Chapter 45
JORDAN
In the middle of the night, a crashing noise wakes me up in the guesthouse. With one eye open, I reach for the bedside lamp and flick it on.
Phoebe sits on the end of my bed, tail flicking and wonky eyes on me—and a wriggling mouse between her teeth.
A strangled shriek slips out of me, and I scramble up. My sudden flailing freaks Phoebe out, and she jumps—releasing the mouse. I shriek again as it races across the bed and over the other side.
Ten seconds later, I’ve got my shoes on and am marching in the cold dark to the main house. I don’t think I even closed the door behind me. Tate’s bedroom windows are dark, thank god.
At the front door, though, I try the code he told me weeks ago, but the lock makes an unhappy beep. I try the door—still locked. I key the code in again. Still no.
That’s not good. On the front step, I shiver, tucking my arms around myself, debating whether I should knock and wake him and probably Bea up—
The door swings open, and there’s Tate with rumpled sex hair and a bare chest. There are those tattoos I wonder about sometimes. He’s wearing athletic joggers, and the waistband of his black boxer briefs is visible.
“Hi,” he says quietly, a mix of pleased amusement and curiosity in his expression.
“Hi,” I say back, like this is totally normal, trying to get into his house at one in the morning.
I doubt his hair is actually sex hair. I would have known if there was someone here. I would have seen the car, I hope. But the image of it pushed up on one side like someone’s been running their fingers through it sends my thoughts to dirty places.
“Did I wake you?”
He shakes his head, his eyes on my silky romper the stylist included in the wardrobe.
“That’s what you sleep in?” he whispers.
“That doesn’t look warm enough.” His eyes linger on the tiny straps on my shoulders, the neckline trimmed with lace, the shorts hem.
“And why are you outside at this time of night? I was serious about the cougars, Jordan.”
He reaches out and guides me in with a hand on my shoulder, closing the door behind me, a divot between his eyebrows. “You’re cold,” he says, like I’ve done something wrong. He’s still keeping his voice low.
“Why are you whispering?” I don’t take my shoes off yet. So much for my plan of crashing on his couch and sneaking out before he got up.
He glances over his shoulder. “Bea’s having a sleepover with a few girls from school.”
I can’t help but smile, my heart lifting. “She is?” I’m whispering now, too. “That’s great.”
He smiles and nods before he laughs a little. “She crept up to her own bed about an hour ago, but the other two are sleeping downstairs.”
A moment passes where we just smile at each other, something warm looping between us, before it dawns on me and my smile falls.
“Phoebe brought a mouse into the guesthouse. I was going to sleep on the couch.” Obviously, that isn’t going to happen now.
He raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “You’re afraid of mice?”
“I’m not, I just don’t want one crawling on my face while I sleep.”
He makes a face at me like I’m both ridiculous and adorable. “I don’t think they do that.”
Well, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, picturing it. Its little feet on my face. Once in a while, a mouse would get into the summer house my mom and I would go to when I was growing up. A shudder rolls through me.
Maybe I’m a little afraid of mice.
“Phoebe hates me.” We’re still whispering, standing in the foyer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she brought it to my bed because she knew I’d hate it.”
He starts pulling his boots on. “Maybe it was an offering.”
“To Satan, maybe. You didn’t see the way she was looking at me. And maybe it has friends. A whole family, living in there. Where are you going?”
“To catch the mouse. Go wait in my room.”
“Now?” And, shirtless? It’s freezing out. I wonder again if he runs hot. I bet if I were to press my hand against the tattoos on his chest, his skin would feel warm. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Try to get it outside.”
Of course. He’s way too good to kill a mouse, but for once, I’m relieved by his morals.
“Go upstairs,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I reluctantly tip-toe past the living room with the sleeping kids, up the stairs, and step inside his room. It smells like him in here. The sheets are rumpled, like he’s been tossing and turning, and sitting on the bed seems way, way too intimate, so I head to the windows.
The lights in my guest house are on. I catch glimpses of him moving around the guest house, looking under the bed, behind the bookcase.
Ten minutes later, he returns with Satan’s hench-cat tucked into his arms. “There’s no mouse.”
“Tate.” I glare at the cat. “I’m telling you, there was a mouse.”
He smiles. “I’ll put some humane traps out tomorrow. Do you want me to walk you back?”
Oh my god. He actually expects me to sleep in there?
“No thanks.” I give him a tight smile. “I can walk back myself.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” I stand at his bedroom windows, not moving, and his lips press together while his eyes turn bright again. “Jordan.”
“I’m just going to sleep in the guest room.”
“The guesthouse is the guest room,” he says with patience.
Oh. Right. “I’ll sleep on the floor of your office.”
He sighs.
“I’ll be gone before you get up.”
