I’d like to think we created a cease-fire.
And then I’d see him texting and lose my shit all over again.
I was ready to throw his phone into the trash.
Pathetic, but every time I thought about them I defaulted back into jackass territory, and while I still had chest pain when I thought of my father’s death, a small part of me understood that she wasn’t the reason his heart stopped.
I just needed to get over the fact that instead of talking with him, I was balls deep inside her—but it had been different.
It wasn’t meant to be a one-night stand.
It wasn’t.
No matter how many times I tried to convince myself it was.
And the simple fact was that it wasn’t fair to want her so badly that I was willing to commit murder just so Jagger wouldn’t know how good she actually tasted.
I ran my hands through my hair and checked the baked French toast one last time. In a moment of weakness I’d actually called my mom for the recipe, only to have her burst into tears because it had been Dad’s favorite.
So emotionally, I was already spent—meaning I needed to try extra hard not to stick my foot in my mouth. This week had been a mixture of heaven and hell. Heaven because I finally felt like I was dealing with my shit—I had an elementary school kid to thank for that. And hell because I was still dealing with my shit while trying to not beat the shit out of anyone who looked at Mack wrong, and prove to her that friendship wasn’t all that was on the table.
The front door opened. I leaned against the counter. Stood. Leaned again. Hell, at this rate I was going to be waiting with a red rose clenched between my teeth.
“What smells so good?” Mack’s footsteps sounded down the hall, and then she was facing me. Her hair was in a high ponytail, her simple white T-shirt and boyfriend jeans looked so adorable with her gray Converse that I almost forgot about breakfast and just picked her up into my arms so I could feel her.
“Slade?” She waved a hand in front of my face.
“I like you in Converse best, I think,” I finally answered. “And white. You should wear white all the time.”
She smiled. “Thank you?”
“Welcome.” I beamed. “Now, sit and I’ll share a secret family recipe with you, but”—I grabbed a fork and pointed it at her—“you can’t share the recipe, alright? Or I have to kill you so Grandma Rodriguez’s ghost doesn’t haunt you like it does Uncle Jose—he still screams at night.”
“Seriously?” she said with heavy sarcasm. “What did he do?”
“Posted it on a cooking blog.” I shrugged. “Went to bed and woke up screaming an hour later. Every night, same time, same scream, just ask my aunt. One night we found a rolling pin in his sheets.”
“So? Anyone could have grabbed one from the kitchen.”
“Theirs had just broken—they needed to buy a new one.”
“Oh, so your grandma’s ghost is like Santa, that’s sweet.” She took the coffee I handed her and sipped slowly while I stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
“Sweet?” I started pulling out the French toast. “There’s nothing sweet about a ghost that gives a grown man night terrors.”
“But at least now he has a rolling pin.” She nodded triumphantly. “Right?”
I shook my head. “A ghost is a ghost. Just don’t share it, and you’ll never have to worry about smelling Bengay when you’re trying to fall asleep.”
She spewed coffee back into her cup. “Do I want to know?”
I shuddered. “No.” The French toast had caramelized perfectly. I set a piece onto a plate and dished out more for myself, then handed her a fork. “Eat up.”
“You . . .” She stared at the French toast. “You made me food?”
I shrugged. “You seem hell-bent on getting me to eat. Don’t seem so shocked. I’m just trying to see how many times I can get your mouth to water when you see me—and what better way to do that than with food? Hell, it would make my life if your mouth started . . .” My eyes lowered to her gorgeous pout. “Watering . . . whenever you heard my name.”
She shifted in her seat.
I grinned knowingly.
And then grinned harder when she sent me a seething glare.
She took a bite.
Closed her eyes and let out the most erotic groan I’d ever heard in my entire life.
I clutched the edge of the table with my free hand so I wouldn’t reach for her.
“And that too.” I dug in to my own food with my free hand.
“What?” Her eyes popped open.
“The moan . . . I didn’t get to hear it the way I want to, but I still got to hear it.”
Another bite disappeared into her mouth, and then she licked the caramel off the fork. “You’re manipulative.”
“I know what I want. Big difference.”
She pointed her fork at me. “You’re lucky this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Does that mean you’re going to moan again?”
“Stop, you’re ruining my moment with this glaze.” She tossed a napkin at my face.
“Should I leave you alone with the entire dish?”
“I don’t trust myself not to go all the way,” she whispered like the dish could hear her. “And nobody wants to see me unbutton my too-tight jeans to make room.”
I smiled. “I don’t know, I think I’d fucking love to see that.”
“Because I’d be partially undressed?”
“No.” I leaned in and licked my lips. “Because nothing looks better than a woman satisfied.”
Her lips parted.
I reached across and swiped my thumb near the corner of her mouth, then sucked the glaze from it. “Don’t you agree?”
“I . . . uh. Yes.”
“I have to go to camp and then practice.” I turned and grabbed my duffel from the floor, then put it in front of my constantly hard dick—her fault. “Enjoy my family’s secrets.”
