20. Izzy
Izzy
I’m staying.
The words loop in my head the entire drive home. Jack doesn’t say much. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Even if we’re not pretending anymore, we haven’t named what it is between us either. And even if we did, what would that change?
I know what this is. A footnote. A story he’ll laugh about someday with teammates or friends or whoever fills his life once I’m no longer in it. That time he fake-dated that girl from the charity bachelor auction. Cute. Easy to forget.
But he just told me he’s staying. And it sounded like… I don’t know. A promise?
He was joking. Obviously. He has to be.
Even Peyton saw through us tonight—how flimsy this whole thing is, how ridiculous to imagine someone like Jack Murphy choosing someone like me.
And I know that because he’s not choosing me. This was only ever a deal between us.
“Thanks,” I whisper when he pulls into my driveway. “For spending Thanksgiving with my family and me. That’s a big ask, and you didn’t…”
He shuts off the car, and in the sudden quiet, my heart thuds against my ribs.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
I grab my purse from the floor. “You need to head back to the city.”
He’s already unbuckling, opening his door. “Not right now.”
I blink. And as cliché as it sounds, I swear my heart skips a beat. “Jack, you don’t have to—”
He jumps out and opens my door before I can finish, bracing an arm against the frame of his beloved G-Wagon. His eyes find mine in the dark. I’ve fallen in love with so many versions of this man, but Jack in a pea coat? Might very well be my favorite.
Then his mouth kicks up with that crooked grin, those dimples…
“I know I don’t,” he says quietly. “I want to, sweetheart.”
Want.
I roll my head against the headrest to take in one last look of him so hopeful, afraid that once I step out, everything is going to change between us. Again.
We’ve been falling bit by bit for weeks now, and when he runs his hand up my leg, gently pushing aside the satin of my skirt, I swear I forget why I ever ran from him at Fall Fest in the first place.
“It’s cold. Let’s head in.”
The best I can manage is a strangled, “Hmm.” I grip his hand and step out, allowing myself to fall against his back and breathe him in. This is how I want to remember him. The smell of snow in the air, his cologne, and the salty breeze sweeping off the harbor.
Inside, I kick off my shoes and move toward the kitchen on autopilot. I need something to do—tea, dishes, anything to keep from falling apart, but Jack catches my elbow.
“Sit.”
“I should—” The kitchen’s a disaster from this morning’s birthday pancake surprise. The sink’s full of dishes, there’s flour smeared across the countertop, and I swear I can still smell the vanilla extract I spilled on the floor.
“Sit,” he repeats. “I’ll take care of it.”
“What?” But he’s already walking toward the hall. “Jack—”
“Just trust me,” he calls back over his shoulder.
I stand there, listening to the faucet run, the bathroom cabinets opening and shutting. My legs give out long before my pride does. I sink onto the couch, pull my fuzzy blanket over myself, and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I’m out before his lips press to my forehead. “Come on.”
He guides me down the hallway, turning me into my bathroom.
Steam swirls out of the tub, the water hot enough that the whole room feels like a hot yoga session.
The air is perfumed with my favorite lavender and rose bath salts, and he’s set out all my small tealight candles.
The flames flicker and fill the room with a soft glow.
Beside them, a glass of wine waits on the edge of the tub.
I died out in my driveway, I guess, because this is heaven.
My throat tightens. “Jack, you didn’t have to do all this.”
He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I catch his hand without thinking. “Can you stay?”
His expression softens. “Sure.” He sits on the closed toilet lid, looking away while I undress.
When I finally slip into the water, the heat stings my skin before the tension melts from my muscles.
“Everything okay?” he asks, still facing away.
“Perfect.”
Jack settles on the plush bath mat on the floor and rolls up his sleeves. “What was it like growing up like that?”
The question surprises me. I reach for my wineglass, taking a steadying sip. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m always going to want to hear the long version.” He’s said that to me before; the only difference now is that I believe him.
I tell him everything. Everything I’ve held tight for years. The late nights, the forgotten appointments and events, the men who drifted in and out of our lives before Phil, each one upending my world before moving on. And then the endless fights and drama with my stepdad.
“I was the oldest,” I say, voice breaking. “I made sure that we were steady, that we all didn’t fall apart. I still try, I guess.”
His fingers drum over the tub’s edge. “You were a kid, Izzy.”
“Someone had to be an adult.”
“That doesn’t make it fair.”
“Sometimes life isn’t.”
He stands, stretches. I can tell he doesn’t like that answer, but I don’t press further. “Do you have any Advil?”
I nod and point to the medicine cabinet. “You okay?”
It happens so fast. His mouth twists in a smile, and I brace myself for the flirty reply, but it’s his quietness that hurts the most. “Fine.” He opens the mirrored cabinet, grabs the bottle, and swallows a few.
His hand lingers on the edge after he closes it, his back toward me.
“I’ll be out there if you need me. Take your time. ”
I blow out a breath, frustrated as he slips away, knowing he’s hurting and there’s nothing I can do. I reach for my wine, taking a sip before I close my eyes and sink deeper into the water. All the while, I hear water running and dishes being set down. No one ever cleans up after me.
“You don’t have to do all that,” I call out after a few minutes.
“I want to,” he calls out, before continuing.
Jack appears in the doorway after a few minutes, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “Still okay?”
I swing my knees from side to side, and the water gently swishes around me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you always tell someone when you’re hurting?”
He goes still but doesn’t answer.
“Why not?” I press gently.
