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“I’m sorry, Nick, if I embarrassed you. I understand if you want to cancel—”
“STOP!” he roars, setting my nerves more on edge.
Nothing else is said until he lets us into his apartment, going straight to his bathroom and sitting me on the vanity. I’m scared to look at myself, knowing I resemble a train wreck.
He finally locks eyes with me, and my breath catches. One of his hands slides across my right temple, where he presses lightly, and I hiss at the sting.
He steps back, moving both his hands to my collar. I jump as he rips the jersey in half, sliding it off my shoulders and throwing it aside. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches behind me and turns on the faucet.
Tears finally prickle my eyelids when he wets a cloth with warm water and starts to rub lightly over my face, neck, and shoulders, stopping when he reaches my wrist. He repeats the action on the other side and leans in to kiss my temple.
Then he finally starts talking.
“Third and eight, the play is set up. Jarvis and Gade are ready for me. The score is ours. We’ve practiced it a thousand times. I’m getting ready, and then I feel it. Not the energy, not the chanting—no, I feel you. For some reason, I glance up and see a scuffle in the stands. I think to myself, Grace is fine, Six. Stop being a pussy. Then I see a man butting heads with a woman. Your head bounced back, your hair flying, and I knew. My heart stopped beating. I saw red. Furious, murderous rage filled me. I went through the motions, calling the play, throwing the ball, but I never saw Jarvis make the touchdown because, when I turned back, the cop had you in his arms.”
“Nick—“
“Grace, I’m a laid back guy, but I’ve never wanted to fucking pummel someone so hard in my life. I found a guard, told him to use his mic, walkie-talkie, or fucking telepathy, but whatever it was, find SHAW!”
“Nick—” I try again.
“I finished the game and went straight to Shaw, Mathis, and Logan on the sidelines. They talked me down from going into the sober cell next to yours and strangling anyone. The thought of you hurt was my undoing.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, swallowing hard. “Let me explain.”
“You were defending me. There are dozens of witnesses who found the cops to tell their side of the story. The super fans, those who follow me regularly, recognized you and Bizzy and told them you were innocent.”
“Really?”
“Yes, baby, dozens.”
“They were being awful. I couldn’t stand for it. Then one of the women started—”
“Sweet Grace, why do you think we make Bizzy sit in the box? Claire? My mom? It’s because of the tempers flaring. I learned a long time ago to take the heat.”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“The thought of you standing up for me is admirable, but don’t ever fucking go head to head with anyone. I’ll lose my shit.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his lips crash to mine. This is a kiss unlike we’ve ever shared before, and I melt into him, letting him have control. All my arguments die as he scoots me to the edge of the vanity, rubbing his erection against my center.
He moves his lips to my cheek, neck, and collarbone, leaving me panting before stopping and stepping back. His face fills with disgust. “I love rum and coke, but the stench on you makes me sick. I need to bathe you.”
He sheds his clothes on the way to his massive tub. I force myself to remain seated even though I want to leap down and strip him myself.
Finally, he comes back and places me on my feet, undressing me.
“I’ll apologize now, but you may have trouble walking tomorrow.”
My text from earlier comes to mind. “So I don’t need to do all the work?”
His eyes flare. “Never.”
“You going to carry me?”
“Yes, I’ll carry you everywhere, if only to keep you out of trouble.”
He steps into the tub, sits carefully, and situates me directly on top of him. He pours shower gel into his hands and gently starts washing me. Slowly, his hands roam over my body, leaving a trail of warmth.