“Wait.” Her hand jutted out. “Thanks again, it was really . . . sweet. You know, the opposite of what you typically are to other humans.”
“Yeah, deserved that.” I sighed. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”
“Maybe when you grovel.”
I leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Baby, if you want me on my hands and knees, all you gotta do is ask.”
I left her with that parting thought.
And me with a raging hard-on.
Which I needed to get rid of immediately so I didn’t get arrested on my last day of soccer camp.
I grinned as I made my way to the car.
All in all, not the worst Saturday I’d ever had.
Chapter Thirty-Four
SLADE
Worst. Saturday. Ever.
Jagger wouldn’t stop staring at his phone with a shit-eating grin on his face, and I couldn’t stop trying to peer over his shoulder to see what put it there.
“Slade,” he said without looking up. “Look over my shoulder one more time and I’m punching you in the dick.”
I jerked back. “Can’t a guy be curious?”
He put his phone away and crossed his arms. “Curious is asking if I have a cold. Creepy is when you keep trying to read my texts and breathe down my neck in the process.”
I scowled. “I was just . . . bored.”
“Bored.” His eyebrows shot up. “Have to admit, that’s a new one.”
Idiot. Table for one.
I was waiting for a smart retort to pop up in my brain. Instead, I stared at him slack-jawed like I’d just been hit by a ball.
Our kids started arriving then.
Danny was finally smiling.
All was right with the world.
Except it wasn’t.
Because my world, however cash filled it was, didn’t include the one thing that Jagger apparently had.
Her.
Fuck, I’d been an idiot for blaming her.
For letting her go.
For thinking I
could last without tasting her again.
I would do things differently.
But that was the shit part about life—you didn’t get do-overs. You got one chance, and then maybe if you were lucky and you screwed up—you got another.
I was out of chances.
“You look sad,” Danny said, coming to stand next to me. The kid had his arms crossed and was wearing one of my jerseys. “Mom says low blood sugar makes me moody. Here.” He handed me a warm, half-melted protein bar. “This should do the trick.”
“Sure will.” I laughed. “Are you sure you weren’t supposed to eat that, though?”
“Gross, like I would ever eat the cookies-and-cream flavor. I already tossed a peanut butter one in my bag. That one was in my pocket!”
Sure. Was.
“Thanks, man.” I opened it and took a bite to show my appreciation while he beamed to the rest of the kids running up.
I choked it down.
No choice since he kept looking at me to make sure I was chewing.
“Alright, Team Striker, gather around.”
It was Jags against Strikers for our final day. If we won, Jagger had to shave his head. If Jagger won, well, my famous locks were on the chopping block.
I took a deep breath. “Men, we have one goal today. Keep me from being the laughingstock of my team. I gotta be honest, guys, I don’t have a round head. It’s shaped like an ugly football, and I’ll probably never get a girlfriend if I have to shave my hair.” They started snickering. “Lads, I could not be more serious if my life depended on it. Do you want me to die alone?”
“No!” they cheered.
“Guys! We’re a team! Leave no man behind. I’m counting on you! My future self is counting on you! Now, go out there and have fun! Team Striker on three. One, two, three, Striker!”
They ran out screaming.
Jagger sent his out in similar fashion.
We stood side by side watching our handiwork as they warmed up.
“They grow up so damn fast.” I shook my head. “I swear Mitchell grew a hair on his chin this week.”
“Brady told me he found a hair on his balls, I guess they both win.”
We both burst into laughter as the guys ran around us emitting their own happy noises.
“If you ever lose the love of the game . . . just watch it through their eyes, huh?”
“Yeah.” He nodded and, without looking at me, coughed out, “You did good.”
I cupped my ear. “I’m sorry, lots of horns honking and people yelling, what was that?”
He gave me a shove. “You did good, jackass.”
“No cursing!” came Matt’s admonishment from behind us.
We turned, and Jagger shot Matt a death glare.
“You killed our moment, man!” I roared at him.
Matt held up his hands, eyes wide.
“Here we are ready to hug it out.” Jagger shook his head in disappointment.
“Start fresh,” I offered.
“And you”—Jagger spat the word you—“just had to lecture us about our language.”
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I quit.”
I burst out laughing. “You like the smell of money too much. Besides, where would we be without our glue?”
“Oh, you two?” He pointed between us. “Probably dead on the street somewhere. But me? I’d be in the Bahamas. Thanks for the reminder. Not painful at all.”
I just rolled my eyes. “Thanks for coming to the game, now watch me kick Jagger’s ass.”
“Your golden-brown locks are mine, Rodriguez!” Jagger grumbled.
I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head. “That come out the way you planned, or are you really regretting—”
“Shut it.”
Matt laughed just as the ref blew the whistle.
My guys ran over to me. I gave them high fives, grabbed my clipboard, and knelt down. “Remember what I said, guys, my future wife needs you to win, nobody wants to marry a football. Amen?”
