Chapter 5 #2
By the fifth call, I’m practically shouting at my phone. “Jonah Holt, I swear to God, if you don’t pick up—”
It cuts me off. Nice.
It’s a good thing I don’t feel anything close to wanting to crawl in bed and cry right now because I don’t have that luxury.
I jump in my Jeep, box tossed in the back seat, and as I drive, I keep checking my rearview mirror to make sure I’m not being followed.
I don’t think I am, but it’s still dark, and my paranoia is dialed up to eleven.
I have to talk to Jonah, and I hope to hell he’s at his Dickens house because I’m on my way there to warn him. He better still be there—he has to be. After what happened with Eli last night, he wouldn’t have driven back to Boise.
Right?
I park half on the curb in front of Jonah’s house, probably violating several homeowner association rules in the process, and sprint to the front door.
His place is gorgeous—one of those modern designs with massive windows and a roof deck that probably cost more than my entire apartment building, which is half commercial real-estate because Sparkling Suds is on the main floor.
I’m relieved to see his SUV parked in the garage.
At least I don’t have to hunt him down in Boise.
Of course the house is dark at this hour, but this is an emergency.
I pound on the door like I’m the furious ex-girlfriend. “Jonah! Wake up! It’s Zoe!”
Nothing.
I pound again, harder this time. My fist is going to be bruised tomorrow, but that’s a problem for Future Zoe. Present Zoe has bigger issues.
“JONAH HOLT, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’LL—”
The door swings open mid-threat, and I fall forward into what can only be described as the eighth wonder of the world: Jonah Holt’s bare chest.
Oh. My. God.
He’s standing there in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination, his auburn hair sticking up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow absolutely is. Sleep lines crease one side of his face, and his blue eyes narrow in confusion and annoyance.
I fight off a gasp. And I absolutely keep my eyes from roaming to his junk.
Do not look down, do NOT look down. It’s a mantra I repeat silently as I take in his bare chest—which, wow, hockey really does wonders for a guy’s physique.
Each muscle is so clearly defined it’s like someone carved him out of marble and then brought him to life just to torture me specifically.
“Zoe? What the hell?” His voice is rough with sleep, and it does things to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge.
I force my eyes to stay on his face, which is like trying not to look at a car crash: against basic human nature. “We need to talk,” I manage, my voice higher than usual. “Right now.”
He blinks at me, then steps back to let me in without argument, which tells me he’s either still half-asleep, or he knows how screwed he is.
Jonah’s home is precisely what you’d expect from an NHL star’s second house—sparse yet expensive, and spotless because the place gets cleaned even when no one’s here.
Even if it didn’t, Sydney told me once that he was the neat freak of the family, which seems at odds with his brooding hockey player persona but weirdly makes sense when you see him arranging the throw pillows on his couch as he passes by.
Now that I’m inside and away from nosey neighbors or security cameras, I blurt, “Your story’s about to leak.”
“Hold on, I need caffeine for this. Coffee?” He rubs a hand over his face as he heads toward the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” I didn’t have time to get any at the news station.
Oh, God. The news station, the place I no longer work. At least I won’t have to drink that sludge anymore, and I’m sure what Jonah makes will be better because anything would be better.
I follow him like a moth drawn to a hot, beautifully fit flame. “How about pants? For you, not me. I’m wearing pants. Obviously.”
Very smooth, Zo. Maybe after this, you can explain to him how doors work.
He stops walking, then turns to study me.
So I continue, “Seriously, put on pants. I can’t have a reasonable conversation with your—” I gesture vaguely at his entire lower half.
A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it from merely handsome to downright devastating. “Am I distracting you, Zoe Lane?”
“Go. Pants. Now.” I point toward the stairs, heat creeping up my neck.
He ignores my demand, heading toward the coffeemaker, which is both frustrating and not at all disappointing. As he moves around with surprising grace for someone his size, I perch on a stool at the island and try to organize my thoughts into something resembling coherence.
“So,” he says, his back to me as he measures coffee grounds, “lemme guess. Someone at the news station knows.”
“Donny Dexter. But he doesn’t know everything… yet,” I blurt, watching his shoulders tense. “He was at the station early—which never happens—and he knows you were at the police station yesterday. He has a source. He’s planning to break the story as soon as he figures it out.”
Jonah turns, coffee forgotten. “Fuck.”
I drum my fingers on the quartz countertop. “I don’t know how he found out this fast, but—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Jonah’s jaw tightens. “Now we just need to get ahead of it.”
