turns out, still matters.

Especially when your team’s in a heated nine-game stretch and the media won’t shut up about you.

I’ve already been to the ballpark two days in a row, slapping backs and spitting sunflower seeds like nothing hurts.

We leave for Atlanta today and I need something more definitive.

D’Andre meets me at the facility before the sun’s up.

“Drop the shirt,” he says, tugging on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Let’s see it.”

I lift the hem and sit on the edge of the table while he unwraps the clean compression tape.

His hands are quick, professional, but I still flinch a little on reflex.

He grunts approval.

“You’re healing clean.”

“Fast enough for tonight?” I ask, half joking.

He narrows his eyes.

“Look. You’re not cleared for game play till the 19th, and even then, you better not test shit.”

“I’m not?—”

“But,” he continues, “if you’re gonna cross that other line… keep it easy. No power moves. No crazy angles. Gentle rhythm. Day eight to twelve window is still risky.”

I raise a brow.

“You giving me a sex lecture?”

“I’m giving you a caution flag before you tear open what we just fixed.”

I laugh.

“So… missionary and prayer?”

“Basically.”

He rewraps me, tapes everything down, and claps my shoulder.

“Behave yourself.”

“No promises,” I grin.

We both say it at the same time.

D’Andre just shakes his head and mutters something about hardheaded athletes as he tosses the used wrap into the bin.

I nod my thanks and head out, ribs still tight but not as raw.

No jabs when I breathe deep.

Rotations are clean.

He even let me toss a ball a few feet.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Still, it’s progress.

By the time I swing back by the condo, it’s just past eight.

The front door’s already unlocked when I get there.

Inside, it smells faintly like lemon and eucalyptus—one of those signature candles she swears by.

Two suitcases.

One carry-on.

Laptop bag slung over the bench like it’s always lived there.

I drop my duffel by the door and head into the bedroom to grab a few things—workout clothes, slides, maybe a button-down in case we get roped into something public.

It’s a quick pack.

Easy.

No need to overthink it.

When I step back out, Tahlia’s leaning against the kitchen island barefoot, sipping from a tall tumbler filled with something thick and aggressively green.

Probably some kind of kale-spinach-bar-exam-passed-on-the-first-try potion.

Very her.

“Juicing your way to world domination?” I ask, leaning against the island.

She lifts a brow.

“Brain fuel. Unlike whatever you had for breakfast.”

I smirk.

“Protein shake, two eggs, and three Advil. Peak performance, baby.”

She just shakes her head and sips again, calm as ever.

Like she’s got her whole life color-coded and cross-referenced—because honestly?

She probably does.

“How’d it go with D’Andre?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if she’s bracing for bullshit.

I stretch my arms overhead, testing the range.

“Pretty solid. Got in some light tosses. Full breaths don’t feel like punishment anymore.”

Her eyes skim over me, assessing for herself.

“Looks like you’re getting there.”

“I’ll still milk it when it benefits me,” I say, flashing a grin.

She snorts.

“That checks out.”

I exhale, rolling my shoulder carefully.

“I’m closer than I was last week.”

She sips again, expression unreadable.

“Good because you’ve been climbing the walls.”

I flash her a look.

“You calling me restless or reckless?”

“Both,” she says without missing a beat.

“But you’re at least behaving like someone with a return date now.”

I grin.

“Progress, counselor.”

She hums, sips again, and squints at me over the lid.

“You finish packing, or should I brace for a last-minute meltdown?”

“Already done.” I pat my bag.

“Unlike someone I know, I don’t treat a three-day trip like an international relocation.”

She gasps—mock horror.

“You don’t know what could happen. What if there’s a surprise gala?”

I grin.

“Then I’ll stand beside you in joggers and a Terrors tee. That’s what makes me versatile.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the counter.

“Versatile, huh? We’ll see how versatile you are when you’re rolling my suitcase.”

I grab her carry-on before she can, like I didn’t see her glance at my ribs when she stood up.

“Chivalry or guilt?” she asks, arching a brow as she slings her laptop bag over one shoulder.

“Self-preservation,” I shoot back.

“I pick this up, and you don’t yell at me for limping through Hartsfield-Jackson.”

She snorts, but her eyes soften.

Just a flicker.

Just enough to remind me how good we are at this now.

We move through the condo with an ease I barely notice anymore.

Doors locked.

Lights off.

