CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

AMELIA

Sunday, I wake up, slightly hungover but still happy. My eyes flutter open, meeting Jake’s sleepy grin.

“Heya, Sweets,” he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep.

He leans in, but I turn and the kiss lands on my cheek instead. “Morning breath. Be right back.”

I scamper off to the loo. When I return, it’s to find Jake, bare-chested with only a sheet to cover the part I’m very familiar with, scrolling through his phone. He looks up and grins, melting me.

“Check this out.” He flips his screen to me, revealing a photo of us, mid-twirl on the dance floor. “We look goooood. I’m especially hot.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Now come here.”

I laugh and evade his reaching hands, grabbing the phone to see for myself.

He’s not wrong—we do look fantastic. There’s a lot of oohing and ahhing in the comments. And lots of #JAMs. Even some mentions of RhythmRoutes.

He snatches it right back and flicks through a few more images before picking one with us kissing and making it his background.

I slip into bed, grabbing my own phone from the nightstand, shocked to see a surge in interest in my tours overnight, with a full roster for Monday, and everyone’s paid up. I guess all of Jake’s peddling and plugging from the gala worked, and I turn to show him my screen with a big smile.

His brilliant returning one just breaks me. “We should celebrate.” It’s a low, enticing purr. He rolls over me, his body a shield of warmth as he braces himself on an elbow. His free hand slides to my thighs, urging them gently apart as he settles between my knees.

His lips skim up my neck even as his hard cock presses against my core, and everything short circuits. He’s all smooth skin and solid muscle. I need him again. Now.

In a daze, I reflect on fortune and how mine has always seemed slightly askew. I think of how happy I am in this moment, and how much more there is to look forward to. My phone slips from my grasp. And then I’m not thinking at all.

We spend the remainder of the day in bed. Somehow, Jake has unearthed all forty-plus seasons of Survivor , especially proud when he presents to me the first season of the UK edition with a flourish. There goes another ten thousand or so hours of my life. But I glance at him. Worth it.

We indulge in Thai food between binging episodes, having sex. Ordering sweets. Having sex again.

Monday morning, I wake up cocooned in Jake’s arms. I’m brimming with excitement, ready to spring up and get going, but I resist, not wanting to disturb him. He’s got a big week ahead too.

As soon as his alarm goes off, I extract myself from his embrace. His eyes flash open, momentarily clouded with the remnants of sleep and a flicker of protest.

I lean down, give him a quick peck on his nose. “Time to get up.” I roll off the bed and pluck his T-shirt from the tangled sheets, and slip it over my head. It’s a comfy tent that smells of him.

He hits snooze for a few more minutes, before his phone goes off again. He grabs it and squints at the screen. Groaning, he sits up and stretches languidly. “Ugh. Coach wants us in extra early. I gotta get to the stadium.” He gets to his feet. “This week’s going to be brutal. I’m sorry, probably won’t see you much,” he says apologetically. “Practice will be insane, and then we fly out Thursday.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” I reassure him. “You need to focus. Besides, I’ll be busy too. The entire week’s booked solid, plus I have the Gotham Guides tour to prep for,” I say, even though a part of me already misses all this time together.

I fold his tuxedo and put it in his duffel while he gets ready to leave. He’s clothed now, in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans that makes me want to undress him all over again.

I trail him to the door, where he gives me one last lingering kiss. He pulls back, a hopeful expression on his face. “You sure I can’t convince you to come watch me kick some Sabretooth ass?”

My heart twinges in regret. “I wish I could, but the meeting with Gotham Guides vetting team is really important. I can’t exactly tell them, ‘Sorry, my boyfriend has a game. Can we reschedule?’ Even if I caught a flight right after the tour, I’d never make it.”

“I know. Figured it was worth another go. But I get it, Sweets. And don’t worry. You’re gonna crush it.”

“I promise to watch and cheer from here,” I assure him brightly. “And when it’s time for the Super Bowl, I’ll be there, front and center.”

I’m still on a happy high as I skip toward St. Mark’s, my trolley bag bouncing behind me. As the square comes into view, I notice a bustling crowd already assembled at my usual meeting spot.

Surely, they’re not all here for RhythmRoutes?

No matter, the more the merrier. I can adapt—maybe invite those without headsets to gather around for a closer listen or offer a subsequent tour at a discount to those willing to wait?

As I approach, a chirpy “Look, there she is!” cuts through the square’s hum.

