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She lets out an exasperated sigh. “You can put me down. I was sleeping, my legs aren’t broken.”
Well, Icould…
“Plus you’re carrying both our bags?Jacob Rhodes. You just played hockey, and—”
She squirms in my hold until I drop her feet.
I keep my other arm around her back, holding her exactly in place at my side. She looks up at me uncertainly, but I ignore it. And my hard-on that refuses to go away, like a freaking teenager pressed against his crush.
When the elevator arrives on my floor, I guide her to the right condo door. I free the keys from her hand and unlock it, moving her in ahead of me.
“Welcome home,” I say. My gut tightens. Fuck, I like calling it that. To her. For her.
She lets out a little sigh, like maybe it feels right to her, too. And she walks in.
I follow in her wake as she silently explores the condo. The wide, open-concept kitchen and living space, the dining room tucked around the corner, the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a balcony overlooking the city. She runs her hands along the back of the sofa I only bought a few months ago, picked out by an expensive interior designer who crafted most of this place.
Melody goes into the hall that splits in two directions. To the left is her bedroom and the guest bathroom off the hall. To the right is my suite. She goes left.
“This is yours,” I say when she steps into the room.
The designer styled it. It’s a haven of creams and different shades of turquoise. The bed, with a cream-colored headboard, is in the center of the far wall. To its left is another floor-to-ceiling window. There’s a small desk and chair, a rug that feels soft to bare feet, and a million pillows on the bed.
Her closet is half-full, waiting for the discovery.
Her bathroom is stocked.
To say I’ve been waiting for this would be an understatement.
“Is it…?” I set her bag just inside the door, then stick my hands in my pockets.
She takes in the room, then the windows. Our reflections bounce back at us, and I easily read the uncertainty in her expression.
“It’s too much,” she whispers. “This is a lot, Jacob.”
“It’s enough.” I shrug. “Don’t worry, Melody. I’ll start charging you rent after your first paycheck if that would make you feel better.”
Relief pours over her face. “Yeah, actually. That would make me feel like I’m not taking advantage of you.”
I tilt my head. She wouldn’t ever take advantage of me. Not in the way I’m taking advantage ofher.
“Sleep,” I say instead. “It’s been a long night.”
She nods. I step back then. It takes too much willpower to close the door, so I leave it open and return to my room.
I drop my bag on the bed and sit, my gaze going straight to the painting hanging on my wall. The turquoise bird with tar smeared across its wings. Stuck and unable to fly, even though it’s desperate to do so.
Melody’s painting.
My friends say I spent too much money on it. That, when provoked, I went down a rabbit hole I couldn’t easily climb out of. But they couldn’t have known that I was already chasing Melody. Chasing her blindly, through the dark, just waiting for her to make a noise. To draw a breath and reel me in.
I was so fucking aware of her, of course I would spot her in a crowd of thousands at one of the biggest games of my career.
Of course I found her painting and won the bid for it, even though her husband—the mysterious “Mr. Cameron” we cannot find—tried to outbid me.
And then the rest.
They’re around the apartment. Five that I bought from her brother-in-law’s gallery. Two from an art show she had here in Denver with some other artists.
