Page 18

18

JAMIE

It’s two in the morning when I make it home, bumping into the front door and grunting like an animal. I nearly forget to turn off the alarm before going inside and sagging against the wall.

My head is spinning from the alcohol I’ve consumed, and my shirt is only half-buttoned. I’m still not sure how I made it into an Uber and away from the venue once the media arrived.

Fucking reporters were everywhere. My eyes are still sore from the burn of camera flashes that attacked at the end of the night. At least my brother was already gone by then.

The media wasn’t even there for him. From the shouts and number of fans chasing the reporters’ tails as I was diving into the SUV, it’s safe to say they were there for Noah. Who knows how they found the location of the wedding with how well it was kept hidden, but they wasted their time.

My cousin was gone three hours into the reception.

Shit, my head hurts.

It’s too hard to kick my shoes off, so I keep them on as I sway down the hall to the kitchen. I’m starving, even if I did pound back at least an eighth of the buffet and dessert table. My workout tomorrow is going to be intense.

It’s dark in every room of the house that I pass. When I trip into the kitchen, I flail and slap a hand to the light switch. With it lit up, I have to blink to soothe the sting in my eyes and immediately head to the fridge.

My stomach grumbles again while I scour my eyes over the fridge’s contents and squint at a clear-wrapped plate. The food on it isn’t anything I cooked. At least, I don’t remember cooking it.

No. I’ve never made . . . chicken pot pie?

My stomach growls again, fiercer this time. I snake the plate and go to tear the wrapping off when I see the Post-it note on top.

In case you come home hungry. It’s no burger, but it should help soak up the booze. And if you’re sober, I don’t care. Eat it anyway.

Night,

Blakely

My grin is lopsided as hell, but goddamn, I think my almost wife is starting to warm up to me. Never thought she’d be the type of woman to write cute notes on home-cooked meals, but I think I love being surprised by her.

After folding the note and putting it in my pocket, I tear the wrapping off before putting the dish in the microwave. Once it’s started to spin and heat up, I fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down.

My agent called me a few times tonight, but I didn’t answer. Rude as hell for him to call during my brother’s wedding. I don’t care if it’s an emergency. When I’m with my family, I’m not up for business talk.

Sighing, I pull my phone out and struggle with the passcode before opening the missed texts.

The Agent: I have an update on your upcoming marriage arrangement. Call me when you can please.

The Agent: Can you step away from the wedding? Just want to touch base.

The Agent: I’ll pop it in here then. The engagement announcement is expected on Friday before the game. There’s a pass for Blakely. Please make sure she’s in attendance. Enjoy the wedding tonight, Jamie.

The microwave beeps as my stomach flops around like a fish. I knew it was only a matter of time, considering the wedding is set for next weekend, but it’s suddenly very real. Once we announce an engagement and our plans for a wedding, there won’t be any hiding away.

The game is about to start, and we have no option but to win.

Tony is a great agent. He likes to give me my space to figure things out on my own before getting involved. My dad helped me hire him before I was drafted, and with how picky the old man was, it’s no surprise that I wound up with a good guy on my side.

When Tony wasn’t against this idea of marriage, I took that as an extra good sign. He’s supposed to be helping coordinate with a wedding planner for Blakely, and while I haven’t heard anything about it from her, I don’t think that’s odd. She hasn’t seemed overly eager to plan anything. I don’t blame her for that. This isn’t a real wedding despite the legality of it.

I lean over the counter and shovel back the pot pie she made me, filling my booze-heavy stomach with something to soak it up. The flavours that hit my tongue have me speeding up my bites, desperate for more. Somehow, she got the crispiest shell without drying the shit out of the chicken. The filling is good enough I’d eat it on its own.

When it’s gone, I stare at my empty plate in shock.

Disappointment strikes harder when I put the plate into the dishwasher and go to my bedroom. Pretty sure I forgot to turn the light off, but fuck it. My feet are killing me, and now I’m in a food coma so intense I’m genuinely considering whether I’ll be able to get up for practice tomorrow afternoon .

The stairs seem to go on forever as I lean against the railing and slump my way up them?—

“Fuck,” I grunt, nearly missing a step and stubbing my toe.