My pulse stutters—this sort of fanfare is new. To confirm I’m the “she” they’re referring to, and not the contortionist behind me pretzeling herself into impossible shapes, I hoist my RhythmRoutes sign high. “Who’s here for the 10 AM tour?” I call, my voice riding the chilly breeze.

The crowd that surges forward seems better suited to a concert than my humble music walkabout. I tick names off against my list of registrants and start handing out headsets.

Most people eagerly snap them up. But one woman in a chiffon mini dress and thigh-high boots, more fitting for a fashion show than a December walking tour, steps back. “I’m good,” she declares, eyeing the headset like I’ve offered her a live eel. Her brows scrunch as she examines me. “You’re Amelia Stevens?”

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her emphasis on “you’re,” but denying my identity in light of it would be overkill. Yes, I’m Amelia Stevens. No, I don’t normally wear a ball gown while giving tours.

I nod and offer her the headset once more. “You’ll miss the music segments without this.”

Apparently, it’s no great loss. “No, thanks. I don’t want to ruin the hair,” she fluffs out her blonde curls. Then, quick as a cat, she slings an arm around me. “But let’s take a selfie? My followers will adore this!” She snaps it before I can protest.

“Followers?” I blink.

“Yeah, I’m Sierra Fielding of Football Fashionista . You might’ve heard of me?” She beams.

I shake my head.

“Glamour meets gridiron?” she prods.

Still nothing from me.

“From the stands to the streets?” she tries once more, her smile faltering.

I nod dumbly. That seems to do the trick, and Sierra’s all chipper again. “Your gown on Saturday night was a hit. Ten footballs on my style scorecard! Some say it was all you, but then Jake Cunningham on anyone’s arm elevates the look.”

She inspects me anew as if I’m failing her now. Well, we can’t all dress to impress all the time, and I’m perfectly respectable in my tour-guide garb of jeans, trainers, my RhythmRoutes T-shirt and lanyard.

Then, from the throng, “So, you and Jake Cunningham—are you an item-item, or just a publicity stunt?” a girl asks, her voice a mix of nosy and envy.

I blink. Do I not look like girlfriend material? Tamping down a flutter of irritation, I say, “We are indeed an item.”

She seems skeptical, but on the off chance I’m telling the truth, she has me pose with my arms up by my ears, meant to mimic goalposts. I’m unconvinced, but the wild intensity in her eyes suggests it’s wiser to play along.

A few tour-goers shuffle restlessly. Nearby, a child pulls napkins from a food cart dispenser and launches them at pigeons—his parents seemingly unbothered by his antics. Meanwhile, others in the group wait impatiently as I distribute the rest of the headsets.

Once everyone’s kitted out, it’s go time. “Good morning, music lovers!” I call out. “Welcome to RhythmRoutes, where we dig deep into the musical soul of New York.”

I begin with the usual spiel of the East Village and point out the old Astor Place Opera House and the riots that took place there.

Some people seem into what I’m saying, but more than a few are visibly distracted, their gazes flicking between the colorful murals painted on the historic building and me. While I don’t always have fans on this tour, there isn’t usually this level of disinterest. I try to mix up the music, so there’s something for everyone, but keep catching sneaky phone lenses directed my way, accompanied by giggles.

I muster up a smile, turning to the next landmark “…and this is Madonna’s first apartment,” I say, cuing up one of my favorite tracks to give life to the story. A girl in a Titans sweatshirt sidles over, eyes all sparkle and gossip.

“Do you see yourself using Jake’s fame to kick start your own music career?”

I almost snort. Me? A musician? “No,” I reply curtly, eager to keep things on track.

People fidget. We’ve been loitering longer than warranted.

“And here we have the Fillmore—” I begin anew, only for a phone to be thrust in my face, red recording button going.

“Pardon me?” Stepping back, I maintain my cool. “Sir, all the content is available via the headsets. Something wrong with yours?”

“Quick sound bite for my podcast? People wanna know—what do you think the Titans’ chances are against the Sabretooths?”

“Umm…go Titans?” I offer, recognizing the edge in my voice, the one that slips in when I’m trying not to be annoyed, but it’s creeping in anyway.

Meanwhile, the true fans in the crowd grow increasingly restless, their expressions souring like old milk.

“Hey,” says a girl in a vintage band shirt, “Could we maybe get back to the tour? We’re here for the music.”

Right she is. And with that, I refocus. Sometimes you just need to tune out the noise and crank up the soundtrack.