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His breath warm on my naked body.
His laugh in my ear when I come, a gentle encouragement as he gets me there.
Damn him. Damn him for being seductive without even trying. Damn him for making my imagination run wild. A vision of a tattooed arm around my naked waist flits through my brain, and I have no clue what to do.
“Smile,” I repeat. “I can smile.”
My lips split into a grin. My hair is unbrushed and my eyes are heavy, woken up from a deep slumber a few minutes before, but I lookhappy. My cheeks have color. You can see my teeth and the little wrinkles around my mouth. Shawn’s smile matches mine and he snaps away, photo after photo of us saved on his phone.
“There we go,” he breathes out, and a sensation in my chest twists and turns. “Perfect.”
I’m not sure anyone has called me perfect before, but when Shawn says it, I believe him.
His hand falls away from my neck. I scoot off his lap and onto the plush cushions. “Would you like some tea?” I ask. “Water? Something stronger?”
He looks up from his phone. His gaze bounces to my legs, then back to my face, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “Tea would be great. Thanks.”
I all but run into the kitchen and turn the kettle on. I fumble with the mugs on the top shelf in the cabinet and nearly bring the whole shelf down on me. I wait for the water to get hot and peek around the corner to make sure Shawn hasn’t gone anywhere.
He’s still there on my couch, phone in his hand and a small smile on his lips.
Gosh, he’s beautiful. I think I could stare at him for hours.
“Milk? Sugar? Honey?” I call out, and my voice is half an octave too high. I clear my throat and shake my head, rattled by the last five minutes.
“However you take it,” he answers.
I pour the piping hot water into the mugs. I add the tea bags, a splash of milk and a touch of honey to each before returning to the living room.
“I made chamomile, so you aren’t still awake in three hours,” I say. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says. He takes the mug and sighs contently as his fingers wrap around the warm porcelain. “Thank you. This might be the highlight of my day.”
“My tea isn’tthatgood, so I guess your day was that bad?” I ask, and I take a sip of my drink. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I—” Shawn stops talking. He sits up and looks around. “What’s that noise?”
“Oh.” I set down my mug and grab a blanket to fold. “I put on some classical music before you came over. You said it helps you decompress, and I thought it might be nice after the loss. I’m sure your head’s been going a mile a minute since the game ended.”
He blinks at me. “You put on music for me? The music that I like?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m painfully aware I might have severely overstepped a boundary he shared with me in a moment of regret.
“Lacey,” he says, and his voice is ragged and strained. “This is—thank you. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all night, and this… this is…” He swallows and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m really happy right now.”
“You are? You don’t look really happy. You look kind of constipated.”
A laugh bursts out of him, and he shoves his drink onto the table next to the couch. He holds out his arms. “Can I hug you?” he asks, and I’ve never nodded so adamantly in my life.
I move toward him, and his palms settle on my hips. I rest my chin in the crook of his neck, and my hands grab a fistful of his shirt. “Talk to me,” I whisper, because I’m desperate to make sure he doesn’t carry these burdens alone. “You don’t have to be perfectly put together around me, Shawn. You can let it out. You’re allowed to be a little broken. I won’t think any less of you.”
“Today was horrible. The loss sucks, yeah. But the guys acted like they’ve never played a game of football before in their lives. Dallas was swinging at people. My quarterback thinks he messed up when it’s my fault we ran the ball instead of kicked. I had to listen to a reporter try and blame the loss on my relationship with you. And to top it all off, I read some of the comments on social media after the game, and they’re all shitty. Saying we should dismantle the team. That I’m overpaid. That you’re a distraction and women have no place in sports.” He exhales, and the sigh tickles my forehead. “It’s a lot.”
“What can I do to help?” I ask. “Right now, what can I do?”
“Nothing. Being here with you is enough.” He runs his fingers through my hair, and I let out a sigh. “It’s nice to have something to look forward to when I get home. This is exactly where I want to be. Exactly what I need.”
“The guys will bounce back,” I say softly. I trace the outline of one of his tattoos—a bouquet of pretty purple flowers, right below his bicep—and drag my nails down his skin. “Fuck that reporter, and fuck the people on social media. So what if the game didn’t go how you thought it would? Big deal. Everyone made it on the plane healthy. Everyone made it home in one piece, and the good news is you can start again tomorrow. You can adjust. That’s why the Titans hired you—because you know how to problem solve. You know how to fix things. I don’t know much about football, but I know your heart and your drive. I know you’re going to lead those guys to their best season yet.”