Wincing at my outburst, I open my bedroom door and step inside. It’s dark in here, but the moon leaks in through the sliding glass patio door, so at least I can see where I’m going.

Then again, if I do stub my toe a second time, maybe Blakely can bandage me up.

With a groan, I shrug off my suit jacket and unzip the fly of my pants. The cuffs on my shirt are tight, so those go next?—

I come to a jerky stop at the edge of my bed. I’m pretty sure I didn’t pile pillows under my duvet when I left this morning, but there’s most definitely a lump there right now. A human-sized-and-shaped lump.

I steady myself with a hand on the mattress and lean over the body. It moves with deep, steady breaths, and as I get closer, I can make out brown hair splayed all over my pillow and usually tight features completely relaxed. Brown brows flat, pink lips parted slightly, and lashes fluttering.

Blakely.

Blakely is in my bed.

Blakely is in my bed sleeping.

She’s got the covers up and tucked beneath her chin, her fingers gripping onto it for dear life even in sleep. Like she’s scared someone will try and take them from her.

My muscles loosen as I bring a knuckle to the curve of her ear and nudge a few strands of hair behind it. She doesn’t so much as twitch, completely shut off to the world.

I’m happy she’s fallen asleep. I know she’s been up late since she moved in. She might think that she’s quiet while pacing up and down the hallway or that I can’t sense her sitting behind her bedroom door when she thinks I’ve gone to bed.

I won’t tell her differently.

Her finding my bedroom—my bed —somewhere safe enough to fall asleep is dangerous to a guy like me .

The type who falls in love easily and without restraint. I’m the guy who banters with a woman for a few hours and asks, “What are we?” It’s easy to fuck around and keep things surface-level with someone who doesn’t tickle that special space in your chest upon first meeting. You put on a smirk and cage your heart for a few hours, reminding yourself that this isn’t the one.

The first time I met Blakely, I felt that tickle.

But the Blakely from that first night is somehow so different from this one.

There are so many pieces of her that I’m trying to fit together into one beautiful picture. Just when I think I’ve figured them all out, she goes and throws in another, like leaving me dinner on the off chance I went to the fridge when I got home.

I like to joke around, but with her, I have wondered if it could potentially lead to more than that. And that’s exactly why I need this wedding to come as soon as possible. Every single piece of her that I’ve seen has intensified that tickle.

Maybe if I’m reminded of why we’re doing this, it won’t feel so much like playing house and more like what it’s supposed to be. A business transaction that ended up budding into a friendship along the way.

It would never turn into anything other than with Blakely. Entertaining the idea of any variation of a future with her when I know she’s unavailable will only hurt me in the long run.

Without stripping further, I turn and leave the room, content to sleep just about anywhere else.

It’s barely daybreak when I thump my fist against the door of my brother’s hotel suite. I’m still in my wrinkled suit and haven’t so much as brushed my teeth. I stink like booze and a long night of overthinking.

The hotel manager gave me a weird look when I passed him on my way up here, and I didn’t have it in me to try and convince him that I’m not always this weathered.

I woke this morning in the hall outside of my room and booked ass here. With my head a bit clearer, I knew I needed to warn my brother about the news breaking tomorrow. It’s not an ideal bomb to drop the day after his wedding, but it’s that or I keep it inside for the next few months.

Footsteps stomp behind the door before it’s whipped open. Oliver’s scowl is in its proper place when he glares at me.

“Did you miss the memo where it’s the day after my wedding? You’re not supposed to bug me today,” he grunts.

The up-and-down look he gives me is enough of a sign that I look as bad as I suspected. Oh well, he can deal with it.

“Sorry, that rule doesn’t apply to me. This is an emergency. Now, scoot and let me in,” I say, trying to weasel my body between his and the speck of a gap available for me to enter the suite.

He sets a hand on my shoulder and gives me a light shove backward. “What’s wrong with you?”

Out in the open like this, I can’t exactly confide in him. There’s too much at stake if the wrong person is too close.

“Oh, you know. Nothing much.”

“Don’t play with me today, Jamieson.”

I attempt to look past him into the suite at where Avery sits watching us, but he takes a step in front of me and scowls.

“I don’t want to talk about it in the hall, Oliver. Let me in so nobody else hears this,” I plead, dropping my voice in the hope that he can sense my desperation.