“Amen!” they shouted.
I sent them off with a giant smile and prayed they wouldn’t make me a hairless cat after Mack’s own heart when I knew in mine—she really preferred bulldogs.
I gave Jagger major side-eye.
Yeah, I wouldn’t stand a chance with no hair.
Chapter Thirty-Five
MACKENZIE
Alton: Your father spoke to me.
I stared at the text while the French toast turned to a rock in my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do after having such a great start to my Saturday was see a text from the guy who accused me of being a whore in front of the guy who rejected me and the one who was . . . what was Jagger doing? It seemed genuine, and I hated that my trust issues were filtering into the way I saw him.
My phone pinged again.
Jagger: We need a redo.
I smiled at the phone and responded. He’d been texting me throughout the week, nothing serious, just asking about my day, telling me about his. Complaining about Slade—the usual.
Me: What were you thinking?
I could tell he was typing since the dots were dancing.
And while he was typing out whatever he was typing out, my eyes fell to the French toast that Slade had made for me—as if he wasn’t busy enough with camp and practice, he woke up and made me something that instantly kicked my day off right. I smiled just as Jagger replied.
Jagger: My place tonight.
I gulped, feeling instantly guilty.
And chewed on my bottom lip. Why did that seem more personal than dinner?
And why did I suddenly feel like I was cheating on Slade when all he’d done was make me breakfast and apologize for his crappy personality? You know, after being sweet all week long, teasing me, forcing me to stay for dinner. I stared down at my phone.
I didn’t overanalyze.
I just responded.
Me: I’ll bring wine.
Jagger: You better . . .
I was about to put my phone away when Alton texted again.
Alton: Look, I don’t know what kind of influence those guys have over you. The fact that you even slept with one or hell who knows? Both of them? Reflects badly on you. Not on me. I just reacted. Like any concerned friend would. I’m worried about you, and it’s wrong of you to take out your own guilt by tattling to your father and trying yet again to get me fired. It’s business, it’s not personal.
I imagined reaching through the screen and squeezing both hands around his neck.
I almost married this guy?
The one who didn’t stand up for the girl?
Alton would never be a hero.
And honestly he didn’t have the brains to pull off the villain.
He was too focused on himself and his own career than anything. Heck, Alton was the kind of guy who would be more worried about his stocks than the fact that the building was burning. I’d just chosen to focus on everything else. I’d ignored the truth right in front of me. I was business to him. Nothing more.
Me: You called me a whore. And yes. I slept with Slade Rodriguez. Not because I was desperate. Not because I was sad. Not because I wanted to see what it was like. And . . .
I felt a tear slide down my cheek and continued.
. . . not because I was trying to trap him into marriage. I had no ulterior motives other than finding adventure in someone’s arms, finding something I’d been searching for my whole life and capturing it in that moment because I could. Because I can . . .
I sent the text.
And then I stared back at Jagger’s name and frowned.
I refused to think about the texts the rest of the day and grabbed the leash for Alfie. It wasn’t long before I got lost in cleaning out the final box. It was nearing the time when Slade was supposed to be home. And finishing that box meant my days with him and Alfie were getting fewer and fewer, until they disappeared altogether.
My phone went off several times.
And each time I saw Alton’s name across
the screen, more bitterness took hold. He had no right to be angry. I stashed my phone back in my car where it belonged and gritted my teeth.
My body. My choice.
And every time I ignored him, my heart tried to remind me of how good it was with Slade, how tender he was, how loving . . . I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the thoughts away.
I had to convince myself that the man in Puerto Vallarta didn’t exist.
Because if he did?
I wouldn’t let him go.
Alfie came and rested by my feet as I pulled out a few pictures and dusted them off. The ones that seemed the most important―Slade with his father―were the ones I put around his room. A photo of him and his father after winning the World Cup was on his nightstand. And another at what looked like a birthday dinner, I put in the bathroom. It just seemed right to have them out and not stashed away, especially since he was such a huge part of Slade’s life. I stored the trophies in his office, and when I came back to the final picture of him, his old teammates, and his ex-fiancée?
Well, that one I put in storage.
If he wanted to burn it later he could.
When I was done, I took a look around the room.
“You sure spend an awful lot of time in my bedroom,” a freshly showered Slade teased as he leaned against the door and crossed his arms. “Just don’t look in any of the drawers, don’t want to embarrass you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I already saw the blow-up doll.”
He laughed. “Riiiight . . .”
“I stored her in the closet fully inflated, just in case,” I added, making my way closer. “Oh, and I added another box of extra-small condoms, you’re welcome.”
His smile just widened. “It’s not an insult when we both know you’re lying, you know this, right?”
I just shrugged as his eyes fell to the nightstand.
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
I braced myself for a fight. I hated that I had to.
He clenched his teeth and then picked up the picture and stared at it. “I could hear him screaming when I was on the field.”
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