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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AMELIA
“Hey, you hungry? The Winters Hotel isn’t far. They do a fancy high tea thing,” Jake says.
I raise a brow. “Since when are you an expert on high tea?”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Noah owns the place, and a couple of years ago, cool Uncle Jake threw this epic Mad-Hatter-themed birthday bash for Mackenzie. That’s Beatrice’s eldest.” His chest swells with the memory, a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes. It’s adorable.
“Cool Uncle Jake, indeed. Lead the way,” I respond. There are few things one should never refuse. Tea. Sweets. An undo button for those “oops” moments in life.
We loop back, crossing the shadow of the imposing facade of the New York Stock Exchange once more. “You know, I’d never heard that bit about Rage Against the Machine,” Jake comments.
Sneaking a peek at him, I counter, “How did you even catch any of that when you were distracting all the men? On purpose .”
He feigns shock, fluttering his eyelashes. “Me? Nooooo.”
My side-eye is fierce. “Fine, so you’re an attention whore.”
He offers a half-shrug, a rogue’s smile playing on his lips. “Just serving my adoring public.”
I snort. Truthfully, none of the blokes were all that interesting. But I’m not telling Jake that.
“Aww, don’t be bitter. It’s not my fault you have no game. Be thankful Yvonne wasn’t there to make things worse.”
The corner of my mouth quivers. “I’m almost shocked she didn’t have me showing off my teeth.”
“Or talking about your childbearing hips.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Seriously, her next job should be running a brothel, since she’s so good at it. Or auctioneer,” he adds, and we both crack up right as the Winters Hotel comes into view. It’s a neoclassical vision of grand columns and stonework that fits in with the surrounding buildings, but from its core shoots a tower practically thumbing its nose at the rest of the skyscrapers.
Jake steers me past the main entrance, where doormen in maroon tailcoats with gleaming brass buttons stand like sentinels, to the adjoining alcove with a glass topped portico. The late afternoon sun casts a kaleidoscope of colors through it onto the polished marble beneath our feet.
We enter a tearoom that’s all elegance. Whispers ripple around us when a starched, white-suited ma?tre d’ greets us, “Welcome back, Mr. Cunningham,” and escorts us to a round, lace-draped table in a corner, laden with crisp cream serviettes, sparkling silverware, and fine china that wouldn’t be out of place in Buckingham Palace.
Jake waves the gentleman off, pulling a chair out for me himself before taking a seat on the other side. Our knees bump, but I don’t mind.
A few older women, big hair, shopping bags strewn at their feet, make no effort to hide curious glances.
I position my napkin diagonally across my lap, my fingers fiddling with the folds. “It feels like everyone’s looking at me.”
“Sweets, they’re looking at me.” Jake doesn’t bother to confirm it but instead tilts his head, his eyes locked on me. “And I’m looking at you.”
Shyness washes over me at the intensity of his stare, but I’m saved from finding some witty response when the server approaches. I decline the offer of a champagne accompaniment to my tea, and Jake does the same.
Reclining slightly, his gaze doesn’t leave mine. “You were really good back there.” He continues, “People were super into your stuff. Maybe you should think of offering music tours or something.”
“Music tours?” I blink. Truth be told, I did enjoy sharing the stories. They were comforting, familiar, reminded me of Dad and my own countless hours watching old videos and reading anything I could get my hands on. Jake’s suggestion is intriguing and dangles as a wispy what if. But with everything going on, it would be madness. I shrug.
“I’m serious. You should do it.”
“I couldn’t.” Though doing something like that would be kind of amazing.
“How do you know?” he counters. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“Oh, you Americans and your sports adages.” I roll my eyes. Because that’s what I should be focused on sports. Specifically, football.
“I’m just saying you should carpe diem that shit.”
A selection of sandwiches, sweets, and scones with clotted cream appears before us on a multitiered cake stand that resembles a big wheel from a carnival. My mouth waters as I admire the artistry of the arrangement. This is exactly what I want to carpe diem.
Delicate teacups appear on the table, handles at the precise three o’clock position. Strainers are positioned on top, and loose-leaf tea is scooped in. Hot water is poured, and the familiar scent of Earl Grey envelops me.
The waiter holds up a silver jug. “Milk, madam?”
Jake takes it then shoos him off.
I raise my brow. At my expression, he says, “I watched Bridgerton on Netflix.”
“You did?”
“Yep.” He lifts the little pitcher. The handle is so dainty, he has to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger. He flashes me a small smile and makes a production of pouring milk into my tea.
“Whatever milady wants, milady gets.” He taps the lid of the sugar bowl next. “Sugar, Sweets?”