He exhales, pulling the towel from his shoulder to wring it in his hands. “The truth?”
“I’m a good listener.”
“Hmm.” He stares at the flickering candles before his gaze settles back on me. “Losing hockey wouldn’t just change my life. It’d change me. And I don’t know who’s on the other side of that.”
The quiet crack in his voice breaks something in me.
Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just the disbelief ringing in my ears. “You really think hockey is the only interesting thing about you?”
He moves his gaze to the floor and pushes out a rough laugh. “Yeah, probably.”
I rest my arms on the tub’s edge, propping my head up. “You shouldn’t always believe everything your brain tells you. It’s not the whole story. You’re…well, for someone who pretends nothing is serious, your big heart proves otherwise.”
“Big heart, huh?” His thumb brushes away a string of bubbles along my shoulder.
“You’re allowed to hurt, Jack. Doesn’t make you any less—”
“So are you,” he counters.
Our eyes meet. “We’re both idiots.” I set down my wineglass and rest my chin on my folded arms over the edge of the tub. This has been the longest, most confusing day.
“Yeah.” He smiles, sitting on the tub’s edge. “We really are.”
He stares down at his hands. I pretend not to notice they’re shaking, but I do.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, wrapped in my robe, my kitchen is spotless, and my laundry is folded.
Jack looks up from his spot on my couch, a book clutched in his hand. “Feel better?” He stands, closing the space between us. He cradles my face between his palms, thumbs tracing over the apples of my cheeks. “You take care of everyone,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
My voice cracks. “Why?”
He frowns. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? You should be in Boston. You have practice early tomorrow.” I ball my fist and lightly tap it against his chest. “And I know you’re not feeling great, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
“I’m—”
“Fine,” I answer for him. “Please, I’m the best there is at that excuse. You can’t weasel your way…”
Jack kisses me, then pulls back. “I want to be here with you. On that couch. In your bed. I would have joined you in the tub… but it’s comically small.”
“The charm of a New England cottage. Definitely a con.”
He chuckles against my mouth, and I wrap my arms around his neck, gently raking my fingers against his scalp. “Still hurts?”
He swallows, nods, and then issues the smallest sigh when I press a kiss at the corner of his jaw. “Bedroom?” he murmurs.
I nod, and he walks me backward down the hall, his mouth never leaving mine until we’re about to crash into the mattress.
Jack notices the black ribbon from the gala on my dresser. He grins. “You kept it?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Maybe.” I don’t tell him I wear it in my hair sometimes when he’s away.
He picks it up, the silk sliding through his fingers. Then he lifts my wrists. “This okay?”
I bite my lip, anticipation swirling in my chest. Jack ties the ribbon around my wrists—not tight, just enough that I feel it bite at my skin. Enough that I can’t reach for him first.
His mouth trails down my throat. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against my collarbone. When he lifts his head, his blue eyes are hooded.
“Stay.”
It’s such a simple request, but I still expect him to leave.
“I’m not leaving tonight.” He guides me backward against my sheets, then raises my arms above my head, moving over my body. He straddles me, peeling his shirt off before he leans down to kiss me.
I understand now why an orgasm was called “the little death” in old books.
He kisses me with precision and enough care that I’m whimpering, and his hands aren’t on my body.
Just his lips and teeth, marking me lightly, trailing down my neck, across my collarbone, then taking each nipple into his mouth.
“Feels good, Izzy?”
“Yes,” I pant.
“Good.” He rolls off the bed, quickly undresses, then continues kissing, avoiding where I want him most. I’m wet and so fucking desperate for him.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly. “You need to know that. I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.”
“I’ll believe whatever you want—”
I move to look up at him, but he shakes his head. “Not tonight, sweetheart. I don’t want to tonight.”
When he finally settles between my legs, his mouth moves over me with that same consideration. His breath ghosts over my skin, and I shiver. I arch closer, overwhelmed by how good it feels to be touched like this. Like I’m something precious.
Jack leans down and presses a kiss over my heart.
Tears spring to my eyes. I suck in a deep breath, surprised at how good it feels, and how scary it is to trust him completely.
He reaches for a condom, then slowly sinks into me. My hands are still tied above my head, and it’s just my lips that find his chest. The feel of his warm skin against mine, the way his gold chain dances across my chest as his pace quickens.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to take care of you like this,” he says. “How long I’ve wanted to slow down enough to feel everything with you. But Izzy, sweetheart, the wait was worth it.”
His pace is so slow, my pleasure builds and builds. There, but still not close enough. Jack is deliberate, each touch, each trust meant only to bring me pleasure. When it becomes too much, I focus on the tug of the ribbon against my skin, the way he showers praise over me.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe. Come for me, baby. Please.”
Finally, I let go. My orgasm shakes through me, and Jack follows quickly after, groaning my name against my neck.
We stay like that for a long moment afterward, breathing each other in, the room so perfectly quiet around us.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
He unties the ribbon with shaking hands and kisses both wrists where the silk has left faint pink marks. “For trusting me.”
We lie there, tangled together, my fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his thumb brushing rhythmically along my spine.
“I have to leave early tomorrow,” he says. “Morning skate. Then Montreal.”
My stomach sinks. “I know.”
“I’ll be gone most of next week. Playing Philadelphia before our homestand.”
“I know.”
His hand stills at my hip like he’s trying to soften the blow, but it doesn’t help.
Loving someone means giving them the power to break you. And tonight, I handed Jack Murphy every weapon he’ll ever need.