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CHAPTER FORTY
JAKE
Of course I make a fuss. Amelia’s my girl. Mine. And tonight, as we hit the Nurture NYC red carpet, I want everyone to know it.
Our limo rounds the corner, and the Winters Hotel appears. Hard to believe that when Amelia and I started our secretive “lessons” here, we’d be on a cusp of a moment so much bigger. Even through the heavily tinted windows, the glass facade reflects the light of the city and flashbulbs going off, underscored by the muted hum of the awaiting throng.
Lines of reporters snake along the path to the grand entrance, all primed and ready. Velvet ropes hold back a swath of onlookers, eager for a glimpse of New York glitterati. I silently thank my lucky stars I didn’t tank the gala beyond repair.
Beside me, Amelia’s fixed on the spectacle, her nerves clear.
“Are you sure about this?” Her voice is tinny. One hand’s all but welded to the cream satin clutch in her lap, while the other white-knuckles a flute of champagne that’s done shit to soothe her jitters. At the beginning of the drive, I pitched a couple of creative tension-busters, but after a few “try-me-and-die” glares, I stopped. And let’s be real—no one else needs to see her post-fucked glow. That one’s only for me and I don’t share.
“Absolutely.” I pry her fingers from her bag, and she faces me. “I’ll be there the entire time. Just do what you always do—focus on me.” I waggle my brows for good measure.
She gifts me an eye roll, but a laugh hides right behind it. For a heartbeat or two, her trepidation subsides.
Until the doors open and flashbulbs go off and fans yell from the sidelines, assaulting us. Mild terror crosses Amelia’s features before they freeze into a facsimile of a smile. Good enough. I step out first and salute the crowd.
When I turn to help Amelia out of the car, it’s as if someone hit the strobe in a club. Flashes come so fast and furious, even I have to blink at the furor. I lace our fingers together, offering silent reassurance as she stands rigid beside me, her clasp so tight it’s nearly a vise.
Amidst the glittering chaos, her quiet voice finds my ear. “Is it always this mad?”
My response is equally soft, “Not usually. But then again, they’ve never had a reason like you.” I keep my gaze steady, willing her to see herself through my eyes.
In her emerald gown, Amelia’s nothing short of stunning, her hair an elegant constellation of twists secured by a simple silver clasp. Throughout the ride over, I found myself caught in a silent debate: leave her looking like the goddess she was or free those dark tresses and wind my fingers through the silk?
The questions and clicks crescendo, and a voice loud and distinct enough cuts through the clamor. “Jake! Who’s your date?”
Flashing a grin as wide as the Hudson, I shout back, “Amelia Stevens, my girlfriend!” At that declaration, the paps go into overdrive. Amelia, poised yet palpably nervous, offers a hesitant wave to the crowd.
I plunge us into the sea of flashes, my arm around her waist a statement as much as a support. We carve a path through the media frenzy, pausing for the necessary photos—a dance of flash and focus.
“A kiss for the camera!” one reporter yells, while another hollers, “Stay still, you two!” Their calls are a relentless chorus.
“Amelia! This way, baby!” a photographer with a lens the size of a cannon fires.
Beyond the initial pandemonium, frosted booths are set up for longer interviews, offering a momentary refuge from the chaos.
Logan and Becs are right in the one before us, both glowing. A man in a red suit shoves a mic in their face. “So, when’s the big day?”
Logan grins, clasping Becs’s hand tight. “Sooner than you think.”
Adjacent to them, Connor, Ella, Milo, and Hunter chat with a well-known entertainment personality. Connor’s animatedly talking about the Titans-Sabretooths game next week. Milo is wildly gesticulating. Based on Hunter’s growing frown, I’m guessing they’re discussing his latest diet or something else equally embarrassing.
While we wait for our turn, Amelia’s lashes flutter shut, and her chest rises and falls with the deliberation usually reserved for someone about to blow out candles on a cake that’s just a tad too close to a smoke detector. I watch her for another moment. “Hold on, are you counting your breaths?”
Her chin dips in the barest of nods, eyes still sealed like she’s mentally prepping to walk a tightrope rather than the red carpet.
As I draw Amelia closer, the subtle scent of her perfume wraps around us, an intimate jasmine bubble amidst the flashbulbs and fanfare. “You’re doing great, you know? It’s just a little longer.” She opens her eyes and smiles weakly. A twinge of guilt strums through me for dragging her into this whirlpool of fame with me, but she’s handling it like a pro. With a gentle squeeze, I wordlessly pledge to keep her anchored, to show her she’s not just a part of my world—she’s the heart of it.
When our turn comes to enter the first booth, another reporter zeroes in on us, her dress so tight it’s practically gilded sausage casing.
