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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
JAKE
Dim overhead lights barely pierce through the gloom of the rear cabin on the flight home Sunday morning. Meanwhile, the harsh glow of Armaan’s phone burns insistently as he tortures himself with last night’s highlight—lowlight?—reel over and over like he’s a sucker for pain. Dude, we lost. The irony? I didn’t even have a concussion. Would the final play have gone differently if I’d been on the field?
My skull’s pounding, courtesy of all the earlier in-flight booze. Looking around, it’s clear we’re a collective portrait of regret and hangovers in human form.
I take a lungful of stale air, trying to dislodge the bitter taste of defeat. Losses happen, much as they sting. Still, there’s always next season. It’s not like I’ll never play again.
The seatbelt sign blinks on, and the pilot’s voice crackles through the speakers, announcing we’ll be landing shortly.
Thank fuck. All I want right now is to ditch this metal tube of recycled disappointment, flop into Amelia’s arms, and erase the monumental crapfest of the last few days. Damn, I’ve missed her. More than makes sense for such a short time apart.
I tap the armrest. Sure, the sex is a big plus (fingers crossed for that), but it’s more than that. I want to be there with her, right next to her, listening to her talk about her tours, or ramble about absolutely anything. Hell, she doesn’t even have to speak. I don’t, either. I just need to be with her, to touch her, to hold her. Wait a minute…am I having a moment here?
I sink deeper into my seat as the truth slowly unfurls in the white noise of the cabin. This isn’t your garden-variety missing someone. No, this is one of those massive, life-altering realizations.
Holy fuck, I’m in love with her.
The realization hits me, potent and surprising, like realizing you’ve been walking around with toilet paper stuck to your shoe, but in a good way.
The rush of admitting it, even to myself, perks me up. I let the words roll through my head, savoring each one. I love her. Damn, that feels great. And I can’t wait to say them out loud.
Me
Just landed. Be at yours soon.
But soon doesn’t come quick enough, some other billionaire’s jet is hogging the runway at Teterboro. My eyes flick to my wrist. A whole forty-three slow seconds since I last checked and we’re still circling.
Logan struts into our cabin and plants his hands on the backrests of the seats on either side of the aisle. “First order of business for the off-season, gentlemen—” Man’s in O-Captain-My-Captain mode, likely have dished out rah-rah speeches up front. “—is to forget about salads and protein shakes. I’m talking pizza, wings, the works.”
A ripple of laughter and agreement flows through the group, the prospect of unrestricted eating lighting up faces.
“I’m hitting every food truck from here to Queens,” Hunter declares, already rubbing his belly in anticipation.
Milo, ever ready to one-up shit, chimes in, “Well, I plan to eat my weight in sushi and poke bowls once I hit the beaches of Fiji.”
Logan’s got his number, though. “Do yourself a favor, and start carb-loading before poker night. You’re gonna wish for the extra padding when Noah comes for his revenge.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Still can’t believe you got lucky with a pair of twos.”
Milo jumps to his feet, feigning outrage. “Luck? That was pure skill, baby. He might own the team, but I’m king of the poker table. Bet you he’s been practicing in the mirror between closing deals.”
“You wish.” Collective snickers erupt at the absurd notion of Noah Winters licking his wounds.
“He doesn’t stand a chance,” Milo puffs up like a rooster.
“Maybe let him win. We owe him one for last night,” Connor=Fucker.
The mood dips momentarily at the reminder. “Yeah, you don’t want him going all in and putting the team on the line to offset the losses,” Hunter only half-jokes.
“Even better. I’ll win and own all your asses.” Milo’s retort snaps us out of the funk and into another round of ribbing. I can’t help but join in the laughter, their antics a welcome distraction. But, with each joke and jibe, my impatience balloons. Amelia’s just beyond the runway, and every second the plane’s wheels aren’t kissing the ground is a second too long. The only thing keeping my sanity in check is knowing this unexpected early off-season means unscheduled, unscripted, unlimited Amelia time.
Finally, the plane touches down. We spill out into the open, trading farewells in nods and backslaps. I do it all on autopilot, my thoughts on fast forward to the moment I see her.
Sliding into the first of the fleet of SUVs the team uses to transport us to and from the airport, I silently will the driver to have traffic-parting superpowers.
No such luck. Each stoplight is a red-eyed monster grinning at my eagerness, every bit of congestion a test of my patience.
When we finally pull up at Amelia’s place, I’m half-tempted to tuck and roll from the moving vehicle, but I settle for a hasty exit instead, tossing a hurried “Thanks!” over my shoulder as I make a beeline for her building.
The stairs are a blur under my feet, my stride eating up the distance two at a time.
