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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JAKE

I’d hated leaving Amelia this morning. But duty called. Not that I was much good on the field. Only after I spied her in the stands did a measure of peace settle over me. When I ordered her to get my raincoat, it was clear she was embarrassed. Not that she needs to be. I like that she trusted me. I liked seeing her with her hair down.

Probably need to tell her that before she goes and hides. I’m about to go seek her out when my phone pings.

Sweets

My place. 8pm.

That’s all her text says. Well, that plus a winky face. Amelia? Emojis? Intriguing.

This is a change. A welcome one. Because I’m ready for something different myself. Pretending this is still just sex? Stupid. We both know it’s more. What “more” means exactly, I’m not sure, but I’m willing to find out. I think it’s time to renegotiate the deal. Keep things going beyond the season. I’ve probably only made my way up to a three-star rating at best.

The trick is to figure out if Amelia feels the same. And if she’s not quite there, well, then I’ll have to nudge her in that direction. Am I crazy to bring this up with her now? Should I hold off? No, life’s too short for should-haves and might-bes. I’m itching to leap into whatever comes next with her.

I sprint up the four floors to her apartment, and before I step inside the aroma of something baking, savory with a slightly sweet note hits me. There’s a richness to it that has my mouth watering.

Wait—is she cooking?

I pause, momentarily thrown. It’s not like we’ve never had a meal together. There was that brunch with Yvonne, after all, but Amelia’s never cooked.

I hit the bell, and a second later, she opens the door.

“Whoa.”

Amelia’s in a short dress that fits snugly, different from the usual don’t-expect-more-just-come-fuck-me attire of band T-shirts, ripped jeans, and sneakers.

Her face flushes pink, but she moves aside and gestures me in. One step inside and I halt. The small table’s set for two, with candles flickering like it’s a scene from The Bachelor , wine chilling in a plastic ice bucket, and plates arranged with precision. And the blue napkins? Folded into peacocks. This is definitely an attempt to impress.

“What’s all this?” I swing back around to face her.

While her pose is confident, she bites her lip the slightest bit, and shyness flickers in her eyes. My next teasing comment dies in my throat. “Sweets…”

Before I can add more, she says, “It’s a little thank you. For last night. For looking after me.” She fidgets, almost unable to meet my gaze.

“It was no problem at all. Drunk Amelia’s a riot.” I approach, sneak my hand under her hair and draw her to me slowly, and touch my lips to hers. It’s not a sexual kiss. It’s tender. Domestic. And I fucking love it. Who are you, and what did you do with Jake Cunningham?

I clear my throat and step back. I nod toward the meticulously set table. “And so this is my just reward?” I waggle my brows.

“Your just reward that’s going in the rubbish bin if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face,” she warns.

Chuckling, I tap her nose. “Ah-ah-ah, so feisty for someone expressing gratitude.”

She shakes her head and gives me a long-suffering sigh I know she doesn’t mean. “Go have a seat while I finish up.”

“Can I help?”

“I’ve got it.”

I settle into one of the chairs, watching as Amelia slips on an apron and dons giant mitts, yet somehow still looks sexy as hell. She opens the oven, and I groan quietly as her dress stretches over her ass when she bends low to retrieve the dish inside.

Once it’s safely on the table, she loses the protective gear. As she pulls the apron over her head, the neckline of her dress shifts, exposing a glimpse of lace—a black bra strap peeking out just enough to make my mouth go dry. I’m guessing this thank you production ends in the bedroom. Memories of her whispered promises from last night flood back—bondage, anal, choking. And, yep—my dick’s already paying attention.

I will it down as she takes the seat opposite me. “What is this?”

“Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Pudding?” It doesn’t look like any sort of dessert I’ve ever seen. Besides, she’s all the dessert I want.

I unfold one of the napkins, almost feeling guilty as I destroy the little masterpiece and place it on my lap. She pours me a glass of wine but just fills hers with water.

“No booze for you?”

“After last night, I’m swearing liquor off forever.” She glares at me. “You realize I committed to doing those tours?”

“You realize I was there to witness it?”

She crosses her arms, lips pursed, though there’s no real heat in her gaze.

“I think it’s a great idea.” I smirk. “After all, it was mine.”

She shakes her head, a reluctant smile breaking through. “Of course, you’re taking all the credit. Should have known.”

“Sweets, you hate football. You love music. Ergo, you should stop working in football and start working in music. You were on fire last night when you were talking about the tour. I’ve never seen you so excited. Except for when I did that thing with my teeth. But we’ll save that for later.”

She bites her lip, then hands me her phone, the Notes app open. “You did this all today?” There are at least four routes planned, complete with stops and landmarks.

“I could offer the tours for free, make some tip money…or maybe try something a little different. What if I handed out wireless headphones and guided people through the city with music? Play songs in the places they became history, mix in some old interviews, and have guests dance their way between locations, and, and…do you think it’s too much?”

“It’s perfect.”

And she is. Perfect. Perfect for me. I like who I am when I’m with her. I love the soft little smile she gives when she thinks no one’s looking. I love watching her come alive, how she opens up, her curiosity bright and contagious. And someone willing to subject themselves to Survivor for me? Gold.

“Now, what can I do to help? Publicity? Can totally put this on my socials? Because, spoiler alert, I’m your biggest fan.”

“I haven’t had anyone cheer me on before. So you, this…it’s new. And I can’t explain how much it means.” Here, she pauses, as if gathering her strength, then looks me in the eye. “We agreed this would be casual. Simple. But this feels like more than that…possibly?” Hope and hesitation blend in her voice.

“Sweets. This stopped being casual eons ago. At least for me.” The words feel like a huge exhale, my heart pounding harder now that they’re out there.

But as I wait for her response, my hands go clammy. Fuck. I open my mouth, about to take it back, when she says, “You mean that?” There’s such hope in her expression.

I grab her hand. “I do.” My eyes lock with hers. It’s all I can manage, but it carries so much more weight than three small letters should. They’re not enough, but will have to do for now.

She bites her lip, glancing down for a beat, then back up. “I’m not all that exciting. No handcuffs, no choking, or public sex. Nothing wild like that.”

“Wait, so last night was false advertising?” I tease, the corners of my mouth twitching.

She buries her face in her hands. “Oh god, what else did I say?”

I tap my chin, feigning deep thought. “Well, I was down with the balloon animals, but I don’t know about bringing in a duck…” Her head snaps up as I trail off, barely holding back a grin, as her eyes get wider and wider. Then narrow. “Just saying.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it.”

The L word hovers in the air, heavy, but not quite ready to land. A serious glint replaces the amusement in Amelia’s gaze. “Are we seriously talking about doing this? You and me?”

Her vulnerability flips a switch in me. No more teasing. “Yes. I want to be with you. Only you. The rest? We’ll figure out.”

“We weren’t going to tell people. There’s still my job…” Her worry creeps in, tugging at the edges of the moment.

“Sweets, your gig with the Titans is almost over. Unless football is your new favorite thing?”

“No.” It’s a definitive answer. Then, with a slow, sexy smile spreading across her lips, she adds, “But a certain football player, on the other hand…”