Chapter 12 #2
The bedroom’s vaulted ceiling with the wooden beams, the custom walk-in closet, the bathroom of my dreams . . . it wasn’t my husband’s doing after all?
When Jules said “He knew you’d love it,” she was talking about Jameson?
“You look . . .” Morgan says, “angry?”
“I’m”—I sink to the ground, relieved that the girls have made their way back to the living room and are chasing each other around the nearly empty room—“so fucking confused.”
“I don’t know why he didn’t want you to know,” Jules says as she sits down next to me. “He didn’t originally say we weren’t going to tell you, but then that first day when you saw it and you mentioned Josh, he just went with that.”
Audrey adds, “But we also hated feeling like we were lying to you, so Jules and I agreed that if it ever came up again, we’d tell you the truth.”
“I . . .” I stammer. “I appreciate that. But also, why would he lie about that?”
Audrey and Morgan sit on the ground too, so we’ve essentially formed a circle. I can’t wait to have actual furniture in here like a grown-up, but right now the floor seems like the safest place for me to be since it’s as if the ground has crumbled beneath me.
“I can’t say that I understand the inner workings of Jameson’s mind—” Jules says.
“No one can,” Audrey adds.
“—but I think he’s worried about overstepping,” Jules continues. “While also, obviously, wanting to make sure your house is everything you want it to be so you can get off to a good start here.”
Why does he care? The question bangs around in my mind at the same time as I start adding things up: helping me sort out the financial mess Josh left me in, remodeling my house, arranging to have my driveway plowed when it snows and getting me a new garage door, telling me about the job with the Rebels, having Audrey connect me to Tammy, sending me and the girls breakfast every day this week.
“Does he . . .?” I groan, unable to get the words out because it sounds so impossible, especially after all this time.
I’m biting down on my lower lip so hard I’m worried I’m going to draw blood, so I relax my jaw, take a deep breath, and look away.
I glance around the first floor of this house that I’m starting to love, and I realize that it’s all happening because of him.
They look at me expectantly, waiting for me to finish my sentence, but I can’t. My emotions are all over the place. I’m not ready to even entertain the idea that he might have feelings for me. And what does that even mean for a confirmed bachelor like him?
Jules just gives me a shrug and a small smile, and says, “Have feelings for you?”
I give a small nod.
“We think so.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Petra asks when she, Jackson, Morgan, and I find our seats in the club section at the front of the second level. When the players take the ice, we’ll be sitting about twenty-five rows behind New York.
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I’m just exhausted.
” I don’t think I slept for more than two hours last night.
I lay awake in my bed, my mind spinning until the first rays of light were coming through my window.
I’m not sure how I made it through my second day of work today, or how I’m going to stay awake for this game.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Jackson says. “Between the house, the new job, and the info Jules and Audrey dropped on you, I’m not surprised you’re exhausted.”
At least I was able to catch my friends up on everything over dinner, and Morgan filled in the parts I couldn’t, like how shocked I’d looked when Jules and Audrey divulged Jameson’s role in remodeling my house.
“You still haven’t told us how you feel about him,” Morgan says as she eyes the jersey I’m wearing.
When I’d mentioned not having any Rebels gear, Jules had said she had tons—ironic since she apparently hates hockey—and would bring something over for me.
Sure enough, the jersey was folded neatly and sitting on my bed when I got home from work today.
I’d unfolded it and rolled my eyes when I saw Flynn and the number 9 on the back.
Of course she’d bring me an old jersey with Jameson’s name and number—it felt like a challenge, like she was giving me a choice: I could fold it back up and leave it behind, or I could be brave and put it on.
I opted for bravery. It’s just a mental exercise anyway.
Even though he has season tickets, it’s not like I’m going to see him amid this crowd of 15,000 people.
But if I do, how will I explain wearing his jersey?
I’m choosing to ignore that question, even though it keeps popping into my head. I won’t see him.
“I don’t know how I’m feeling, to be honest.”
I’d told them earlier about the night, five years ago, when Jameson and I had unexpectedly ended up at dinner together and bonded in a way I thought meant something was happening between us.
And then I told them how the next night, at an event for work, Jameson said, “I can’t do this,” before introducing me to one of his clients, an alpine ski racer named Josh Emerson.
