Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Jason
Rules of Engagement (And How to Break Them)
The coffee’s gone cold. My plate’s mostly wiped clean, but Scottie’s barely touched hers—just swiped a piece of bacon before slipping into a full-blown what-the-fuck-is-this spiral. I should’ve been ready.
I should’ve anticipated the inevitable existential breakfast crisis, but my brain went full goo-mode the second I kissed her.
In fact, I’m still piecing myself back together from the emotional wreckage.
I wasn’t expecting that kiss to feel like getting T-boned by a freight train of feelings.
And everything that happened after that . . . fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I haven’t exactly sorted through the aftermath. There’s one thing I’m certain of: I don’t want to let her go.
Not that I have her.
That would imply possession and Scottie’s more like an elusive unicorn in an enchanted forest about to close for the public. I blink, and she’s here. Blink again, and I’m half convinced she’s already halfway out the door.
We could go ahead and file this morning under Clusterfucks, Subcategory: Romantic Limbo, with a dash of Unspoken Longing and Poor Communication.
She’s been pretending to need “just another second” for about five whole minutes now, sitting at the counter with her mug gripped like a lifeline, eyes lost somewhere over the sink.
I have no clue where her mind’s gone, but it’s clear she’s either searching for a reason to stay—or stalling long enough to gather the nerve to flee.
She won’t meet my eyes. Not really. Just these fast little glances when she thinks I’m not paying attention, like if she doesn’t lock eyes with me, maybe she can pretend this is just breakfast. Just bacon and cold coffee.
Not a shift in the axis of our whole fucked-up dynamic.
I lean back against the counter. Arms crossed, pretending I’m not studying every twitch of her mouth, every curse under her breath, every quick look toward the door like it’s offering her a clean escape.
She mutters something low, frustrated, barely audible.
I don’t catch every word but feel it in my bones.
She’s buzzing beneath her skin like she’s ready to explode—or vanish.
I rinse our mugs and slide them into the sink, catching her from the corner of my eye, perched on the edge of the stool like she’s deciding whether the front door or the window would make a faster escape route.
Honestly, with Scottie, it could go either way.
I dry my hands on a dishtowel and turn toward her, my heart pounding way too hard for what’s supposed to be a casual suggestion.
“Come on, let’s go on a walk,” I offer.
She blinks like I just suggested she skydive without a parachute. “What?”
“A walk. Fresh air. Central Park’s three blocks away.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. “I can’t?—”
I should brace myself for . . . what is she going to say? More excuses of why we can’t be adults about this, us?
I cut her off before she gets the momentum. “No pressure. No hidden agenda. Just . . . a break. I think we could use one. Clear our heads. Breathe after . . . last night was intense, and right now is not much different.”
She stares at me for a long beat, jaw tight, weighing whether this is safe—or stupid. Probably both. Then she lets out a sigh, deep and dramatic, and shoves her hands into the wrinkled skirt she threw on in a flurry of denial this morning.
“Fine,” she mutters.
Not enthusiastic. But not no. That’s a fucking win.
I grab my keys, wallet, and the hoodie hanging off the back of the chair and toss it toward her without thinking. “Here. It’s windy.”
She catches it, frowns at me. “Aren’t you going to wear a shirt or something?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Obviously.”
Her gaze trails over me, landing on my bare chest for a beat too long, and, yeah—I clock that.
I absolutely clock that. But I don’t comment.
Instead, I back toward the hallway, already peeling off toward the bedroom to throw on a t-shirt before she changes her mind and disappears.
I rush. Not in a cool, casual way. In a shit-she-might-ditch-me-if-I-take-too- long way.
Because she would, Scottie would absolutely vanish mid-putting-on-shoes, and I’d be left standing on the sidewalk like a dumbass holding two lattes and a daydream.
I tug on a black tee, grab sneakers, and call out, “Don’t climb out the fire escape. I’ll know.”
Her voice comes back dry. “You don’t own the fire escape, Tate.”
I definitely notice she looks way too good in my hoodie. Almost as good as she looks in nothing but my shirt. It takes an obscene amount of self-control not to drag her right back to bed and show her exactly how much I appreciate her stealing my clothes.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She lifts her chin, all stubborn defiance wrapped in soft cotton. “Lead the way, Jason.”
