Chapter 20 Rowyn
Rowyn
I steal a glance at Jaxon as he backs out of the driveway, the soft glow from the dash lighting his profile. My heart stutters, an uneven beat that I’m sure he could hear if he was listening hard enough. He casts me a quick look, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.
“That was a lot of fun,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I really like your friends.”
“They like you too,” he says, his voice warm, relaxed in a way that makes something in my chest loosen. “And that offer to help Gina out? That was nice of you. She’s got two rambunctious kids.” He laughs. “You sure you’re up for that?”
“Nope.”
His laugh fills the car and I grin. It’s so easy being with Jaxon.
“Didn’t you used to babysit when you were a teen?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I did.”
I don’t add that I didn’t do it for fun money or new clothes. Every extra dollar went toward bills, groceries, mortgage. The memory tightens my stomach like a knot. Even now, I still send money home every month. It’s what you do when someone spends their life making sure you have one worth living.
But sometimes, on nights like this when everything feels light and simple, I wonder what it would be like not to have that weight on my shoulders. To keep my paycheck, my time, my choices. To stay home, even. To want that.
Jaxon must sense the tangle of thoughts in my head. His hand finds mine across the console, fingers curling around my palm with quiet certainty.
“Everything okay?” he asks. A sound catches in my throat before I manage a small nod. “Did what Jay said about family upset you?”
“How will she do it, Jaxon?” I ask, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. “If Penn’s on the road all the time, she’s basically a single mom.”
The words slip out, weighted with a truth I haven’t said aloud before. Single mom. Like mine. Everything my mother warned me about. Everything she resented.
“They’ll hire a nanny,” he says gently.
“But you saw how hard that is for Gina. I mean, if it were me…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t want just anyone watching my child. You’ve seen The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, right?”
He grins. “Creepiest movie ever. But look, you also saw what happens in real life. Everyone helps out. It’s a team effort. When you marry into the family…” He holds up two fingers and lowers his voice into a terrible Godfather impression. “You’re part of the family.”
I laugh. “Wow. That was awful. Don’t quit your day job.”
“I won’t,” he says, smiling, but there’s something in his tone, something that makes my pulse skip. “Not as long as I still love it.”
Our eyes meet, and the air in the car feels heavier. I can’t help but wonder if he can read my thoughts—the ones I never speak aloud. The ones about how tired I am of the grind, of hustling and proving and pretending I don’t want something… else.
Sometimes I picture a quieter life. A house that smells like fresh bread and crayons. School drop-offs, lunchboxes, messy kitchens, bedtime stories. The kind of chaos you choose. And yet, even imagining it feels like betrayal—to my mother, the woman who raised me to work outside the home.
Why is it that women judge each other no matter what path we take? Career women called cold. Stay-at-home moms called lazy. As if we’re all not just trying to do the best we can with the pieces we’ve been given.
Then again, maybe there’s something different about this world Jaxon lives in. The WAGs don’t seem to judge—they seem to show up for each other. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe family isn’t about blood or labels. Maybe it’s about having people who catch you when you can’t do it all.
And maybe—for the first time—I want to believe I could have that too.
But why am I even thinking like this? I’m not in a relationship, and being a stay-at-home mom isn’t exactly on my horizon. Jaxon doesn’t want a family. He’s relationship-shy, guarded, distant in ways I’ve seen firsthand. And it’s not like I’m imagining a future with him. Not really.
Why is it so hard to convince myself of that?
“Oh, I have a key for you,” he says as he pulls into his driveway, which isn’t far from Jaylynn’s.
I love that so many of the guys live close.
It makes everything feel smaller, warmer.
“That way you can come and go as you please.” That’s when his words really register with me, and the gesture hits in an unexpected way.
“When I’m away, you’re welcome to stay here if you like.
I know it’s not as close to Golden Grinds, but you can… spread out.”
I laugh, trying to keep the nervous flutter under control. “If you keep feeding me all those delicious muffins and I keep eating big meals at your friends’ places, I’ll need the room to… expand.” I pat my stomach playfully, but he stays serious, just watching me.
“They’re your friends too, Row,” he reminds me, his voice low, almost intimate.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and take in his house—the big, cozy windows glowing in the evening light, the kind of place that promises warmth and quiet and… stability. “You really don’t mind me staying?”
“Not at all,” he says, flashing a grin that’s half mischief, half something I can’t name. “But there’s a catch.”
I laugh. “Oh, more quid pro quo? Does this involve me needing to buy more… additions for the collection you’re starting?”
“Damn,” he says, tapping the steering wheel.
“I never thought of that. Okay… yes,” he admits with a smirk.
“But chatting with you after a day on the road, or after a game, that would be nice.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, casual and effortless.
“The guys all hurry back to their rooms,” he quickly explains.
“I think if we’re pretending to be a couple, we have to do that too. ”
My heart stutters, and I catch the longing in his eyes, a vulnerability that he’s never shown anyone else.
Part of me wonders if it’s just for the act, the ruse, the show.
Or is it something real, some unspoken emptiness that I could actually touch?
I know Ember left scars, and that he isn’t looking for anything serious, yet I sense a part of him craving something he’s too afraid to name.
Am I the one who could give it to him? Or are these just dangerous, wishful thoughts creeping into the cracks of our friendship? My chest tightens at the idea that any step forward could shatter what we already have.
“You mean sexy talk?” I ask.
He nods, and I get the sense that he’s seeking more than that, but I’m sure I’m imagining things, right?
“I can do that,” I say quietly, testing the waters. “You know… for the ruse.”
His jaw stiffens ever so slightly, and he gives a curt nod. “Right.” That tiny gesture crushes my fleeting hope that maybe something real could be budding here.
