Chapter Twenty-Two
Ellie
I didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not even Rachel. I needed to find some perspective on what I wanted. Now that I’d confessed my love, how did I want to handle his freak-out? My internet research said dump the boy-child. But my heart kept pulling me into coverage of the All-Star Game and how it pertained to Jake. Not that it really did, since he wasn’t playing, but thanks to Google, I was able to pull up selfies and excited tweets about meeting the hot Bobcat.
At least Connor played great. The interview they did with him after the game was good. And the National team won. Yeah. But what about Jake?
Social media was filled with pictures of him smiling with his mouth, but not his eyes. He hugged the kids, seemed to laugh with whomever was taking the video, but all in all? There was a tightness in his face that was either because I’d bailed or because his father was being a pain. Possibly both.
Which left me where exactly? Undecided. And hiding from Jake’s phone calls.
Except, naturally, the morning after the All-Star Game was over, he showed up at my door with a vanilla latte and chocolate chip muffins. Sure, it felt like the middle of the night for me since I was still on a third shift schedule, but I couldn’t resist looking at selfies of him with complete strangers. How was I going to refuse him entry? Plus, it was chocolate, caffeine, and Jake. That’s a triple threat I was not strong enough to resist.
I pulled open the door and stepped back. My hair was a mess, my sweats ratty, and my eyes bleary. He pressed the coffee into my hand, and I went on automatic pilot. I was drinking long before I recognized that he looked almost as crappy as I did. There were bags under his eyes, and he winced as he twisted to shut the door.
“Ribs still bothering you?” I asked.
“Nah. Just slept funny.”
“Or not at all. How drunk was your dad last night?”
He shrugged. “Not too bad. He calls me a nervous Nellie.”
I had no answer. The signs of daily worry about a relative with alcoholism were obvious on his face. Instead, I gestured into the kitchen. “Sounds like you need some food.”
He held up the bag of chocolate muffins, which I snatched from his hand. “These are for me. You get an omelet.”
He brightened at the thought, and I couldn’t resist smiling. Sometimes men were stupidly easy. Feed them a decent meal between bouts of hot sex, and they’d follow you anywhere. At least, until you stupidly mention you were in love.
That thought soured any warm feelings I felt toward him. I was still smarting from his rejection, and no amount of early-morning coffee was going to fix that. So while he sat at my kitchen table, I cracked eggs with unusual fervor, letting the silence fill the space between us. Then he had to go and poke the bear.
“I got back to our room the next morning and you were gone.” Was there a slight accusation in his tone?
“I didn’t feel like you wanted me there anymore.”
“I didn’t say that, did I?” Definite anger.
“Over 90 percent of communication is nonverbal.”
He didn’t answer, so I started chopping up vegetables to go in his omelet. I’d just started sautéing the onions when he spoke again.
“I have a hot button when it comes to women disappearing on me.”
“Did any of them run out while you were still coming? Forget about afterglow. I wasn’t even done with the good stuff.”
He cleared his throat, and when I looked back, his face was bright red. “That was, um, I was wrong.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“But you could have stayed to talk to me about it. I brought you coffee the next morning. I was ready to talk.”
He had a point. But I was still too hurt to completely forgive him. I’d bared my soul to him and he’d run out like I was ugly Uncle Morty. So I sidestepped into what I’d already decided. “Look, I promised I’d play the part of your girlfriend until the end of the season. And I’ll do that. I’ll be there for the interviews tomorrow, acting as if we’re a happy couple.” I slid the omelet onto a plate and dropped it on the table in front of him.
“Good God, Ellie, that’s huge!” he gasped at the seven-egg monstrosity.
I picked up a fork and neatly split it in half before digging into the section of omelet nearest me. When he looked at me, I shrugged.
“I haven’t done the dishes yet. I figured we’d share.”
