Chapter 18
TALIA
THC Gummies
I’m standing in front of the mirror in our hotel bathroom, trying to make my eyeliner even.
My cheeks warm remembering what Jake and I did.
The way he fucked me first like he couldn’t get enough and the way he held me afterwards like I was precious.
I tell myself to focus.
Tonight matters.
Sponsors. Donors. The team. My father.
And me, apparently, as Jake Morrison’s steady plus one.
I glance over my shoulder.
Jake is in the room behind me, tugging on his dress shirt with the kind of stiff irritation I’m used to by now. He looks unfairly good.
He catches my stare in the mirror.
His eyes linger on my mouth for a second too long.
My stomach flips.
Then he clears his throat like he’s annoyed at himself and looks down to button his cuffs.
I finish the eyeliner and step out into the room.
I’m wearing a black dress that’s simple and elegant and makes me feel like I belong in a room full of rich people who donate money to hockey charities. It also makes me feel a little too seen, because it clings in places I didn’t expect it to cling.
Jake’s gaze dips again.
I try not to smile.
“Ready?” I ask.
He grunts something that might be yes.
Then he adds, “These dinners always leave me hungry.”
I blink.
“That’s the problem you’re going with?” I tease, smoothing my dress over my hips.
Jake grabs his jacket from the chair. “It’s all tiny portions and speeches. You get one tiny chicken breast and one asparagus next to it, and they call that a meal. Don’t they know I need fuel?”
I snort.
He gives me a look. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” I say, stepping closer and fixing the collar of his shirt without thinking. And I do know. The portions he has to eat, and how often he has to eat, are ridiculous.
“You’re hungry already?” I ask.
Jake’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
I know him.
This is pre-grumpy Jake. The version of him that’s already irritated at the idea of being underfed and forced to be charming.
I pick up my clutch and glance toward the room service menu on the desk. “We could order something. Like, now. Quick. Room service can bring fries or a sandwich or—”
“No,” Jake says immediately.
I pause. “No?”
He grabs his wallet. “Then we’ll be late and you know your dad will watch us wth his hawk eyes. I’m okay.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Jake. You need to eat. You burn through like… a thousand calories breathing.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s not how calories work.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, poking his chest lightly. “You’re going to get hangry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He gives me a flat look. “I’m a grown man.”
“And yet,” I say sweetly, “you just complained about chicken portions like a toddler.”
His eyes narrow.
I smile wider.
He huffs, grabs his jacket, and pulls open the door. “Let’s go. I had a couple of your gummies anyway.”
I blink. “What gummies?”
He pauses in the doorway and glances back at me, his brows drawing together like I’m the one being confusing. “The ones on your nightstand.”
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no.
“You took the gummies on my nightstand? Are you sure?”
He looks at me like I’ve officially lost it. “Of course I’m sure.”
I just stare at him. “Jake.”
“What?” he asks, maddeningly calm.
My heart starts pounding again. Fast. Sharp.
I cannot believe this.
“How many,” I ask carefully, every word measured, “did you take?”
Jake shrugs.
A casual, broad-shouldered shrug that should be illegal in this situation.
“A handful,” he says. “Maybe.”
I stare at him.
My brain short-circuits.
“A handful,” I repeat, my voice climbing. “A handful of my gummies.”
He lifts one shoulder again. “They were on the nightstand.”
“They were on the nightstand because they’re mine,” I hiss.
Jake’s lips twitch. “You shouldn’t leave snacks out.”
“They’re not snacks,” I snap. “They’re THC gummies. To help me relax.”
Jake blinks.
Once.
Then he says, “Okay.”
Okay.
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Jake,” I say slowly, “those are… those are weed.”
He looks at me, still maddeningly composed. “What do you mean, they’re weed?”
“Oh my God.”
My hands lift helplessly between us, like I don’t know whether to grab him or shake him.
“THC is weed,” I say. “It’s the active compound in marijuana.”
He processes that.
His expression barely changes. “They were really small,” he adds, almost defensively.
“They’re not candy,” I hiss. “They’re dosage.”
He frowns, like he’s trying to calculate something in his head. “I’m a big guy.”
“That’s not how it works,” I whisper fiercely.
He studies me for a beat.
Then his expression shifts into something like amused resignation.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
I stare at him.
I should be mad.
I am mad.
But I’m also seconds away from laughing, because this is so completely, ridiculously absurd.
“We are about to walk into a charity dinner with my father,” I say slowly, each word careful, like I’m explaining fire to a toddler, “and you are high.”
Jake’s mouth twitches again. “I’m not high.”