“But how is that helping? No one will hear us.”
“Still, good practice, for…” Then he hesitates, shifts the topic. “I never asked… how did your meet-up with hot coffee shop guy go this morning?”
I force a smile, leaning back into the seat. “Good. Really. I was in the car answering messages, and he brought me coffee… and a little bag with cream, milk, and sugar.”
He murmurs something under his breath, something, I think, about the guy not knowing my coffee order.
As I struggle to hear, I ask, “What?”
“Nothing.” He runs a hand over his face, rubbing at something I can’t reach, something I wish I could.
“It was really sweet of him,” I add softly.
“Hot coffee guy is sweet,” he agrees, stepping out of the car. Cool air rushes in, brushing over me, but it isn’t the cold that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the way he reaches for my hand without asking, the way he guides me inside with effortless certainty.
Inside, he picks up a key from the side table and hands it to me.
I glance down at the keychain, a tiny wooden hockey stick that he’d meticulously made with love and care. My lips curl in a smile. “You know… you could sell these.”
“I don’t want to,” he says simply.
“I know.”
“I know you know.” His answer is quiet, but holds much weight. He’s trusting me with this, a key to his house, a key that could unlock a story he doesn’t want shared.
He looks the length of me, lust now spreading in his eyes. “Now what was this you said about adding to my…collection.”
His smile is playful but wolfish, and it stirs a pulse of heat between my legs that I can’t ignore. He pulls me to him, close enough that I can feel the weight of him pressing against me.
“Do you have something sexy on underneath these?” His voice drops low, a husky tease that makes my pulse race.
Before I can respond, his fingers are undoing the button on my jeans, the zipper hissing open under his touch. A tortured sound escapes his throat and I lean into him, my eyes begging him to slide his fingers into my panties, and then into me. I don’t even care how needy I’m coming off. I want him.
“All night,” he murmurs. “I’ve been thinking about getting you naked.”
“Even when we were talking about muffins?” I tease, trying to sound light, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.
His groan wraps around me and it’s crazy how much I like torturing him, crazy that I can even do that, but Jaxon makes me feel so damn desirable. “Especially when we were talking about muffins.”
Before I know it, I’m in his arms. My brain short-circuits for a second, expecting him to take me upstairs to his bedroom. Instead, he pivots and steps toward the living room.
I glance around at the room I haven’t spent any time in. Like the rest of his place, it’s cozy and inviting. “Are we going to do it in every room in this house?” I ask, breathless, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He gives me a serious look. “You need to be prepared for everything, Row,” he replies, his voice deep and full of promises. “Especially long, drawn out foreplay. It could come up.”
“I think something is coming up,” I tease.
He sets me on the sofa, and I can’t help but notice how ordinary he suddenly starts acting, like this isn’t some bold, sexual escalation. He disappears, only to return with wine and a bowl of ice. Then, to my surprise, he flicks on the TV.
I sit up straighter, maybe a little disappointed. Jeez. I assumed this was about sex. Was I really wrong? Is he already tired of me? No, that can’t be it. We just talked about panty collections and road-trip chats. Sexy road trip chats.
He pours two glasses of wine and hands me one, the movement casual, confident. Then he punches in a search on the screen.
“Zombieland?” I ask, incredulous. “Uh… I thought you were more of a Hallmark guy.” I try for a light tone, to hide the disappointment coiling through me.
“Haha, funny,” he replies, his lips twitching.
“I mean, you did say you watched Christmas movies at the inn.” I flop my hand over. “That’s how we got into this situation in the first place.”
“Fine. I watch Hallmark movies,” he admits, a shrug. “But I like other movies too. People can like two things at once, you know.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Sure, but I’m not much into scary movies.”
“That’s okay,” he says, his grin widening. “We’re not really watching. We’re playing a game.”
I blink at him, my curiosity piqued. “A drinking game?”
He gives me a boyish look that tangles up something deep in me. “With a twist.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, Lumber-Jax. What exactly is going on here?”
“It’s also a play on truth or dare,” he explains, then gestures toward my glass. “The wine… I just thought you’d like a glass.”
“You thought right,” I say, intrigued, my body already responding to the playful energy radiating off him. “So… rules?”
“So,” he leans back, lazy but intent. “I take it you’ve never seen this movie.”
“Nope.”
“Then every time one of the zombie rules pops up on screen, you get to pick truth or dare. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Well, for truth, we tell the other something intimate. Maybe something we’d like done to ourselves, or something we’d like to do to the other person. For Dare.” He picks up the bowl of ice cubes and gives it a little shake. “We use these and do what we like.”
I squirm, heat blooming through me. “Jax… I don’t even want to know how you came up with this idea.” I eye him. “Or do I?”
He winces, a guilty grin tugging at his lips. “First, I’m not a creeper, okay?”
“The fact that you feel the need to qualify yourself before explaining anything makes me more curious.” I cock my head as my stomach flutters. “Should it worry me?”
“It should,” he mutters, half warning, half teasing.
“Oh my God, what did you do?” I laugh, my nerves and excitement twisting together.
“Well…” He hesitates, shaking his head, and I know he’s holding back a story. “I grew up in an inn, Row. Do you have any idea what goes on behind closed doors at an inn?”
I swallow hard, already feeling the electricity of his words. “I think I’m about to find out.”
“There was this one time…” He pauses, shaking his head again.
“Let’s just say, ice, movie, and a lot of admissions and giggles.
After that, I invested in a really good pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
” His eyes squeeze shut like the memory pains him, but maybe not entirely in a bad way.
There’s something intriguing there, something aroused.
I lean toward him, heart hammering. “I think I’m glad you waited until after that incident to buy headphones, because this… this sounds fun.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let the game begin…”