Chapter 29 Jaxon
Jaxon
It’s been weeks since our big win—spotlights, interviews, the celebration blur—and only now I’m finally able to breathe.
Well, kind of. I stretch my shoulder as I press the rolling pin into the dough.
Gina’s busy training three new servers and two cooks at the Nook.
She’s been short-staffed and slammed for the lunch rush, so here I am, elbows deep in flour, handcrafting cinnamon rolls like we’re prepping for a Food Network bake-off.
If I do say so myself, I’m nailing them.
The air is warm, sweet, and heavy with cinnamon. The overhead fan squeaks with each rotation. I hum tunelessly—happy, content—as I sprinkle sugar across the dough, fingers quick, confident.
“Who knew you were so skilled in the kitchen?” Gina steps up beside me once she finishes giving instructions, her apron dusted in flour, eyes bright despite the chaos.
The grin splits my face wider. Memories flicker back—Rowyn on my countertop, moans echoing through my house, and then in the morning, her wrapped in one of my shirts as I flipped pancakes.
God. She’s practically living with me now.
Going home at the end of the day doesn’t mean stepping inside a house, it means walking toward her.
When I’m home first, I make sure to have a meal ready for her.
When she’s home first, she does the same and I often find her already curled into my couch like she owns it.
Which, in a way… she does.
“Wait,” Gina narrows her eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” She studies me for half a second before she throws up her hands. “Actually—nope. I don’t want to know.” She chuckles, disappearing into the dining area.
The bell above the front door jingles, loud as a whistle on the ice.
Ash backs in, arms full of supply boxes.
He kicks the door closed behind him and muscles his way through the kitchen like it’s a defensive line.
The playoffs are over, and even though physically we’re rested, we all carry that residual adrenaline—like we’re not sure what to do without something on the line.
The guys are all pitching in at the Nook, partly because Gina needs the help, but mostly because this place has become ours. A home base. A refuge.
A family.
One I want Rowyn firmly part of.
Ash drops a box onto the prep counter beside me, slices it open with a pocketknife. “Can’t wait for Vegas,” he mutters, and there’s excitement under the exhaustion. “Gina needs a break. Hell, I know Rowyn does too.”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing the finished roll into the tray. My heart does a stupid swell. He thinks of her like family as well. That matters.
He pauses mid-unpacking and glances at me. “You guys have been incredible, you know?” He nods toward the oven. “All the cooking, helping out. And Rowyn…helping with the kids. It means a lot.”
“We’re glad to,” I say, swallowing past sudden tightness. “Is your dad still taking the kids while we’re away?”
“Yeah.” Ash’s jaw softens. “He’s counting the days. Keeps telling everyone he gets to ‘run Camp Chaos’ for a weekend.”
“That’s so nice,” I say, and I mean it.
Maria slips in, grabs a carafe, silence hugging her like a second skin. She fills it at the sink, eyes distant—something bothering her.
I track her as she steps back into the dining area and watch through the serving window as she sets coffee in front of Tuck. He looks up, murmurs thanks, and there’s something between them—a soft moment, a careful one. Like they’re both pretending not to care when they clearly do.
“What’s going on with those two, anyway?” I jerk my head toward Tuck and Nicklas’ table as Ash rises from his chair. “I thought Tuck and Maria were a thing, but I swear the temperature in the café dropped a few degrees when she just served him his coffee.”
Ash shrugs, eyebrows raised. “Yeah… not sure. Maybe we need Elias’ grandmother Gladys in here—she’s a pro at this.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, she’s ruthless with matchmaking. Poor Elias and Taylor didn’t stand a chance.”
Maybe I could get her to work her magic on Rowyn and me.
I bite my lip at the thought. But then reality nudges me, we’re practically living together, falling into each other’s arms every night.
What started as a show, a lesson in pretending, has morphed into something real, effortless, terrifying, and exhilarating.
Rowyn hasn’t mentioned that hot coffee-shop guy since we won the cup. Maybe some things don’t need fixing.
I turn back to the cinnamon rolls, rolling and cutting dough with precision, checking the clock more often than necessary.
Noon is approaching, and my nerves start tightening.
Rowyn said she’d try to stop by today, grab lunch if she could find a window in her insane schedule.
Lately, she’s been run off her feet, and I’ve noticed that lightness in her smile is fading, her joy at work, her spark, seems just out of reach.
The bell jingles. I slide the pans into the oven, washing my hands quickly, my heart picking up pace.
Penn and Jaylynn slide into a booth with Tuck and Nicklas.
Jaylynn leans close, talking animatedly, gesturing wildly, and I grin—classic matchmaking in action.
Nicklas looks mildly impressed, slightly overwhelmed.
I doubt anything could tame him, but it’s fun to watch the effort.
I’m about to retreat back into the kitchen when the bell jingles again.
And there she is.
Rowyn. Professional attire—pencil skirt, crisp blouse, tailored coat draped over her arm. My chest tightens, heart tripping over itself, and for one beat, I don’t move. I just watch.
Then she sees me. That smile. That slow, easy smile that always stops me in my tracks. She starts toward me, and my joy spikes. Until I notice who she’s with.
A shadow tugs at the edges of my happiness.
She reaches me, and I touch her arm lightly, leaning in for a quick kiss. She inches back, apologetic, her eyes flicking toward… him.