Her hand brushing mine on the way out like we’ve done this a hundred times.

We take the elevator down to the garage, her shoulder grazing mine in that quiet way that feels more like a habit than a choice.

She slides into the passenger seat while I pop the covered tailgate and load the bags.

I sling the duffel into the back of my truck, while she adjusts the air and syncs her phone like she owns this ride too.

Maybe she does.

As we pull out of the garage and head for the private terminal, she rests her elbow on the center console, her fingers idly tracing a line on my thigh.

Not saying anything.

Not needing to.

The hum between us is low but constant—like a song that never ends.

Just softens.

Builds.

Waits.

And with the way she’s looking at me now?

Yeah.

This trip’s about to change everything.

The jet hums low beneath us—steady, smooth, like this trip’s already been on cruise control since we left the ground.

Tahlia’s across from me, legs tucked under her, Bar binder open, highlighter already working overtime.

There’s a crease between her brows she hasn’t noticed yet, and her lips are mouthing case law like she’s already arguing with someone in her head.

I don’t interrupt.

Just watch for a second.

She’s locked in, and it’s kind of mesmerizing.

I stretch my legs in front of me and sink back into the leather seat not taking my eyes off her.

“I know you’re staring,” she says without looking up.

“Just admiring your commitment to chaos,” I say, nodding toward the sea of colored tabs in her binder.

“Are you studying or casting spells?”

“Depends,” she murmurs.

“If you interrupt again, you might find out.”

“Are you zoning out or just brooding for sport?” She asks after a beat.

I glance at her, taking a moment to process my thoughts before speaking.

“I think I just… want to feel like I still belong. Even from the bench.”

She shuts the binder and meets my eyes.

“Jake, you don’t belong because you’re playing. You belong because you are .”

I nod slowly, but I’m still chewing on it.

“Besides, you’re not benched,” she adds.

“You’re recovering. There’s a difference.”

Her words are direct and effective.

She’s going to make one hell of a lawyer and I pray for the poor soul who has to go up against her.

A few minutes pass.

She flips a page, highlights aggressively, and mutters something that sounds like a threat to the Uniform Commercial Code.

I shake my head.

“You really brought secured transactions on a private jet.”

“Did you really just pack two shirts and a toothbrush?”

I lift a brow.

“One shirt. And I stole your toothpaste.”

She lifts her eyes.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re hot when you’re stressed. So I guess we’re even.”

That earns a side glance.

Her mouth quirks like she’s fighting it.

Which, for Tahlia, is basically a standing ovation.

I shift in my seat, eyes still on her.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“About the toothpaste?” she says dryly.

“About being glad you’re here with me.”

That stops her assault on the pages in front of her.

She caps her highlighter and looks at me like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.

I don’t.

She doesn’t either.

“Yeah,” she says finally.

“Me too. I like being around you.”

I don’t say anything right away.

Just reach across the armrest and slide my hand over her thigh.

No rush.

No agenda.

Just there.

Anchoring her to the moment.

She doesn’t move or look up, but her fingers pause at the edge of the page.

And instead of turning it, she presses down.

My thumb moves in slow circles across her flesh.

Her breath hitches once, barely.

I lean in, let my shoulder brush hers.

Close enough that if I said something now, it’d be right against her skin.

But I don’t.

The jet rolls to a stop just before noon, wheels kissing the tarmac with rehearsed ease.

Tahlia’s already zipping her binder shut when I stand to grab our bags.

One last swipe of her pen, a double-check of the tabbed edges, and the focus in her eyes shifts.

It’s still sharp, just redirected.

We step off the plane and descend the stairs into Atlanta.

The heat grabs the back of my neck like it’s been waiting for my arrival.

Our driver’s already waiting at the car with both our name card, and a chilled bottle of water in each rear cupholder.

Tahlia slides in first like she’s done this a hundred times, which, knowing her family, she probably has.

“Welcome to Atlanta, Mr. Reynolds, Ms. Carter,” the driver says as he pulls away.

Tahlia glances up.

“Thank you.”

She’s already flipping through emails on her phone and firing off replies.

I pop a bottle open and pass it to her without a word.

“Yes. It is hot out there,” she says taking the beverage from me.

I watch her throat move as she swallows and wonder how she’s got that much focus reading rules of evidence while I’m five inches from the exact reason I haven’t jerked off in two weeks.

