Chapter 10
TEN
JAYDEN
I never knew the sound of water flowing through a thirty-year-old plumbing system could be so tantalizing.
I’ve been sitting right outside the spare bathroom door while Colby showers for exactly six minutes, and I don’t know if I’ve taken a full breath the entire time.
I’m sure as hell glad her dad left me to sit up here in the loft alone while he took care of some housework downstairs.
It’s the way the water sounds trickling down her body.
The occasional heavier splash as she likely slides the excess water and shampoo from her hair.
I’ve imagined her rubbing body wash along her calves and thighs, then leaning back as water cascades between her breasts.
Fucking hell, I need to leave this loft.
Of course, my dick is hard as a rock and I’m wearing joggers.
The water turns off, and I flex my palms along the arms of the leather chair as my eyes widen in anticipation.
She’s running a fluffy white towel along her shoulders and arms, drying her body, wrapping the towel around her, and tucking the corner into the top so it squeezes her breasts together.
The door clicks, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees so I can pinch my brow and stare at the hardwood floors under my feet. Sweet Jesus, help me out of this one.
“It’s free now, if you wanted to take one?” Her voice is soft, inviting. No, not inviting, you dumb ass. She’s being polite.
“I’ll be fine.” I lift my free hand but keep my eyes locked on the grain in the wood, the tight joints where the planks interlock. I remember when Coach Kessler installed these floors. He did good work . . . oh fuck, I see her bare toes.
“It won’t take long, and it will make you feel better.
Here,” she says, a blue towel cutting into my vision.
I lift my head, and thankfully, she’s not in a towel.
She is in a long T-shirt, and those tiny black bike shorts that are really more like underwear.
Her shirt sticks to her moist skin in places, like the curve of her breast. And fuck me, her nipples.
She tugs the cotton outward, as though realizing what’s on display. I snag the towel from her, and she covers her chest with her arms.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Thanks.” I beeline my way into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I toss the towel on the floor and pull back the shower curtain, flipping the water on and holding my palm under the spray for a few seconds. I run my wet palm over my face, then kick my clothes off and scurry into the shower before the hot water is gone.
Colby was right. The spray peppers my face and works out the tightness in my jaw. I’m almost relaxing, letting go of the unease that’s plagued me since I showed up and interrupted Colby and her dad’s afternoon at the cemetery, when there’s a soft knock at the door and a creak as it barely opens.
“I’m so sorry, but I left the rest of my clothes in here. Can I . . . I won’t look, I swear.” The nervous giggle that leaves Colby’s lips stops hard when I peek my head out of the curtain, and our eyes meet. She tucks her bottom lip under her teeth. Jesus.
“No problem,” I blurt before running my palm over my face to clear the water droplets from my lashes.
“Thanks,” she utters, spinning around and scooping her sweatpants and what looks like a lacy pair of panties into her arms. She rushes out the door, pulling it shut the second she escapes, and I stare at the tiny space where the wood meets the jamb for about a full minute while the hot water loses its potency against my spine.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair before I’m left with nothing but cold water, then dry off and slip back into my clothes in minutes. I open the door to find Rick leaning against the banister like a protective alpha guarding his offspring.
“I bet you feel like a brand-new man,” he says, his biceps flexed under the tight cuffs of his T-shirt sleeves.
“Yeah, I do. It’ll be nice to just dive into bed and fall asleep when I get home.”
Alone.
Not with your daughter.
“I bet. Colby’s just grabbing a few things—some of her old clothes and such out of the spare closet. Then we can take off. You’ll get there early, but—”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I like hanging out at the airport. I’ll look through my charts from today, catch up on emails . . .” I let my words trail off under Rick’s scrutiny. His lips are pulled tight in a puzzling smirk that makes me feel a little nervous.
“You know, you can always stop in when you’re in town. Or on your off season, if you ever want to work with a friendly face . . .”
“Friendly,” I repeat, not fully aware that I called that word out aloud. His eyebrows tick up. I chuckle on command, fake as hell. “I mean, yeah. Friendly would be nice. Not that you aren’t friendly.” Fuck, I’m making this worse.
“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly.
“I’m exhausted. Sorry, I’m babbling,” I say through more forced chuckling. “I should . . .” I nod toward the stairwell, then head toward the landing. Rick’s hand grips my elbow before I’m more than a step away.