I point at his face. “You’re not grumpy anymore.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Then says, “Okay, maybe I’m a little… relaxed.”
“A little relaxed,” I repeat, my voice strangled.
He exhales, looking almost pleased with himself. “It’s nice.”
I stare at him in horror.
He pulls the door open wider, clearly still intending to leave. “Come on. Let’s go. I feel fine.”
I follow him into the hallway, on high alert.
Any minute now the THC is going to hit properly, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
We reach the elevators and Jake presses the button.
The doors slide open with a soft ding, and we step inside.
A few moments later, they open again on the ballroom level.
Jake’s gaze flicks past me toward the hallway.
Then back to me.
His eyes soften.
And then he does something that makes my breath catch.
He reaches for my hand.
Laces his fingers with mine like it’s instinct.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “You better not let go. Someone has to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”
My heart pounds.
The door to the ballroom opens and we step inside together.
Immediately, heads turn.
Jake Morrison is the captain. He’s the center of gravity in every room he enters. And now I’m attached to him like I belong there.
My father stands across the room, talking to a donor in a navy suit. His posture is rigid. Commanding.
His expression softens slightly when he spots me.
We move deeper into the room, shaking hands, smiling, nodding politely. Jake says all the right things. Introduces me properly. Makes sure everyone knows we’re together.
Jake seems perfectly normal for the moment.
And then, out of nowhere, he starts giggling.
One of the sponsors makes a mild joke about hockey penalties, and Jake laughs like the man just delivered the greatest comedic performance of the century.
My fingers tighten around his arm.
Jake leans down toward me and stage-whispers, “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” I whisper urgently. “Stop laughing.”
“I am stopped,” he whispers back, still smiling.
He is not stopped.
Not even close.
I steer him toward our assigned table like I’m escorting a friendly but unpredictable animal.
He sits beside me.
Good. Seated is safer.
The table centerpiece is elaborate. Glass and candles and white flowers arranged with surgical precision.
Jake stares at it. Really stares at it.
Oh no.
His head tilts slightly.
“Wow,” he murmurs. He leans closer, eyes wide with genuine awe. “That’s… incredible.”
“It’s flowers,” I whisper.
He shakes his head slowly. “Look at the symmetry. It’s like angels sent it down just to make it this beautiful.”
I grab his hand under the table and squeeze hard.
He turns to me. His pupils are huge.
And then he smiles.
A full, open, completely unguarded smile.
It hits me straight in the chest.
“Just like you,” he says quietly with a puppy-dog expression on his face.
Dinner begins with a small appetizer.
Mercifully, the main course follows soon after.
Steak.
Thank God.
An actual portion.
Jake’s eyes light up.
He sits up straighter.
Then he proceeds to inhale it at a speed that makes Connor, two seats down, stare openly.
“Jesus,” Connor mutters. “When was the last time you ate?”
Jake doesn’t look up. “I only had a few gummies earlier. I’m starving.”
He gestures for a waiter. “Could I have some more of this excellent steak? It’s divine.”
The waiter hesitates. “Ahem. This isn’t an à la carte restaurant, sir. But I’ll go and check.”
While we wait for the next course, Jake becomes very interested in the man sitting across from us. Specifically, the man’s tie.
It’s navy silk with a subtle geometric pattern.
Jake stares at it like it’s performing a magic trick.
The donor—Mr. Whitaker, according to the place card—leans forward to say something about youth outreach programs.
Jake leans forward too. But not for the outreach programs.
His eyes are locked on the tie.
“Is that… hand-stitched?” Jake interrupts suddenly.
Mr. Whitaker blinks. “I—excuse me?”
“The tie,” Jake clarifies, gesturing vaguely toward the man’s chest. “It’s extraordinary.”
Mr. Whitaker looks down at his own torso like he’s never seen it before. “It’s, ah… Italian silk.”
Jake nods slowly. Reverently.
“I knew it.”
“That pattern,” Jake continues, eyes wide with genuine admiration, “is exquisite.”
I kick him under the table.
Hard.
He doesn’t flinch.
Mr. Whitaker, bless his wealthy soul, is now deeply invested in this exchange.
“I, ah, do have a fondness for good tailoring,” he says, straightening slightly.
Jake nods, intensely. “It shows.”
He reaches out, fondling the tie with his fingers.
I grab his wrist under the table with lightning speed.
Jake glances at me, confused. “What?”
“Hands to yourself,” I mutter.
He looks back at Mr. Whitaker with renewed sincerity. “I just want you to know that this tie is making my entire evening better.”
There is a silence.
A long one.
Then Mr. Whitaker beams.