Page 19 of The Decoy

I lean my head back, and suddenly, I remember how sore I am. My ribs ache, my knees are stiff, and I have film tomorrow morning, even though we won. It’s playoff season. No rest for the wicked.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel a sense of peace settle around me.

And then I think…Tuesday can’t come fast enough.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ellis

My alarm went off at six-fifteen, but I’m already awake, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling while the morning light shines through my windows.

Normally, my mornings are a tightly scheduled exercise in efficiency. I wake up, check my email and social media before my feet even hit the floor, then I take Oshie on a potty stroll, and after that, I go straight to my home gym for forty-five minutes and work out on my Peloton while listening to my favorite podcast.

But today, I just lay here under my white duvet, listening to the sounds around me.

Oshie lifts her head from her fluffy bed in the corner. Her tail gives two lazy thumps before she lets out a squeaky yawn, stretching her front paws out in front of her.

“Good morning, my favorite girl,” I murmur, my voice still raspy from sleep.

Throwing back the duvet, I swing my legs over the mattress. Oshie immediately pads over, resting her chin on my knee, looking up at me with her pretty brown eyes. I lean down and scratch her behind her ears while she leans her full body into my leg.

Standing up, I catch my reflection in the standing mirror beside my closet doors. I pause, resting my hands on my hips and turning slowly sideways.

At almost twelve weeks, my clothes and tailored suits are becoming an exercise in wishful thinking. There’s a small bump on my lower stomach now, a permanent change to my silhouette that no amount of high-end fabric, good tailoring, or posture can hide.

I pull my pajama shirt tight against me, placing one hand gently over my stomach.

Twelve weeks ago, my entire existence was defined by my work, family, and friends. And of course, having a good old-fashioned no-strings-attached hookup. I’m mostly immune to personal distractions, mine and other people's. But now, everything I do, every decision I make, will be anchored to the tiny heartbeat I heard a few weeks ago.

And as much as I try to maintain the boundaries, professional and otherwise, every choice I make is becoming strangely tied to a six-foot-six tight end who’s willing to drive from New Jersey just to make sure I don’t walk into the doctor’s office alone.

Brody.

Just thinking his name makes a strange flutter settle in my stomach. We talk or text every day. He sends me reels with items the baby will need. And he’s been sending me snacks to the office almost daily.

I turn away from the mirror and throw on a pair of sweats and grab my jacket by the door so I can take Oshie outside.

Fifteen minutes later—because it’s freezing outside— I take a quick shower, and then head to the closet and pull the doors open, already dreading the biggest hurdle of the day: finding an outfit that looks professional but comfortable. I settle on a pair of dark charcoal pants with a stretchy waistband, a loose ivory blouse, and a tailored navy wool coat that hangs over my waist without clinging to my curves.

By eight o’clock, I’ve fed Oshie, given her fresh water, answered four urgent emails about an upcoming tennis endorsement deal, and prepped a mug of tea. Not having coffee isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

At eight-fifteen, my phone buzzes on the marble of the kitchen island.

Brody: Outside. Had to park half a block down though, so when you come down, let me know, and I’ll pull up. Hopefully the truck blocking the entrance is gone now. I can’t see from this angle.

I stare at my phone for a second, looking at the photo I took of him when we pulled away from the game. He couldn’t see me through the windows, so I snapped one quickly before we got too far away. He just looked too cute standing there watching me go.

My favorite tight end.

The words I casually and flirtatiously tossed out in the hallway flash in my mind, making my face feel flush instantly. I’ve spent the past few days replaying that brief interaction while trying to work. It’s silly, really. Brody is one of my highest-profile athletes. Besides, he's a big flirt. It’s not really that big of a deal.

Except he’s also the man who texted me at one in the morning after a brutal game just to make sure I’d crossed the bridge safely, and whose care and generosity are dismantling my defenses. Or it could just be the hormones.

I take a sip of tea, grab my tote bag and coat, stroke Oshie’s head one last time, and go to the elevator. I text him right before I get in.

When the glass doors open onto the street, the cold air hits my face like a slap. I pull my collar higher around my neck and look down the block.

Brody’s truck is sitting near the curb, the exhaust letting out steam in the cold air. Brody is leaning against the passenger side door, looking entirely too handsome for a freezing Tuesday morning. He’s wearing a dark green sweater under an open black coat, jeans, and the same boots he was wearing after the game the other night. I don’t really pay much attention to what men wear, to be honest, but Brody wears clothes really well. He makes it easy to appreciate how they fit. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his long legs are crossed at the ankle.