“Keep your eyes off my wife,” he warns before finally letting me in.

While he shuts the door behind us, I head right for his wife, knowing she’s the only one who can convince my stubborn-as-a-mule brother to do something he doesn’t want to. And right now, that’s talking to me when he so obviously has other plans .

I flop down on the bed beside her and open my mouth to speak when Oliver snorts.

“Wouldn’t sit there if I were you. Honeymoon and all.”

Once I realize what he’s talking about, I hop right back off the mattress with my nose crinkled.

“Fuck off, Oliver. I knew it smelled like sex in here.”

“I’m going to the bathroom while you boys talk,” Avery mutters, her cheeks red as she watches her husband.

He doesn’t bother pretending he’s not hating every inch of distance between them as he gawks at her. “We won’t be long.”

“We might be,” I say.

Avery slips off the bed, and I contemplate pleading with her to stay and help calm her husband when he inevitably freaks out at my news.

“Eyes off my wife, asshole.”

I laugh, batting my lashes at him. The post-wedding bliss must be chafing a bit. “Call her your wife again. I don’t think you’ve said it enough yet.”

“I’ll call her my wife anytime I want to. Now, tell me what it is you need so I can get back in bed with her.”

My laugh dies, all my humour replaced with nerves as I blurt out, “I’m engaged.”

He stares at me blankly, not believing me.

“I’m not lying. Hand to God,” I add weakly.

“We’re not religious.”

I stifle a sigh. “Okay, hand to the fucking sun, then. I don’t know. I’m not lying.”

“Since fucking when are you engaged? To who?” he asks sharply, his stare blazing.

“I met her a couple of weeks ago. Nice girl.”

What the fuck? Nice girl is the last way I’d choose to describe Blakely. It’s way too plain for her. Bordering on insulting.

“A nice girl? She’s a nice girl? You asked someone to marry you, and the best you can do is say she’s a nice girl? ”

“Okay, she’s a nice, gorgeous girl. Better? Fuck, don’t bust my balls right now.”

“You came here, Jamie. I’ll bust your balls if I fucking want to because what the fuck did you do? You’re not the marriage type. And you’re surely not the asking a nice girl to marry you out of the blue type. Has Mom met her? Dad? I damn well haven’t. You’ve gotten one too many concussions. I knew you should have stopped playing football.”

Jesus. I don’t know what’s more hurtful, the fact he doesn’t think I’m the marriage type of guy or that I’m doing this because I’ve hit my head a few too many times. Just because I haven’t stayed celibate for years doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the idea of marriage. Just never expected it to happen already.

I hold my hands out in front of me and shake my head, feeling the colour and heat leach from my face. “Slow down. First, I’ve only had three concussions. And second, no. Nobody’s met her but me. But that doesn’t mean anything. We’re getting married, and that’s that. I just wanted you to know before the news went live tomorrow.”

Oliver balks, turning more green than pale. “The news?”

“Yeah. I’m announcing it tomorrow. It’s happening.”

“No. It’s not. Call it off right now. I’ll have Dad come over so we can talk about it together,” he declares, already hunting for what I assume is his phone.

I grab his wrist and tug. “No. You’re not calling Dad. I’m not telling them yet.”

I will once I have to. When they won’t have the chance to convince me to change my mind.

“What?” he shouts, eyes bugging out of his skull.

“Don’t yell!”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, I haven’t. You and I both know if I tell them, they’ll convince me not to do this the same way that you are right now.”

“If you want me to do anything other than convince you not to do this, then you need to tell me everything. You might be able to bluff your ass off to anyone else, Mom included, but I’m not falling for it. Tell me what the fuck is going on, Jamieson, or I swear I’m going to call Mom and Dad and get them to come here right now.”

The bathroom door squeaks open as Avery slips out and comes to Oliver’s side, worry obvious in her expression as they hold eye contact.

Fuck. I knew he wouldn’t be easy to convince, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be this bad. He’s not the gossip type, and we’re brothers, but lying to our parents is bad enough when I’m doing it, but both of us? If our parents found out, it would kill them.

I collapse on the small couch across the room and swallow a thousand refusals before speaking. “Fine. But nobody learns about this. Not even our parents.”

“Fine.”

And for yet another time, I let the truth free.