I shake my head. He proceeds to load up his own cup with both milk and sugar.
Bringing the piping-hot drink to my mouth, I take a slow sip, savoring the warmth. He meets my gaze over the rim of my cup, his eyes twinkling as he lifts his own teacup in salute. Once again, I’m drawn to his massive hands. Hands that have traveled every inch of my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I cross my legs, trying to ignore the now-familiar heat pooling within me and focus on my tea.
He sticks out his pinkie, affecting a high-toned English accent that is more peasant than posh. “In the words of the late, great Monty Python, ‘make tea, not war.’” A smirk settles on his lips.
“You might want to fold that in,” I tell him, nodding at his little finger.
He wiggles it. “You don’t like my fingering action?”
I set my cup down and meet his dancing gaze. “In sixteenth-century France, you’d hold your pinkie up to indicate that you were either taken or,”—I drop my voice theatrically and glance around the room— “diseased.”
Jake’s face goes comically horrified. “Diseased,” he echoes. That last digit snaps back in and cowers under his ring finger.
I nod, my expression composed. “Mmm-hmm.” I take another nonchalant sip of my tea.
“I’ll have you know that I am not diseased. The team gets tested regularly.” He scowls. “And you’re the only one I’ve slept with in months.”
The air thickens around us, laden with the significance of his words. Call me a jealous slag, but a sudden surge of delight fills my chest at his admission.
Abruptly, he shifts gears, his voice tight as he studies me intently. “Are you just going along with Yvonne’s bullshit? Or do you seriously want to meet someone?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pick one of the dainty sandwiches off the tray.
“Well?” he presses, not letting it go.
I shrug, popping a bit of goodness into my mouth. I chew, then swallow. “Truthfully, I don’t need another man in my life right now. I need to learn about football. I need to keep this job, so I can stay here.”
Jake taps his chin. “Hmmm… Isn’t that convenient? I happen to know someone who’s able to teach you all about football. Could totally get you into it.”
So cocky. But I eye him speculatively. He’s not wrong. If there’s anyone who could make the game interesting, it would be him. Either the idea has merit or the tea softened my brains, because my next words are, “I don’t know…”
His eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of surprise mingling with intrigue that I haven’t immediately shut him down.
He leans in, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Sometimes practical application is better than a book.” There’s that impish grin again. “I’d be open to pointers myself.”
Oh, that ridiculous one star review. I find myself laughing despite myself. The man is incorrigible. But as I catch the sparkle in his eyes—those green, green eyes—I let myself imagine it. Him. Me. Playbook sessions that could teach me more than football.
“It would mean spending time together now .” My emphasis on “now” is a reminder of our previous discussion about jumping headfirst into disasters.
His response comes with a hint of caution, but he’s clearly game. “It would.”
The ball’s firmly in my court. See? I’m already getting the hang of these sports metaphors.
“So, in essence, it would be a trade…” I muse aloud.
“A trade. Sure. We can call it that,” he agrees, his grin broadening. “We can call it whatever you want.”
“I can’t risk my job.” It’s more a warning to myself, but I lay out my objections, hoping he’ll help me tear them down.
The man is nothing if not obliging. “You won’t. In fact, you’ll get better at it. Think of all the things I can teach you.” His tone is light, but the sincerity in his gaze promises he’d never let this backfire on me.
And he makes a compelling point. I need this job. And I won’t keep it if I can’t tell the difference between a touchdown and a touchback.
“Yvonne?” I continue, throwing up my next concern.
“You don’t have to bring it up with Yvonne. This is no one else’s business but ours. This is a one-on-one arrangement.”
It better be. I’m not sharing him with anyone while this is going on. Our eyes lock, and my heart thuds audibly. Are we really doing this? That’s my silent question.
I’m willing if you are , is his unspoken response. His stare is hot, lighting me up from within.
“One-on-one, huh?” Am I about to cast caution to the wind and be someone’s secret again?
“Just between us,” he affirms.
“That means we’re going to have to work together. Closely.” Working, learning, surrendering—it’s all the same.
“So close…”
A thrill zips through me at his echoed words. One I quickly tamp down, because this is a situation I intend to keep firmly under my control. “But just until the end of the season, this ends when I’m done with the Titans.” I watch as the implications of my decision set in. “If we do this, we wouldn’t go out. No dates, no sleepovers.”
“No sleepovers,” he echoes.
“No one can know.” I glance around, noting the few convert glances still coming our way. “No more of this.” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings. “We’d keep things straightforward. Focus on the basics. Nothing complicated.”
He nods slowly. “No need for complicated. We can keep this bare bones. Simple, basic…football.”
Table of Contents
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