The moment I reach her door, it swings open, and there she stands—breathtaking in red leggings and another of her band shirts. Relief floods me, washing away the lingering adrenaline of travel and the echo of yesterday’s loss. She’s here, she’s real, and nothing else matters.
Wordlessly, I tug her into my arms. Her hands wrap around my neck as I bury my head in her hair, breathing her in. Finally, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. For the first time in days, I’ve found my center again.
“I’m sorry about the game,” she whispers against my throat.
I draw back, sighing heavily. “You win some, you lose some.” I weave my fingers through her inky locks and tilt her head up.
There’s a weariness to her, dark circles ring her eyes. Even her cheeks have hollowed out.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of crap, with the relentless stream of bullshit photos plastered everywhere. Stupid captions like, “Alone in the Rain: Is this the end of #JAM?” Fuckers. And the even more idiotic, “Romance Rerouted: Amelia’s Tours Trump Titans’ Trip to the Playoffs.” As if her missing my game to actually, you know, be a dedicated professional doing her job defines the state of our relationship. If only they put half that effort into the real news.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” she mumbles, but downcast lashes still veil her thoughts.
“You sure?”
She hesitates, then meets my gaze, swallowing. “Jake…it’s just…I missed you,” she rushes out. She draws my head down and presses her mouth to mine. I clasp her to me more fiercely.
Her lips tremble, but gradually, she softens in my arms and releases a shuddering breath as her shoulders relax.
I ease back to offer her a crooked smile. “Missed you too, Sweets. So much. And—bright side, I now have all this extra free time to hang with you.”
But when her features tighten again, I know she’s spiraling again and jump in to reassure her. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Tell me about the tours.”
She shrugs. “There’ve been a lot of requests for refunds… It’s been difficult with all the press taking over.”
She edges back a small step, but that tiny retreat might as well be miles.
Every fiber in me screams to erase the gap, close the distance, and haul her in my arms, but her shuttered expression halts me. My hands curl into fists at my sides, grappling with the frustration of not being able to protect her and an urge to go find the idiots who’ve ruined her tours and smash their faces in. The fact that I can’t do either makes me feel so fucking impotent.
“I’m sorry.” I mutter. “What about Gotham Guides?” Crap, in all the chaos of the game, I hadn’t even asked about it sooner, and guilt eats at me. “How did it go?”
She laughs bitterly. “How do you think?”
“Not well.” Yeah. State of the obvious, won’t you, dude? I clear my throat. “What happened?”
“They’ve decided against the partnership.”
“But why?” The question comes out, laced with disbelief.
Amelia looks at me as if I’m thick. “Well, it’s kind of hard to make a case for providing some family friendly activities when someone off to the side is asking detailed questions about my BDSM lifestyle.”
Ah, crap. “We’ll find you another investor,” I say, already going into fix-it mode.
“It’s not only that.” She swallows. “I’ve decided to give up the new flat. I won’t have a place here anymore.”
“Move in with me.”
She stands there, stunned, as if I’d suggested we relocate to Mars. My penthouse isn’t that bad, is it? Or maybe the problem is me.
Tears brim in her eyes, and I’m left floundering, trying to decipher the silent SOS she’s sending. “It’s not that simple,” she whispers, clearly holding back a flood.
“Why not? There’s something else you’re not telling me.” I wish she would lay it all out so we can fix things and move on.
“Yes. No.” Amelia visibly collects herself, squaring her shoulders. “I got a phone call. My grandmother.”
“Is she okay?” A million scenarios rush through my head. Illness? Accident? Worse?
She gives a brief nod. “Nothing’s wrong. Not really…” she mutters, trailing off. Her shoes seem to have taken all her attention.
“Tell me,” I urge, my tone laced with exasperation. Why the hesitancy? What’s so terrible that she can’t spit it out?
Her head whips up, her eyes fiery. “Tell you what? That Ben and Margo approached Gran and asked her if she’d turn over management of the inn to them?” She takes a deep breath.
“I don’t see the problem,” I say, even as my heart sinks further.
Lines crease her forehead as she faces me. “I don’t have a job. I don’t have a home,” she explains, a slight tremor in her voice. Before I can reach for her, comfort her, she continues, “I could take over the inn if I go back…to England.”
Wait. What? Shock roots me to the spot. I blink, trying to process her words, as if they are hitting me in slow motion. England? She’s talking about leaving ?
“You’re not serious?” I splutter, my heartbeat thudding in my ears, loud and disorienting.
She doesn’t answer, and the silence is a vortex pulling me down. Suddenly, it’s as if an ocean’s already opened up between us.
I scramble, struggling to find the magic words that could bind her to the life she was starting to build here. With me. “But what about your dream of living in New York? What about all your plans?”
“Everything’s a disaster.”
So, she’s walking away? Just like that?
“And what about us?”
Table of Contents
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- Page 46 (Reading here)
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