38. Kate
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kate
The hotel suite was still. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the occasional flap of curtains dancing in the breeze from the cracked window, thick with the August heat.
Jordan was out early with Chris, some meeting about scheduling, or strategy, or whatever it was that occupied dangerously handsome elite athletes first thing in the morning.
I hadn’t asked too many questions. I was still in bed when he kissed my forehead and slipped out, murmuring something about bringing back coffee.
My fingers were tangled in the hem of his T-shirt, the only thing I slept in these days, still warm with the scent of his aftershave and skin. I rolled onto my back, eyes on the ceiling, replaying last night in the park.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words didn’t just echo, they boomed through my whole body. They rushed back like waves I wasn’t trying to fight. For once, I wasn’t drowning in the feelings.
He’d said it so gently, like he hadn’t even realised it had slipped out. Like it had lived there inside him all along. I pressed my palms to my eyes and kicked my legs under the covers like a giddy idiot. Fuck.
A year ago, my life had imploded. I’d genuinely believed I might never feel this way again. This undone, this wanted, this safe. Maybe I never had, not like this. Because it didn’t feel familiar. It felt new. Electric.
I loved him, too. Of course I did. I’d known for a while now, but saying it out loud had felt too big. Too risky. Like naming it might make it real, and real meant vulnerable.
But God, he made me feel like me again. He made me feel loved, and worthy, and special in ways I’d never truly let myself believe I was. Not completely. Not until now.
I was right on the edge of tumbling over, in that good, giddy kind of way, when my phone buzzed from the side table.
Gwen:
Ummm…have you seen the Daily Mail this morning?
You’re in it. A lot.
“Jordan Taylor’s mystery woman seen canoodling during American tour—is the tennis heartthrob off the market for good?”
Also, ‘canoodling’??? Honestly.
I groaned, dragging the duvet over my head, limbs still deliciously sore. I swiped open the article.
And just like that, my blissful little bubble? Popped.
There we were, caught outside the hotel in Washington, his hand squarely on my arse—for fuck’s sake, Jordan—my head tipped up mid-kiss. Another of me laughing with Maggie in the stands. A third, grainy shot of us holding hands, leaving dinner.
“Jordan Taylor’s girlfriend?
Speculation is mounting that Taylor, thirty, has entered into a serious relationship with the mystery blonde who’s accompanied him to several events over the last few weeks…”
I tossed the phone on the bed and leaned back, heart thudding now for a different reason entirely.
Was I his girlfriend?
We’d never actually had the conversation. This whole thing had just happened. He’d told me he loved me. That meant something. That meant everything.
But seeing it splashed across a tabloid, turned into a headline, into content, it felt real in a way I hadn’t prepared for. Not just whispered between us in the quiet darkness of our bedroom. Now it was public. The kind of public that had a life of its own.
I picked up my phone again.
Me:
Canoodling? What the actual fuck? Who uses that word anymore?
Also…he told me he loved me last night.
So yeah. I guess maybe I am his girlfriend.
Fuck. What do I do with that?
Gwen:
You let yourself be happy, for once.
And then you tell him you love him back, idiot.
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. She was right. I loved him, there was no denying that. But still every headline felt like a theft. Like I’d woken up to find my life had been hijacked because I’d fallen for someone who happened to be an internationally famous tennis star.
I flopped back on the pillow, phone still in my hand as I checked the time. Jordan would still be out for at least an hour. I could either sit here and lose my mind, or do something to burn it out of me.
I flicked back the covers, pulled on my running shorts and sports bra, and grabbed my headphones. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and slung my gym bag over my shoulder.
The hotel gym was mercifully empty when I swiped my keycard. Sleek, modern, rows of treadmills gleaming under fluorescent lights. Perfect. I climbed onto one, jammed in my headphones, and ran. Pounded out every tabloid headline until the storm in my chest eased to something manageable.
I’d just passed the halfway point of my 5k when my phone buzzed on the treadmill stand.
Jordan:
Got my girl coffee. Where are you?
My shoulders loosened. I slowed the treadmill to a walk and typed back:
Me:
Gym x
Ten minutes later, he strolled in, coffee in hand, his grin wide, until he caught sight of my scowl. The grin slipped into concern instantly.
“Bloody hell, Katie, you look like you’re about to punch the treadmill. What’d it do to you?”
I straddled the sides of the machine and hit stop, tugging off my headphones. Without a word, I picked up my phone, opened the article, and held it out.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Ah. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“So…guess the media’s decided we’re official then.” His mouth curved wryly. “How do you feel about that?”
I folded my arms, heat prickling under my skin. “Honestly? I hate the attention. I didn’t sign up for this bit.”
“Yeah.” He nodded slowly, jaw ticking. “I know. And if I could shield you from it, I would.”
He reached out, tugging the hem of my shorts and pulling me closer until I was standing in the V of his legs. His hands found my waist like they’d been waiting for me all over again, even though he’d only been gone a couple of hours.
“It pisses me off,” I muttered, “that they think they get to define what this is. That they can plaster your face next to mine and turn it into gossip.”
My arms softened, dropping to loop around his neck. “But…” I tipped my chin up, eyes meeting his, voice low. “The part where I’m in love with you? That bit? That’s more than okay.”
His smile widened slowly, like I’d just handed him the world. He kissed me, lingering and sure, before pressing his forehead to mine.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured.
“Lucky me,” I whispered back, warmth flooding my chest.
Then his gaze dipped as he followed a bead of sweat sliding down the valley of my breasts. His grin turned wicked.
“You know…” His lips brushed my jaw, his voice dropping. “Gym’s empty. Bet that bench over there could take our weight.”
I laughed, tilting my head toward the security camera blinking red in the corner. “Pretty sure the hotel might have some opinions about that.”
He groaned. “Yeah, that’d definitely make front page.” Then he spun me lightly, smacking my backside with a playful crack. “Come on, woman. I’m about to combust at the thought of anyone else seeing you looking like this.”
I squealed, cheeks flushed, pulse racing. God, he never failed to drive me wild.