“That’s not the issue, and I wake up at five.”
I make a disgusted face. “I’ll be gone before you leave for the arena.”
A resigned look passes over his features. “Take my bed.”
“What?” My stomach flips. I bet his bed smells incredible. “No. It’s fine. The floor is great.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Jordan.” He looks pained. “Go ahead. Take the bed.”
The part of me that hates accepting help thrashes. “No. You’re so old. You’ll wake up with a crick in your neck.”
He laughs. “Probably.”
“You need a good sleep tonight.” After tomorrow morning’s practice, we’re flying out to talk to Colworth at his university and flying home right after. It’ll be a long day. “We can sleep together,” I blurt out, and he freezes. “In the same bed. Sleeping, I mean. Not anything else.”
He goes very still, like he isn’t sure if he heard right.
“It’s fine.” Why do I feel so shaky and weird, like nervous and excited, like I drank too much coffee? It’s two in the morning. “It’s fine,” I repeat. “I’ve shared a bed with Georgia before. It isn’t a big deal. You’ll be up in three hours anyway.”
He watches me with a wary expression. “You want to sleep in the same bed.”
He told me it was never going to happen. He doesn’t want me.
“Platonically.” I try to sound firm, so he doesn’t think I’m trying to make a move. “There’s nothing romantic between us. You’re my boss and you have a kid. You’re not my type at all.”
It’s true. He isn’t my type. Tate Ward is nothing like any of the guys I’ve dated.
“Players share rooms all the time on the road,” I add. “We work together. It’s the same.”
I can’t read his expression. He looks . . . worried? “They don’t share beds.”
“Look, I don’t want to put you out and make you sleep on the floor when you’ve done so much for me.”
Another truth. He’s got enough on his plate, he doesn’t need me making his life harder.
It looks like he’s about to argue, but instead, he just nods once. “Fine.”
I stare at the rumpled sheets. “Do you have a preferred side?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “I usually gravitate to the middle.” Our eyes meet. “Not tonight, obviously.” His eyes dart to his bedside table and he looks to be struggling with something before he strides over, opens the drawer, and pulls out two pairs of my underwear.
“Wow.” I stare at them. The light pink ones and a green pair. “You have a collection.”
Is he blushing? It’s hard to tell in the moonlight. “Phoebe keeps bringing them to me,” he says like he’s both embarrassed and trying not to smile.
“Are you sure? Maybe you’ve trained her to retrieve them.”
He hangs his head, and yes, he’s totally smiling. “You think she’s smart enough for that?”
I narrow my eyes. He’s still holding my panties, which makes me feel weird. Warm and jumpy. They’re so pretty and delicate in his strong hands.
“Probably not,” I admit, taking them from him. “Thanks. Now I don’t have to go commando anymore.”
He freezes, staring at me. “You were going commando?”
I don’t know why I said that. No, obviously I wasn’t. I just had the urge to mess with him.
“Why?” My expression is innocent. “Is that not professional?”
His eyes close. “Jordan.”
“I told you,” I pull the duvet back and climb into bed. “You’re my boss. It’s totally your right to check.”
He lets out a strangled, choking noise. “It’s not my right to check if you’re wearing panties at work, Jordan.”
He’s too easy to rile up. But at least now I’m not stressing about us sleeping in the same bed.
“And I would never do that,” he adds, taking the spot beside me in the bed. “It’s completely inappropriate.”
“What’s more inappropriate, though,” I ask, “checking my panties or not wearing them at all?”
“Jordan.”
“I could ask someone else to check. Luca probably would.”
His tortured noise of frustration makes me smile ear to ear. He starts laughing. “God, you’re trouble. You know that?”
“Sorry.” I’m still smiling as my eyes close and I settle against the pillows. “Holy hell, your bed is comfortable.”
“Great. I’m glad.” He doesn’t sound it. “Can you go to sleep now?”
The fizzy, fun feelings dissolve, and I sober. He sounds tired, like I’ve reached the end of his patience. I woke him up in the middle of the night and now I’m in his bed. In his space. Of course he’s annoyed.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Jordan.”
It’s so quiet in here, with only the sounds of us breathing and my heartbeat in my ears. Outside, an owl hoots.
“That cat is bullying me,” I add.
I hear the quiet huff of his laugh in the dark. “She’s testing you.”
I turn to look at him, his profile visible in the moonlight.
He takes a deep breath, letting it out slow like he’s thinking. “We don’t know her history. We don’t know what happened to her before you took her in. Terrible things, probably. She had to fight for her life.”
My heart twists. Phoebe is a mean little bitch, but maybe she’s that way for a reason.
“Be patient with her and maybe she’ll surprise you.”
It’s the same thing he said a couple weeks ago, when I bought her the toy.
And with that, I close my eyes and fall asleep.