“I hope you don’t mind Billy joining us for lunch,” she says, voice low. “I mentioned I was coming here, and he asked if he could tag along.”
“Not at all,” I say, my smile automatic, polite—though beneath it, a frisson of irritation coils in my chest. Billy. That snake. Hunting for a story, sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. And here he is, in Gina’s place, in my lunch moment with Rowyn.
I glance over her shoulder at him. Smile. Calm, polite. But my stomach clenches. I’m hoping he’s going to mind his own business since Rowyn is a co-worker—he wouldn’t want to hurt her. Probably. Maybe.
“Wow,” Billy breathes, leaning in slightly, sniffing the air. “What smells so good?”
I grit my teeth just enough to make it seem casual, while my mind spins. Cinnamon rolls. Laughter. Tension. Rowyn. And that other guy in the mix.
And just like that, lunch is anything but simple.
“Cinnamon rolls,” I tell him, keeping my voice casual. “A new batch in the oven.” I lean in closer to Rowyn, just enough for her to feel my warmth. “Why don’t you guys have a seat? I’ll bring out some chowder.”
“I can help,” she says, playful but firm. “You don’t need to serve me.”
I brush my hand lightly against her elbow, leaning so my mouth hovers near her ear. “Oh, babe,” I murmur, letting my breath tickle her skin. “But I love serving you.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I can’t resist the smug grin that spreads across my face. She shoots me a warning glare, but I catch the almost-hidden twinkle in her eyes. The part of her that likes when I push buttons. Likes the little games we play.
Honestly, Vegas can’t come soon enough. I imagine sneaking her away, just the two of us, maybe even to a tiny chapel, where I can claim her fully, no games, no pretenses.
She turns and glides toward a table near the window, the afternoon light catching the highlights in her hair.
My gaze follows her every movement, memorizing the curve of her back, the graceful sway of her hips.
Gina sweeps over to introduce her to the new staff, and I don’t miss Billy’s sharp eyes scanning the room, noting the players, their positions, and who’s talking to whom.
Every instinct I have tells me to watch, to protect.
I retreat to the kitchen and take a deep breath. I scoop up three big bowls of steaming chowder. I check the cinnamon rolls—they’re browning perfectly, sweet curls of sugar and cinnamon peeking through the folds. I carefully set the bowls on a platter, gripping it like it’s fragile treasure.
Carrying it into the dining area, I move slowly, deliberately.
I can glide across the ice with effortless grace, handle a puck under pressure, but balancing three bowls of chowder in my hands?
Not so much. My calves tense, toes trying to grip the floor for stability. A bead of sweat slides down my temple.
Every step is a test. Every eye in the room seems to follow me—but it’s Rowyn’s that matters most. She looks up just as I approach, her smile warming the space around her.
My chest tightens. And for one delicious, torturous second, it’s just her and me, the rest of the café fading into background noise.
I set the platter down, carefully, making sure none of the soup sloshes. Billy’s eyes are on me, watching. I sit, and we all dig in. The clang of cutlery and murmur of conversation surrounds us, but I feel every inch of Billy’s gaze as he scans the place, like he’s sniffing for a story.
I slide my chair a little closer to Rowyn. Billy’s head tilts slightly, watching the movement, and I catch a glint in his eyes—calculated, searching.
“So, Jaxon,” Billy says smoothly, voice low, carrying that practiced charm that screams untouchable. “Vegas sounds… exciting. You looking forward to the trip?”
I force a casual shrug, but my gut tightens. “Yeah. Looking forward to it.”
He leans closer, too close, and I catch the faint cologne. “Are the guys worried about Rowyn going? You know, her being a reporter and all, and getting inside your circle.”
“What the heck, Billy?” Rowyn shoots back, eyebrow raised.
He throws his hands up, innocence plastered across his face. “What? I’m just saying. These guys aren’t fans of reporters.”
“Celebrity gossip reporters, sure,” she counters, voice cool. “But I don’t fall into that category.”
“A reporter is a reporter, Rowyn,” he says smoothly.
My jaw stiffens. “She’s coming as my girlfriend. She’s not on assignment,” I remind him evenly, keeping my tone light but firm.
Billy’s smile widens, too sharp, too deliberate.
He tilts his head like he’s genuinely amused—or calculating the angle for his next move.
“No, of course she’s not on assignment. She’s…
different. Unlike the rest of us, she can…
” he snaps his fingers, “…turn that part of her brain off when she wants to.”
What the hell? Is he trying to plant a seed of doubt? I don’t know, but I do know he’s up to something, and I don’t like it.
I shift slightly in my seat, angling my body subtly between him and Rowyn, signaling possession and protectiveness without saying a word.
Billy glances around the café, then back at me. Sharp. Assessing. Like he’s weighing exactly how far he can push. I raise a brow, a silent, what the hell are you doing?
He laughs, light, easy, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he says, leaning back, finally pulling away. “Just checking out the players. I’m a fan.”
A fan. Right. And I’m supposed to believe he’s just here for chowder and cinnamon rolls.
I keep my gaze on him, long enough to make sure he knows that I’m not buying it.
Billy is trouble. Subtle, insidious trouble. And I have no intention of letting him turn our lives—or Rowyn—into his next story.