19. Xander #3
After breakfast, we showered together, which—predictably—led to another delay.
The steam-filled bathroom turned into our playground, her soapy hands gliding over my chest, down my abs, lower until I had her pressed against the tiled wall, water cascading over us as I thrust into her from behind.
“God, Xander,” she panted, her palms flat against the wall for leverage. “We were supposed to be quick.”
“Quick is overrated,” I rasped in her ear, one hand between her legs, circling her clit until she shattered again, her cries muffled by the spray. I followed suit, groaning her name like a prayer.
By the time we finally made it out of her apartment, it was past noon, both of us flushed and grinning like idiots.
We spent the afternoon wandering through a local farmer’s market, her arm linked through mine as we sampled artisanal cheeses and fresh mangoes.
“Try this,” she said, holding a slice to my lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s almost as sweet as you.”
I nipped her fingers playfully. “Careful, or I’ll drag you behind that stall and show you sweet.” She laughed, pulling me along to the next booth, where we haggled over handmade candles that smelled like ocean breeze.
From there, a long walk along the beach, our fingers intertwined, toes sinking into the warm sand.
We talked about everything and nothing—her favorite books (medical thrillers, go figure), my disastrous first pro game (tripped over the ball, face-planted in front of 50,000 fans), and more talk about dream vacations (hers: secluded Greek islands; mine: anywhere with her and a bed).
The sun beat down, waves lapping at our feet, and for a few hours, we pushed aside the shadows of the past and the uncertainty of the future.
We were just a man and a woman enjoying a beautiful day together, stealing kisses when no one was looking.
As the sun set, we returned to her apartment with takeout from a Thai place near her building—spicy pad see ew for me, green curry for her. We ate on her balcony, cross-legged on the cushioned loungers, watching the sky turn from blue to orange to deep purple, the first stars appearing overhead.
“I wish every day could be like this,” Tara said softly, leaning back in her chair, a glass of sparkling water in her hand, her bare feet propped in my lap.
I massaged her instep absently, my thumb circling the arch. “It could be,” I replied, the words out before I’d fully thought them through. “Maybe not exactly like this—practice and all—but... good. Together. No more sneaking around, no more bullshit.”
She looked at me, her expression unreadable in the fading light, a mix of hope and hesitation flickering in her eyes. “Xander...”
Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by my phone ringing. I pulled it from my pocket, ready to silence it, but paused when I saw the caller ID.
“It’s Cory,” I said, my pulse suddenly spiking. I hadn’t expected him to get back to me this quickly.
I answered, putting the phone on speaker out of habit. “Hey Cory.”
“Xander,” my brother’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike as always. “I’ve got updates on your situation. Is now a good time?”
I glanced at Tara, who nodded encouragingly. “Yeah, now’s fine. You’re on speaker, by the way. Tara’s here with me.”
There was a brief pause. “Dr. Swanson,” Cory acknowledged. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mr. McCrae,” she replied formally. “Thank you for your help with this.”
“Cory, please,” he said, his tone warming. “And you’re welcome. Though I’m afraid I have mixed news.”
I sat up straighter, my relaxed mood evaporating. “What did you find?”
“Good news/bad news situation,” Cory said, getting straight to the point as he always did. “The bad news first: there are no ‘original notes’ in the police archives. The file has been scrubbed clean.”
My heart sank. “Completely?”
“From what my contact could tell, yes. Either the notes were never filed officially, or they were removed at some point. Possibly when Morrison retired.”
Tara’s face fell, and I reached across the table to take her hand. “And the good news?” I asked, not sure there could be any.
“The good news,” Cory continued, “is that I tracked down Morrison’s former partner, a Detective Miller. He’s retired now too, but he was willing to talk off the record.”
Hope flickered back to life. “What did he say?”
“He confirmed what you suspected. Morrison was dirty. Apparently, he was forced into early retirement to avoid an internal affairs investigation. Miller wouldn’t go into details, and he made it very clear he won’t testify or go on record.”
“So we’re back to square one,” I said, frustration creeping into my voice.
“Not exactly,” Cory replied, and I could hear the slight smile in his voice—the one he got when he’d found a clever solution to a problem. “Miller gave me what he called ‘the key to unlocking Morrison.’ Something that might persuade him to talk to you.”
Tara leaned forward eagerly. “What is it?”
“Two words: Valdez case.”
I frowned, looking at Tara, who appeared equally confused. “What’s the Valdez case?”
“According to Miller, it was a major drug trafficking case that Morrison tanked,” Cory explained. “He wouldn’t elaborate, but he seemed confident that mentioning it would get Morrison’s attention.”
“Thank you, Cory,” I said, my mind racing with the implications. “This could be exactly what we need to make him talk.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he cautioned. “This is still a long shot. And if what Miller implied is true, you could be stepping into something dangerous.”