“Swear to God,” I mutter, adjusting in my seat.

“If I have to sit through another car ride with you glued to contracts and not on top of me…” I trail off, shake my head.

“Actually, never mind. Just know you’re on borrowed time.”

She doesn’t even glance up.

Just keeps scrolling.

“Then maybe stop whining and do something about it, Mr. Ducati.” she says, calm as hell.

I drag my tongue across the inside of my cheek and huff out a low and dangerous laugh.

“Noted.”

She turns a page like she didn’t just challenge me to end both our lives in the back of this SUV.

The SUV glides to a stop under the private hotel awning.

Before the driver can say a word, valet’s already opening her door.

Tahlia steps out smooth, binder in one hand, black joggers hugging her just right.

Her hair swings behind her with every step.

Controlled like the rest of her, but I know better.

I follow with the bags.

And since this morning’s news from D’Andre, I’ve been pacing myself like a saint.

Doesn’t mean I’m not ready to push my luck.

She waits just long enough for me to catch up beside her and without warning, she reaches out and pinches my ass.

Hard.

I pause mid-step.

“The hell was that?”

“Motivation,” she says, glancing back at me.

“You were falling behind.”

“I’m carrying your entire closet.”

“And you’re still upright. I’m proud of you.”

“You keep that up, and this elevator’s gonna witness something deeply inappropriate.”

She shrugs one shoulder, not even slowing.

“Then I hope it’s a long ride.”

The automatic doors glide open before I can fire back, as if the hotel itself just called time on our foreplay.

I adjust my grip on her suitcase and follow, jaw tight, blood low, and absolutely no chance of thinking straight until I get her alone again.

She knows it and that’s the worst part.

The lobby’s quiet.

Polished.

Expensive in that whispering kind of way.

Not a single raised voice.

No chaos.

Just marble floors, fresh flowers, and climate control that costs more than some people’s rent.

She heads straight to the concierge desk like she’s done this before.

Doesn’t even break stride.

I follow, eyes right where they shouldn’t be, trying not to think about how good her hair would feel balled in my hand while she’s bent over something expensive.

“Mr. Reynolds,” the guy says with that concierge smile.

“Welcome. I see you’re in the penthouse with your arrival today, the thirteenth of July and your departure is scheduled for the seventeenth. Here are your key cards and if you need anything, let us know.”

He slides over the keys, treating us like VIPs instead of two people trying not to fuck in public.

Tahlia acknowledges him.

“Thank you,” she says with that sweet Tennessee accent.

Kill me now.

I grab the sleeve, nod once.

“Appreciate it.”

“Enjoy your stay,” he says—as if he has any idea what we’re walking into.

She turns toward the elevator.

“Don’t worry. I plan to.”

Then she hits me with a look that should be illegal, and my resolve is one breath from snapping.

I do everything in my power not to groan—right there, in front of the lilies.

We reach the private elevator, and she steps in first, binder still tucked under her arm, unbothered—like she didn’t just squeeze the last of my patience between two fingers.

I step in behind her tap the keycard against the sensor and watch the doors slide close.

And just like that, we’re alone again.

No audience to keep us distracted.

No stops on every floor.

Just her and I in this elevator going up thirty-five floors of anticipation and zero room to act on it.

Instead of moving to the far side of the elevator away from me, she shifts slightly until her shoulder brushes mine.

I hold my stance with my eyes closed and mind focused on getting through this hell.

Barely.

“Wow. Your self-control’s impressive, Mr. Ducati,” she says, still not looking at me.

“I’ve been baiting you since we walked in the lobby.”

“I noticed.”

“Thought you’d snap by now.”

Without warning, I grip her hips, pull her flush against me, and walk her backward until her spine hits the mirrored elevator wall.

My hands slide lower—past the curve of her ass, down her thighs, just to prove I can still touch her and stay upright.

I tilt my head toward her, voice low.

“Say the fucking word, Tahlia.”

She finally looks up—hunger, need, and that unreadable expression that drives me fucking insane burning in her eyes.

She leans in, lips hovering—so close I can feel the heat radiating off her mouth.

I close the last inch and kiss her, because if I don’t, I might come undone.

Her lips part for me instantly.

Hot.

Intentional.

Nothing soft about it.

She moans into my mouth, enticing me even more.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

I pull back with my forehead still pressed to hers.

“Go,” she whispers.

We both know she’s the only reason I do.