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CHAPTER FOUR

JAKE

I do my business and wash up before tugging on my boxers—any more full-frontal action might scare Amelia comatose. Also, I’d prefer to stay in the not-a-creeper zone. Though the half-mast situation I’m wrestling with isn’t helping my cause. I mean, she was basically sitting on my face. Creeper status? Confirmed. Good thing I’d never act on it—but another guy in my position?

I shake my head. What was she thinking, freeing me like that? Sure, I’m grateful and all, but seriously, this is New York City. No one in their right mind runs around releasing randos. She should’ve called the cops as she’d suggested.

I yank on my jeans, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Shit, I’m easily double Amelia’s weight and a foot taller. Even if she’d recognized that I was a famous athlete, it wouldn’t have made me a safe bet. And she just arrived in the country, too. How long before anyone would’ve noticed if she had gone missing?

When I step out, she’s perched on the edge of the couch, phone to her ear. “…Nothing? Are you absolutely sure?” A pause. “Very well. Please get back to me soon as possible. Thank you.”

She hangs up and peers at me, dejected. “I’ve tried to reach the owner of the flat but can’t get through,” Exhaustion is in her voice. “I managed to speak with Airbnb customer support and explained everything. They’re going to look into the situation,” she adds, letting out a heavy sigh before scanning around the room again. “Have you seen anything to eat? The host said she’d left me a welcome present.”

“Muffins, by any chance?”

She shrugs.

“Errr… I think I know what happened to them,” I say, recalling how Stella was munching on one when she took the fucking photo.

We both glance outside. It’s still dark. The microwave mounted over a two-burner stove boasts a neon green 3:14 a.m. The colon between the digits blinks ominously.

Amelia worries her lip then glances at me through lowered lashes. “So…” She draws out the word, clearly at a loss.

“We should probably call the police,” I say, walking back into the room.

“I could have saved you the trouble,” she responds dryly. I turn to find her silhouetted in the doorway.

I chuckle ruefully. “You wouldn’t have wanted to deal with that situation, I promise.”

I scoop my phone off the ground. As expected, an explosion of missed calls and messages awaits. I rake my fingers through my hair, groaning as I sift through the barrage, pausing at a text from Dan, my agent. It reads, “What. The. Fuck?” and includes a link to Extreme Exposé’s website. Sure enough, there it is—the photo Psycho Stella took, featuring me, cuffed and naked, dick barely covered by a teddy bear emoji that, tragically, resembles the Titans’ mascot.

My expression? Mouth open and glazed eyes, as if I’ve spotted a really yummy sandwich…or I’m high as a kite. Objectively, it’s not the worst I’ve ever looked, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch myself. The headline screams, “Tied Down Titan: The Bear Necessities of a Football Star.”

I ignore the messages from Titans management—of course, their PR radars have picked up on the photo—and dial 911 instead. I roll my shoulders. Yeah, explaining this to the boys in blue is going to be real fun. After an extremely awkward conversation with the dispatcher, who is clearly trying not to laugh, I’m assured the police are on their way.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” I grab my shirt off the floor, slide it on and do up the buttons, then shrug on my jacket before slumping against the wall. “Cops will be here soon.”

We wait in awkward silence. I take another glance around. “So how long are you planning to stay?”

“I’m not sure. A while. I was looking for unique experiences, but this is perhaps more than I was expecting.”

“How did you pick New York, then?” I ask.

She shrugs. “My dad talked about it constantly. He was a musician and used to tell me about all the places he performed at in the city. I want to visit all the little off-beat spots he loved.”

“Not too off-beat. We don’t want you getting into any more trouble,” I warn.

“Me?” She looks at me, raising her brows pointedly, then the bed. The fitted sheet is half off, and the fuchsia handcuffs peek out from the disheveled covers. Bits of fur dot the rest of the mattress and floor like fuzz from a newly hatched chick dipped in Kool-Aid. This could be a poster for a terrible made-for-TV movie or the cover of the bondage-themed erotic novel my sister Heidi swears isn’t hers.

I guess it could have been worse. Stella could have gagged me and covered me in honey then smothered me with a pillow at the height of the moment.

I seriously don’t want to deal with explaining the events of the last few hours to my family. Team Cunningham will never let me hear the end of it. I was eternally getting drawn into their never-ending soap operas. Someone’s forever falling in love, falling out of love, making best friends, making better enemies. Growing up, I always felt like I was in a reality TV show and at this point believe drama should only be a spectator sport.

There’s knocking at the door, and we head back to the living space to let the police in. One questions Amelia about the Airbnb while I lead the other into the bedroom.

“Jake Cunningham, huh?”

“Yep.” I give him a practiced grin.

“Awesome touchdown in the last three seconds against Dallas, man!”

“Thanks.”

A barely concealed smirk grows on the cop’s face as I recount the events of the night, explaining about Stella, pulling up the photo she posted.

“She didn’t take anything, your phone, your watch…?”

I shake my head.

“No injuries?”

Another shake, no. Not unless my pride counts.

“And you came here on your own.”

I sigh. I suspect I’ll be answering for that asinine decision for years to come. Anytime someone feels like dining out on the story of Jake and the Pink Cuff Predicament.

“We can’t charge her for unlawful confinement given you consented, but the photo she posted of you, that we can investigate. Extreme Exposé, hmmm?” He cocks an eye at me. The website’s a well-known rag for their over-the-top tell alls. Scandal sells, true or otherwise.

He picks up the cuffs, fiddling with them for a minute, trying to hide his growing smile.

“Do you need to check for fingerprints? Will it help find that woman?” I ask.

He snorts. “Nah, easier to trace via digital footprint.” He holds the handcuffs out to me. “Keep ’em. A souvenir.”

I reluctantly take them from his outstretched hand and shove them into my jacket pocket. Souvenir, my ass. I’d leave them here, but something tells me Ms. Prim and Proper won’t have much use for restraints.

We migrate back to the living room as Amelia finishes with the officer she’s speaking with.

My phone continues to blow up. There’s no more putting off Titans management. They’re going to want to figure out next steps.

I approach Amelia once the police leave. “I don’t think you should stick around here. Let me take you to a hotel.”

Her lips flatten, and I internally facepalm. Of course, she wouldn’t go anywhere with me. Can’t say I blame her. I’m the human equivalent of a cautionary tale at this point.

She puts on a polite smile. “No need to fuss about me, I’ll sort something out for myself.”

I open my mouth to ask for her number but snap it shut. Seriously, would it be anything but supremely awkward to request digits right after guest starring in Fifty Shades of Nope?

I’m not trying to flirt—okay, maybe a little—but I imagine she’d prefer to scrub this entire scene from her memory with industrial-strength cleaner. And I know not to be an asshole. Growing up with five sisters, you learn that lesson early, and you learn that lesson well. If a woman says no, she means no, and if I ever acted otherwise, the female contingent of the Cunningham family would come after me with pitchforks.

But now that I’m free to go, I hover between the need to leave and the urge to stay a bit longer. The compulsion to stick around is almost unbearable, but I know if I don’t make it to the stadium soon, heads will roll.

“What if that psycho returns in the meantime?”

Amelia harrumphs. “Even if she does, it’s not as if I’d agree to let her cuff me to the bed. Not everyone has such…proclivities.” Impressive, the depths of disdain she manages to infuse in that one comment.

I bite back a grin, the tension draining out of me. “Of course not,” I deadpan. “Everyone knows that only the finest of New Yorkers cultivate…proclivities like mine.” Not that BDSM is my scene at all.

A smile flits across her features before she schools them into a stern expression. “Do try and stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t you worry. I’m done being tied down.”