“We’re already in something dangerous,” I replied grimly. “Might as well see it through.”
“Your call,” Cory said. “Just be careful, little brother. And keep me updated.”
“I will,” I promised. “And Cory? I owe you one.”
He chuckled. “Add it to your tab. Goodnight, Xander, Dr. Swanson.”
“Goodnight,” we replied in unison as the call ended.
For a moment, we sat in silence, processing what we’d learned. Then Tara squeezed my hand, drawing my attention back to her.
“The Valdez Case,” she mused, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Me neither,” I admitted. “But if it gives us leverage over Morrison...”
“We need to use it,” she finished my thought. “When can we go back to Naples?”
I considered our schedules. “Next Saturday? We both have the morning off.”
She nodded decisively. “Saturday it is. We’ll confront him again, this time armed with a key to open him up.”
Monday morning arrived with the harsh buzz of my phone alarm at 5:30 AM. I groaned, reaching out blindly to silence it on the nightstand, my body still heavy with the lingering haze of sleep and the sweet ache from the weekend’s indulgences.
Tara shifted beside me, her warm, naked form pressed against my side like she’d been molded there overnight. I froze for a second, not wanting to disturb her, but damn if the sight of her didn’t make it hard to move.
She was on her back, one arm draped lazily over her head, the sheet tangled low around her hips, exposing the perfect curve of her breast—the soft swell rising and falling with each slow breath, her nipple pebbled from the cool morning air sneaking through the curtains.
Her runner’s body was a masterpiece in the dim light: lean, toned legs stretched out, the subtle definition of her abs from all those dawn jogs, the gentle flare of her hips that I’d gripped so tightly just hours ago.
She looked like sin wrapped in silk sheets, peaceful and vulnerable in sleep, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, lips slightly parted as if whispering secrets to her dreams.
God, I was tempted—tempted to roll over, wake her with my mouth on that breast, tease her awake until she was arching and begging for another round, her nails digging into my back as I slid into her heat.
My cock stirred at the thought, hardening against her thigh, but I held back.
She needed the rest; we’d pushed each other to the brink all weekend, and with the week ahead—practice, the looming trip to Naples, the shadows of her father’s bullshit hanging over us—I couldn’t be the selfish prick who stole her sleep. Not today.
I pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder instead, inhaling her scent—vanilla and sex—before forcing myself to slip out of bed.
She stirred anyway, her eyes fluttering open, hazy and unfocused. “Time to go already?” she murmured sleepily, her voice a husky rasp that went straight to my groin.
“Yeah,” I said, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, my hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Early practice. Go back to sleep, beautiful.”
She nodded, a small smile curving her lips as her eyes drifted shut again, already surrendering to the pull of slumber.
I watched her for another moment, struck by how peaceful she looked—how right it felt to wake up next to her, like this was the start of something real, something worth fighting for.
It was hard to leave the warmth of her bed for the long day ahead, but I forced myself to get up, pulling on my clothes quietly before slipping out.
I was one of the first to arrive at the practice facility, which wasn’t unusual. Despite my party-boy reputation, I’d always been serious about training. I changed quickly in the empty locker room and was heading toward the gym for some pre-practice stretching when my phone buzzed with a text.
It was from Reyes, the team manager: Mr. Swanson wants to see you in his office immediately.
I frowned at the screen. It was barely 7 AM. Hank must have seen me arrive.
On my way, I texted back, changing direction toward the administrative wing of the facility.
As I walked, I mentally prepared myself for a confrontation. This had to be about Tara, about what she’d found in his study. He must know we were getting closer to the truth. Would he threaten me? Try to buy me off? Or would he go straight to ruining my career, as he’d done before?
I knocked on the door to his office, squaring my shoulders, ready for battle.
“Come in,” Hank’s voice called from inside.
I pushed open the door, stepping into the spacious office with its view of the practice fields. Hank was seated behind his massive desk, immaculately dressed as always in a tailored suit despite the early hour. But it wasn’t the sight of him that made me freeze in my tracks.
It was the woman seated in one of the chairs facing his desk, who turned to look at me with a predatory smile I remembered all too well.
Brittany Ashworth. Instagram model. Professional groupie. A woman I’d banged a few times when I was wasted and spiraling in London. A woman who hadn’t crossed my mind for months.
“Xander, thank you for joining us,” Hank said, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold. “I believe you know Ms. Ashworth?”
“Brittany,” I acknowledged stiffly, not moving from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
She popped up, tugging at her skintight dress, her cosmetically enhanced lips forming a fake-ass smile. “Xander, honey,” she cooed, dramatically placing her hand on her noticeably swollen belly—a sight that made my blood run cold. “We need to talk... about the baby.”