“It’s a lot to process,” Jackson says. “You probably just need a little time to absorb all this.”
“Yeah. Right now, though, I think I’m going to go get a soda. I won’t make it through this game without some caffeine. Anyone want anything?”
My friends all look at me like I’m crazy because we just rolled out of dinner after completely stuffing ourselves, each of us swearing we’d never be able to eat again.
I’m actually glad this jersey is so huge on me, and I’m wearing leggings with it, because I don’t think my body could handle any clothing that felt restrictive right now.
I make my way up the stairs and head toward the private club-level lounge that our seats get us access to.
There’s a short line at the bar, so I lean against the wall as I wait, hoping that I don’t fall asleep standing.
One bad night of sleep should not make me this tired, but I think Jackson is right—the emotional toll of everything I’ve been through and this new information I’ve learned is catching up with me.
I close my eyes for a brief second, and then I feel someone move in close. When I open my eyes again, Jameson has one arm propped on the wall next to me, and he’s leaning into my space.
“Where in the world did you find that jersey?” he asks, his voice a low growl.
“Jules gave it to me today because I mentioned I didn’t have any Rebels gear.”
“That’s my jersey.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. It has your name across the back.”
“No, I mean, that’s my jersey”—his eyes flick through the windows to the arena where we can see the big blue “R” inside the Rebels symbol painted onto the ice—“that I wore, when I played.”
My breath hitches in a way that makes it feel like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the space. “She didn’t tell me that. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to overstep.”
He leans a little closer, his lips nearly touching my ear. “You saved me the trouble of having to rip the jersey off you if you’d had anyone else’s name on your back.”
My eyes flick to his. They’re as dark as always, but I’d forgotten that up close like this they have flecks of amber around the pupil, like sparks of fire radiating out into his irises.
“Jameson . . .” My voice is practically a whisper, and I pause because I don’t know what I want to say.
“Next!” The loud, distinctly annoyed voice of the guy behind the bar cuts into the space between us and I jump away. I hadn’t noticed that in the time we were talking, the line had moved and now it’s my turn. I glance apologetically behind me at the people who are waiting to order.
“I have to . . .” I tilt my chin toward the counter as I move away, and Jameson gives me an amused chuckle and tells me he’ll see me later.
When I get back to my seat with my large soda in my hand, I sink down between Petra and Morgan, whispering “Holy shit” over and over.
“What happened?” Morgan asks, her eyes huge and the concern evident in her voice.
“I just ran into Jameson.”
Petra looks amused, like she’s watching a movie with a really good plot twist.
“And . . .?” Jackson asks, leaning around Petra to look at me.
“Apparently I’m wearing his jersey.”
They all look at me like I just said The Earth is round.
“Like, one of his actual jerseys,” I say, feeling like I’m about to hyperventilate, “that he used to wear when he played.”
“And how did he react to that?” Petra asks, her lips quirking up into a sly smile.
“He said I saved him the trouble of having to rip the jersey off me if I’d had someone else’s name on my back.” My heart is racing so fast I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack.
“Holy shit, that’s hot,” Petra says. “What did you do?”
“I don’t even know. I just looked at him and then had to turn back to the bar because I was holding up the line.”
“So, you didn’t finish the conversation?” Morgan clarifies.
“No, he just fucking smirked at me and said he’d see me later.
” I take in a ragged breath. “This can’t be .
. . what the actual hell is even happening?
” I practically whisper yell the last question as I drop my head into my hands.
I’ve only been widowed for a few months; it’s way too soon for the thrill that ran through me when his breath ghosted over my earlobe.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for him.
“Oh, honey,” Petra says, putting her arm around me, “it’s okay to feel things. Like, if you have feelings for him, that’s not a bad thing.”
“I don’t even know what I’m feeling.” I lift my head and glance around to make sure no one is listening to us. “I mean, years ago I thought I had feelings for him, but he didn’t return them—”
“Are you sure?” Morgan interrupts. “Because you told us he said he ‘couldn’t do this now.’ Not that he didn’t have feelings. Maybe something happened in those twenty-four hours between your dinner and your work event?”
“I don’t know. I took him at his word, that he didn’t want anything to happen between us.”