“Jake, we’ve seen you with a lot of ladies over the years, but never with a girlfriend. How long have you been together? How did you meet?”
Winking at Amelia, I keep things coy. “Let’s just say I was captivated the moment I saw her.”
Her cheeks flush, but the reporter remains as clueless as a goldfish. “Oh?”
“Amelia’s special, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Speaking of unique, have you heard about her business, RhythmRoutes NYC?” I say, seamlessly weaving in a plug.
At the mention, Amelia’s smile flickers.
“RhythmRoutes?” the reporter echoes, a note of intrigue in her tone.
“It’s incredible! She’s curating tours of NYC’s music history. It’s amazing. You’re definitely going to want to follow her. She’s doing great.”
“Jake,” she hisses as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Now’s not the time.”
I know she’ll be a success and is all about making it happen on her own, which I totally respect. But a little help never hurt anyone, right? Still, the last thing I want is to spoil our evening. “Okay, okay,” I relent. Yet, after a brief pause and a playful glance at the avid onlookers, I raise my voice a smidge, just to mess with her. “Maybe we should get everyone following #JAM instead?”
She shakes her head, huffing, as another journalist beckons us over.
“Jake! How do you feel about facing the Sabretooths next week?”
“We’re gonna crush ’em,” I answer with a grin. “But let’s hit pause on the sports talk. This evening’s about something bigger than touchdowns. It’s about the incredible work Nurture NYC does. We’re talking life-changing stuff. That’s the headline-worthy story.”
I rattle off details of the foundation’s most popular programs, and then we move to a style blogger who asks whom I’m wearing. I strike a pose that’s half James Bond, half runway model, showcasing my custom-made tux. “Oh, this old thing?” The reporter chuckles. I give her a conspiratorial look before sweeping Amelia into a twirl, reveling the giggle that bursts from her “But let’s talk about the real showstopper—my date.” The sparkle in her blue gaze outshines any spotlight.
We’re inches from the hotel when a familiar voice slices through the buzz—one that always seems to needle just a bit too deeply. It’s a “reporter” with a reputation for crossing lines, his smirk cocked and loaded. Bring it on, boy.
Except he turns to Amelia, that shark-smile full of bite. “After that photo of Jake in handcuffs made the rounds a few months ago. The public’s dying to know—did you introduce him to the BDSM scene?”
Under his beady stare, she stiffens. My blood stirs into a slow boil, kept in check by sheer will. Casually, I settle a hand on the small of Amelia’s back and cut him a predatory look of my own.
“If only my luck—and my fantasies—were that good,” I retort, the edge in my voice wrapped in velvet. “But then you’d know all about fantasies, wouldn’t you? Like the one where you win a Pulitzer. But hey, people say you gotta dream big, hmm?”
The jab finds its mark, and his smug facade cracks, but he’s quick to glue it back together. “Just doing my job.”
“Of course,” I agree, my smile frosty enough to skate on. “Creative writing’s quite the craft, hmmm?”
He gives me one more hateful look but knows better than to engage further. The moment he retreats into the crowd, I whisk Amelia through the doors, navigating us to a secluded alcove past the coat check. Once we’re alone, I gently nudge her chin up, searching her for any lingering distress.
“You okay?” I ask softly. If she’s anything but fine, his days of Titans exclusives are as good as over.
“The audacity of that man!” she fumes.
A chuckle escapes me at her fierce expression, and the last of my irritation scatters. “But did you see his face?”
Amelia now directs her annoyance solely at me. “And you! I can’t believe you brought up my tours!”
“Anything for my best girl.”
The mild reproach on her face thaws into a soft, exasperated warmth. She wraps her arms around my neck and tugs me down, murmuring, “You’re impossible,” before pressing her lips to mine. Soft, light, at first. But then she dives in again, as if she needs more. She kisses me as if I’m the best thing she’s ever tasted. And, damn, does it go to my head.
My balls draw tight, my dick pulsing. Angling my head, I open my mouth wider for her, meeting her tongue with mine. I kiss her until I can’t breathe, get fucking dizzy on her. Heat licks down my back, up my thighs. I crush her to me, feeling those sweet-as-fuck tits against my chest. Right before things blaze out of control, the distant clink of glasses a cruel reminder of the gala calling us back. Aftershocks skitter over my skin, little tremors of need.
With a groan, I draw back. “Later,” I whisper, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The sight of her, lip plump and kiss-swollen and that extra glitter in her eyes makes my breath hitch, and my gut clench. It takes everything in me not to press my hips against her and forget about all else.