Outside, the city hums to life around us. It’s one of those late spring mornings where the air’s crisp enough to wake you up, but the sun’s already flirting with summer. Perfect weather for pretending everything’s fine, even when it’s very fucking clear neither of us has a clue what we’re doing.
We walk in silence at first, a few feet of polite, painful distance between us. I let her have it, even though every part of me wants to close the gap, to feel her bump into me and roll her eyes when I pretend it’s her fault. She needs space right now. I get it. I hate it. But I get it.
The closer we get to the park, the more her body starts to loosen, inch by careful inch.
Her shoulders aren’t quite so rigid. The line of her mouth softens from battle-ready to something almost .
. . normal. By the time we hit the path where vendors are selling pretzels, balloons, and questionable hot dogs that probably violate at least three health codes, she even lets out a real, honest-to-God snort at the sight of a bulldog being pushed in a stroller.
“Don’t judge that dog,” I tease, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She shakes her head, hiding a reluctant smile. “It’s wearing sunglasses.”
“And a tutu,” I point out, grinning.
She hums thoughtfully. “I should send Lucian a tutu for Sarah.”
I frown, thrown. Does Luc have a daughter, a girlfriend . . . I recall Leif mentioning there’s a vet or something in his house the other day, but . . . “Who’s Sarah?”
“You don’t know Sarah?” Scottie looks at me, appalled. “His canine-furry-child. She’s sweet, but she’s basically a four-legged escape artist. Luc enables her like a guilty single dad who missed her childhood and now lets her rob banks if she wants.”
I chuckle, picturing it way too vividly. “Sounds like she and Lucian deserve each other.”
“Oh, they do,” she says, laughing under her breath. “She once figured out how to open his kitchen cabinets and hid as many dog food cans as she could under the couch. It took him two days to find them.”
That draws a full laugh out of me, and just like that, the tension between us eases another degree.
We veer off the main road, stepping onto one of the quieter side paths where the gravel crunches under our sneakers and sunlight filters through the trees in broken, golden patches.
Scottie tugs the sleeves of my hoodie over her hands and mutters, half to herself, “This doesn’t mean I’m not still leaving after this. ”
“Sure, Crawford,” I say easily, keeping my voice light even though my gut twists. “I just need you to chill for five minutes because you’re two seconds away from hyperventilating. Then you can go back to ruling the world or whatever.”
She bobs her head a few times like she’s trying to convince herself she can breathe. And maybe she would have. Maybe we could’ve just walked like two normal, functioning adults figuring out their shit. But fate—or something equally sadistic—had other plans.
A cluster of teenagers spills onto the path, all hats worn backward, oversized coffees in hand, the universal uniform of chaos. One of them spots me, points, and before I can even process it, they’re jogging toward us, phones already out like paparazzi at the Oscars.
“Yo, Tater!” one of them shouts, practically vibrating out of his sneakers.
They swarm us, laughing and elbowing each other like we’re some rare sighting in the wild. One of them shoves his phone forward, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Dude, you’re a beast! Best forward in the league. When will you be back to play?” he asks super excited.
“Can we get a pic? You and your girl?” someone else asks, and I don’t have time to react to the question of when I am going back.
Scottie blinks, caught somewhere between fight, flight, and spontaneous combustion.
Before she can bolt—or pretend she’s just some stranger walking by—I throw an arm around her shoulders and pull her close. “Of course,” I say, casual as fuck, even though I feel her body tense like she’s seriously considering kneeing me in the nuts.
She’s stiff at first, her whole frame buzzing with alarm, but when the camera flashes, she softens just enough for the picture to look almost natural. Or at least like I didn’t kidnap her from a coffee shop against her will.
They thank us profusely, still chattering about uploading it, and jog off down the path, leaving a wake of chaos and caffeine behind them.
Scottie lets out a strangled sound that’s somewhere between a squeak and a death threat.
“You okay?” I ask, grinning because, honestly, she’s adorable when she’s plotting my murder.
“I . . . I’m going to kill you,” she mutters through gritted teeth.
“Technically, they ambushed us,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock innocence. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”
Scottie glares at me, all fire and disbelief, and I grin like the absolute menace I am.
“You’re famous too,” I point out. “Why is this freaking you out?”