“Exactly,” I say, impressed that Jonah knows PR, although I shouldn’t be. He’s an NHL star who deals with it daily. “If Donny breaks the story, it’ll be all about the scandal—the secret love child, the absent father. We need to not let that happen.”
Jonah nods, then turns back to the coffeemaker, pressing buttons with more force than necessary. “I was going to tell my family when they got back from my aunts. Two more days. That’s all I needed.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest ache. Behind the hockey star facade and those ridiculous abs is a man who’s just had his world turned upside down and is desperately trying not to drop the ball.
“I know,” I say softly. “And this sucks. But right now, we need to focus on getting ahead of it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He leans against the counter. His eyes meet mine, steady and serious. “Although you benefit from breaking this story, so I’ll take that back.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Not really. I got fired from KBVR.”
He nearly drops the coffee scoop. “Fired? Over this?”
“No,” I half-lie, lifting my chin. “I mean, yes, but it’s bigger than just your story. Donny and Marcus want to turn the network into something I don’t want to be a part of.”
“You okay?” He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes seeing right through my facade. At least, I think it’s a facade. Right now, I still feel tough, but that reality thing has got to kick in at any moment now.
He says, “We need to get ahead of the story one way or another, right?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll still give it to you.”
I shoot him a look that I hope conveys both my annoyance and my professional interest. “But I’m a producer, not a reporter—”
“I’ve seen Zoe Knows,” he cuts in, reaching behind me to grab a mug on the counter.
His proximity sends a wave of his scent over me—some combination of sleep-warm skin and expensive soap.
“Let’s use your podcast to do the interview, then I’ll link it to my social media. It should take off from there.”
I blink, genuinely surprised. He knows about my podcast.
“Wow.” I can’t hide my shock. I didn’t consider Zoe Knows because it’s not real news and doesn’t have a big reach. But with him linking it to his social media… well, that’s a game changer. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that on my way over—I must be in shock. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He pours coffee into both mugs, sliding one toward me. “This should help boost your podcast.”
“Definitely. Thank you,” I mumble out, still processing this wild turn of events. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
“It’s the least I can do after you got fired over something relating to me.” He sighs. “So let’s do it... if you’ll do me a favor.”
And there it is. The catch. I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“I need you to buy stuff for this house and for Eli,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world. “You have experience with kids with your brothers and sister, and I have a list to get ready for the social worker visit.”
I can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in his cavernous kitchen. “Jonah, no way. I’ll help you shop, but this is your son. You have to do this stuff yourself—you can’t just hire out fatherhood.”
He looks taken aback, clearly not used to people talking to him that way, but I don’t care. He’s being ridiculous, and someone needs to tell him.
“Seriously?” He stands there in his perfect boxer briefs, looking at me like I’ve just suggested he perform brain surgery.
I stand my ground, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes, seriously. I’m not bending on that one.
We can go together.” I can’t believe I’m lecturing an NHL star about responsibility while he stands half-naked in his kitchen, but here we are.
Life comes at you fast—one minute, you’re a production assistant with career aspirations, the next you’re unemployed and arguing with a gorgeous, grumpy hockey player about parenting basics. The universe is a sick bastard.
Jonah stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. Finally, he sighs, “Fine.”
“Good,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “But first, we break this story. Like, now.”
He begrudgingly agrees, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I have to call my parents and Syd. Then coach. I’ll go get dressed.”
“Yes, please do that.” I fail at not watching him walk away. The view from behind is just as impressive as the front, which is completely irrelevant to the task at hand but impossible not to notice.
“I’ll get my tripod and microphone, some makeup, and a jacket from my car,” I call after him. “I guess we’re doing this cowboy-style.”
OMG, I can’t believe I just said that. My face burns like I’ve stuck it in the oven.
Jonah pauses at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that does absolutely criminal things to my heartbeat. “I like cowboy style.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me clutching my coffee mug, wondering if we were still talking about video production. Of course we’re not, Zoe.
Dammit, he could take me cowboy style any time he wants. Except no he can’t because he ghosted me after rejecting me at Christmas! Do I need to tattoo that on my hand, so I never forget it?
And given that I just lost my job over this man’s secret son, doing it cowboy style should be the absolute last thing on my mind.
I shake everything off and dash outside to grab my travel equipment from the car.
The morning air slaps me, reminding me it’s still before dawn, and I’ve already had more drama than most people experience in a month.
My trunk is a disaster—a graveyard of fast-food wrappers, outfits for unexpected broadcasts, and the random gear I’ve collected over years of trying to be prepared for any journalistic emergency.
And good thing because this is the journalistic emergency of a lifetime.