Her thumb grazes my lips, coming away with the red smear of her lipstick. I capture her finger between my teeth, a playful warning bite. She lets out a startled squeak, followed by a throaty laugh that sends another rush of heat through my balls. Fuck, what’s the runtime on this thing again? I shake my head. Months of grinding to pull it off, and now I’m counting down minutes till we can bail.
The party is well underway when we finally enter the grand ballroom. I’m hit with a familiar scene, a sea of tailored suits, silky gowns, and a parade of servers zigzagging through the crowd. Beyond, the terrace is abuzz, visible through the glass doors that make up one wall of the room, acting as an extension of the cocktail area. Jazzy tunes sound in the background and there is the hum of conversation.
Amelia’s taking it all in, her eyes a little wider than the rest, her grip on my arm a tell that she’s new to this circus. “It’s something, huh?” I lean in and murmur, enjoying her reaction.
“It’s like a movie,” she whispers back, her gaze darting around.
We navigate our way through the clusters of guests, exchanging pleasantries and the occasional “Nice to see you again.” Over by the large dividers that form another wall of the ballroom, I spot my family. Mom’s holding court, as usual, chatting away with the bigwigs from Nurture NYC, so engrossed, our arrival doesn’t even register.
She loves coming to these events and catching up with people from the different foster homes. Not far off, Beatrice and Rick are in the thick of it, laughing with some friends.
Amelia and I float from group to group. I offer up hellos and handshakes, nods and smiles, all while showing her off, not at all surprised that she charms everyone without effort.
Then, slicing through the wealthy and well-dressed, Hunter appears and thumps me on the back. “Jake, man, you clean up good!”
“Yeah, well, I have to keep up with Amelia here,” I quip, the corner of my mouth ticking up as her cheeks catch a soft pink glow.
He flicks a look at Amelia, a mischievous lift to his brow. “You’re really gonna leave us? Jake’s ego might just float away without your grounding presence at the games. You sure you don’t wanna stick it out?”
Amelia’s laughter spills over, light and easy. “While I’ve picked up a thing or two about the game, and appreciate the spectacle of it all, I still can’t convince myself it’s all that logical,” she counters.
“Well, if it’s between music and mayhem, I bet the tunes will win every time,” Hunter agrees, tipping an imaginary hat her way. “RhythmRoutes is gonna be a hit.”
“Thank you. That’s so lovely to hear.”
Connor’s girlfriend, Ella, pipes up from behind us, her excitement palpable. “I’m already eyeing the tour dates for after New Year’s!”
Her words set off a chain reaction, and everyone chimes in with plans to catch one of the walking music tours, too. Amelia’s bashful about the fuss, but this spotlight shining on her? It’s exactly what she deserves.
The conversation shifts to the upcoming game against the Sabretooths as a widely recognized sports commentator eases into the circle. He’s a mix of curiosity and sly grins, clearly on the hunt for a juicy tidbit. We feed him morsels of optimism wrapped in ambiguity.
Amidst the back-and-forth, a discreet wave from Amelia draws my attention. My gaze follows hers across the hall to where Yvonne hangs with some dude in a dark blue suit who looks like he’s hunched over from the weight of the gold chains around his neck. That much bling can’t be healthy.
Yvonne’s suppressing a yawn, but upon seeing us, she flashes him the signature Cunningham grin and gestures at the bar. In seconds, the poor sucker is almost tripping in his haste to do her bidding, too mesmerized to have registered the half-full glass still in her grasp.
The inevitable sister snatch-and-grab looms, and I’m not about to surrender Amelia for the rest of the evening. I take her hand, offering a silent invitation away from the football talk, and steer us toward the quiet of the terrace.
As we step out into the cooler air, a voice rings out, playful and loud. “Mistletoe!”
Our heads tilt back in unison, and damn if we aren’t perfectly framed by the doorway, the sprig poised above us like it’s waited all night for this exact moment.
Amelia’s eyes widen, a silent storm of “oh no” swirling in their depths as she meets my gaze.
I lift a brow, tossing a wordless “dare you” into the space between us.
Her lip catches between her teeth, that nervous habit that’s utterly endearing, before dipping her head the slightest bit.
Who am I to say no to tradition? I catch her by the hips and draw her close. “Time to smooch, Sweets.”
A giggle bubbles up from her, and after a quick glance at our few onlookers, she leans into me, her hands finding a home on my shoulders. Her upturned features are a canvas of soft vulnerability.
A familiar tenderness fills me, cracking something open within my chest. Whatever I already feel for Amelia seems to double, almost too big to handle, a crescendo that drowns out everyone else but her. I clear my throat as I cup her face, intending to ham it up, to make the kiss a light and laughing one.
But as our lips meet, the room, the noise, the world—it all blurs into the background. There’s only Amelia, only this moment, and it’s nothing short of perfect.
Table of Contents
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