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I so badly hope there will be others.
My toes curl in my heeled boots, melting into him as he sucks at my lower lip. He tastes like mint, his lips soft, and a low, satisfied hum escapes me before I can think twice. I can feel Reed smirking against my mouth, which only makes the butterflies in my stomach go into a frenzy more, and I have to pull away before I start thinking with something other than my head and decide to skip dinner and go straight to his bedroom.
Reed looks down at me, and my chest squeezes at the sight of his smile; it’s small but it’s real and there, and it warms my skin when he gently grips and rubs my chin with his thumb and murmurs, “Thanks for showing up.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” I return genuinely. His dark eyes don’t carry their usual stoniness. There’s something soft and warm in them, and knowing that it’s for me is dizzying. I take a step back so my head stops spinning, and that’s when I smell the delicious aroma wafting in the air. “It smells amazing in here.”
This time, Reed does grin—full and wide and enough to bring out the crinkles on the corners of his eyes I didn’t know he had—and the air rushes out of my lungs at the sight of it. “I made paella, hope that’s okay. It’s my dad’s recipe.”
My eyebrows rise as Reed leads me toward the food, looking at him in surprise. “Youmade it?” I ask.
“Yes, why?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at me in return. “Why is that surprising?”
I can’t help but let out a laugh as I shrug. “I just expected you to have someone do the cooking for you.” Don’t most rich people have personal chefs, anyway?
Reed rolls his eyes good naturedly, his smile still present. “I’ll admit, I’ve got a chef on retainer. But I wanted to cook for you.”
My heart trips up. If I’m not careful, I will easily fall head over heels for Reed Maxwell.
Chapter 12
Willow
“Thatwassogood—Ithink I may wantyouto become my personal chef,” I praise, leaning back in my chair as I shake my head in wonder.
Reed smiles, proud as triumph dances in his eyes. Instead of sitting opposite of me at the dining table, Reed gave me the end of the table and is sitting to my right, with a sprawl of food before us—mostly eaten. He had made paella and salad with a few side dishes, all of which had been delicious. The effort Reed put into dinner isn’t lost on me, and the butterflies in my stomach haven’t calmed down since I stepped foot in this house.
Dinner had been a pleasant affair, keeping the topics of conversation easy and not too deep. He told me about his family and details of him growing up playing football that aren’t found in the public, and I told him about how I grew up watching sports with my dad and brother, going to school for journalism and the internships I did that landed me the position I have. Neither of us broached the subject of whatever the hell we’re doing now, and how it could potentially affect our jobs. I didn’t want to potentially spoil dinner by bringing up the topic, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t on my mind.
Though, talking to Reed while eating the food he made for us, most of the time all I could focus on was how handsome he looked, sitting next to me, and the way he would look at me. I swear, the air electrified every time our eyes met, the tension thickening with every passing minute. I wanted to touch him, and I desperately wanted him to touch me, but I quietly sipped my wine and ate my food, trying to distract myself from the desire that coursed through my veins. It was pointless, though.
Now, though, with dinner done and the two of us sitting here, staring at each other, my thoughts and questions from before resurface. We slept together, and now we’re here on a date, and I don’t know what any of this means. Despite everything, there is a contentment that settles in my chest warmly, like none of this feels wrong.
But I’m a journalist, and at the end of the day, asking questions is what I do best, so I don’t stop myself when I feel a gentle, curious smile tug at my mouth and I ask softly, “What are we doing, Reed?”
I don’t have to elaborate; I see the question register in his eyes. Right now, Reed isn’t all hard lines and blank expressions. His eyes are soft, lips curled upwards slightly, showing me a side I haven’t been privy to until recently. “Full disclosure?” he asks, and I nod, throat tight. He folds his arms on the table, leaning toward me, and I try not to let my gaze fall to his forearms. With his brown eyes locked on my green, he says, “I want to be with you. Iwant you, in every sense of the word, Willow. I hope to hell that doesn’t freak you out.”
His words don’t freak me out—they shock the hell out of me. Sleeping with someone is one thing, but for Reed to confess that he wants me—as in arelationship—knocks the air out of my lungs. I mean, I could have figured, right, with this date? But hearing it from him makes it all the more real, and despite my nerves, excitement and relief blooms inside of me.
Because, goddammit, somewhere along the way, my attraction to Reed became so much more, and it’s a breathless sort of relief knowing he feels the same way about me.
“I want to be with you, too,” I admit softly, and my skin warms as the relief flashes across his face. I sit up, wringing my fingers in my lap. “But I—what about my job, Reed? If people find out that we’re together, it’s risky for my career. And I don’t—” My throat works as I shake my head. “I worked too hard to get to where I am for it all to blow up in my face, you know?”
“I know, baby,” he says, his hands finding mine, and his touch combined with the term of endearment has my heart swelling as he keeps his gaze locked on mine. “I know how important your job is to you, and I don’t want you to lose it, either. And you won’t. If we do this, we can keep it private. We’ll tell or won’t tell whoever you want. It’s no one else’s business, anyway.”
I let out a sigh. “That’s easier said than done, though, isn’t it? I mean, yeah, you say it now that we can keep things private, but what if you get tired of all of the sneaking around? Not being able to be seen in public together?”
He shoots me a look with a smile curling at his mouth. “Baby,Idon’t even like being seen in public,” he tells me, and that pulls a laugh out of me because it’s true. The only time Reed is seen in public is when it’s game day or he’s at some event—or if a fan spots him grocery shopping. Otherwise, he keeps to himself from the public eye, which might be beneficial if we try this relationship thing.
I chew on my lower lip. “You realize you’re going to be dating a journalist, right? You hate journalists,” I point out, though this time I’m just teasing a little.
“I don’t hate journalists,” Reed argues, but then rolls his eyes when I shoot him a pointed look. His thumb rubs the back of my hand. “Fine, I hate some of them, but for good reasons. But you—” He shifts forward and I can’t help but lean toward him too, our gazes locked. “You’re my exception.”
Well, shoot. Way to make a girl swoon.
My heart flutters madly, and he doesn’t give me a chance to respond as he continues, “I can prove it to you. I’ll tell you why I had to walk off the field the last game. I know you’ve been wondering about it.”
I blink. “I thought you were having back issues?” I ask, because that’s what I heard, at least, from the representative of the team.