“Jayden, I hope you know . . . you’ve always been . . . I mean, you are like family. And I know you aren’t . . .”
His head wavers side to side, and the dozens of ways I imagine him completing that phrase pass through my mind. I’m not my brother. My father. Good enough. Expected to make it. Responsible for his heartbreak. Ever going to be with his daughter.
“I know,” I say, deciding he’s probably sorting through the same options. I’d rather not hear any of them.
I pull my lips into a tight smile, then drop my gaze to the floor as his hand falls away from my arm. I leave him in the loft as I zip down the stairs and double-check my bag to make sure I have my charger and earbuds handy.
“I think I’ll take these—” Colby stops at the end of the hallway, and I swear we’ve slipped through time.
She’s wearing her old Katy High softball hoodie, the deep blue the perfect complement to the rich auburn streaks in her dark hair.
She looks like the same girl I kissed on a whim years ago.
She is the same girl . . . a woman. Her lips part with a breath as her eyes shift toward the stairs.
“Sorry, I thought you were my dad.”
I shake my head.
“He said he’ll be right down. I think he was guarding the bathroom.” I chuckle at the incredibly stereotypical likelihood.
“Ugh, I’m sorry,” she says through soft laughter. She drops her forehead into the fleece sweatshirts folded in her arms. “He’s always been protective.”
“I’ll say,” I let slip out.
Her head tilts.
“I haven’t seen that in years,” I say, shifting the subject.
She drops her chin and holds out the stack of T-shirts and sweatshirts she’s holding to get a good look at the giant softball print on the front of her shirt.
“Number ten,” I say, knowing it has her high school number printed on the front and back.
I didn’t get to wear ten until I got drafted.
It was always taken by someone more senior, or someone who needed the corresponding small size.
But the second I made it and had the chance, I picked her number.
I always wanted us to match. Even when we were kids.
“This thing is just so worn in. It’s the perfect softness, and I thought it might be nice to wear around at night.” She shrugs and looks up at me through her lashes.
“You got a place yet?” She’s been staying in the hotel.
She shakes her head, and before I can ask why, her dad’s heavy footsteps break up our conversation.
“You two ready?” he says, and we both jerk to attention like nervous teenagers caught making out on the couch. We’re a dozen feet apart, and I still feel as though that isn’t far enough for Colby’s dad.
Thankfully, the trip to the airport is filled with reminiscent baseball conversation, Rick rehashing some of his favorite memories from coaching me and my brother.
We steer clear of the topic of Adriel’s recent suspension, his excessive speeding ticket, his struggle with drugs and alcohol, and all the ways he seems hell-bent on replaying our father’s not-so-greatest hits in life.
I’m almost breathing with ease when Colby’s dad pulls up to the airport departures curb, but I don’t think my shoulders will ever fully relax in Rick’s presence.
The security lines are a mess, and by the time Colby and I make our way to our gate, we have maybe an hour left before boarding begins. I check the time on my phone and sigh.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be late,” she says, I think referring to the time we’ll finally get in and get home.
“Oh, yeah. But I was just thinking it’s probably too late to grab a beer. I usually build in enough time before takeoff—”
“Jayden, are you afraid to fly?” Colby’s head leans to the side, and her eyes scrutinize me in an amused expression.
“Pfft. I mean, no. I like flying. I fly great. Good flyer. I just . . .” I chuckle at my own words and drop my face into my palm. “A little. Takeoff, mostly. Maybe a bit during. And . . . landing.”
I peek at her through my fingers, and her head falls back with a healthy laugh.
“That’s pretty much the whole thing,” she says. “Come on.”
Looping her arm through mine, she guides me to the sports bar in the middle of the concourse.
There are a lot of people here for it being so late at night.
Weather in the Northeast delayed a lot of flights, I read, and some planes were diverted to Houston.
Thankfully, our flight still says it’s on time.
“Two Sam Adams,” Colby says, ordering for me.
“Oh, you like Sam now, do ya?” I quirk a brow at her. Sam has always been my favorite, and Colby teased me endlessly in high school about being a beer snob and refusing to drink the cheap shit at parties.
“A paycheck allows for more discerning taste,” she says.
“Yeah, right. You just finally realized that other stuff is piss, is all,” I say, letting my guard down more.