Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

It’s been . . . a week.

Literally and figuratively.

Literally, it’s been a week since I moved in with Jaxon. Figuratively, it’s been the longest, most aggravating week of my life.

Of our first seven nights together, three of them were spent on the road, from Dallas to San Jose. Watching Jennie answer her FaceTime calls with the roll of her eyes before she sets her phone up in front of Mittens so Jaxon can check in with him over team breakfast. Listening to him sigh and talk about how hard life as a single father is when you’re on the road as much as he is. Snapping picture after picture of him crushing players into the boards, taking someone out moments before they can take a shot on Adam.

The other four nights, the ones spent tucked into his apartment . . . testicles. Testicles everywhere. The man has made it his mission to annoy the living hell out of me, and apparently, the best way to do so is to walk around naked first thing in the morning.

I sleep naked, Len, I fuckin’ told you that on day one. I don’t get dressed until after I’ve had my morning coffee, and I like it that way. I humored you for one morning, but I can’t change my whole life for you.

I’m not asking him to change his whole life. I’m asking him to stop swinging Magic Mike and his two backup dancers in my goddamn face first thing in the morning.

Apparently, though, doing so would ruin his life.

Jaxon is everywhere. And I hate it.

And yet . . . I don’t. It pains me to say it, but if I’m going to be stuck with someone in a place where I know no one, Jaxon Riley is . . . okay. He turned the heating up two degrees to 72 without me asking, because I was walking around wrapped in a blanket. I made an offhand remark about the single shelf in the shower not being big enough for all my products, and even though he said maybe that’s a sign to use fewer products, when I came home from lunch with the girls, there were brand-new floor-to-ceiling shelves in one corner of the shower. A step stool magically appeared in the pantry a day after he walked into the kitchen to see me scaling the counters so I could reach the mugs on the top shelf, and even though he explicitly said Mittens wasn’t allowed to sleep with me, when my emotions got the best of me one night, the door creaked open, Mittens was tossed inside, and then the door was promptly shut again.

Jaxon doesn’t need to know I was only crying because I had just realized—knee-deep in Red (Taylor’s Version)—that Taylor Swift will, one day, stop making music, and I’ll no longer have a soundtrack to my life.

Yes, I was on my period, thank you for asking.

I flop onto my side when my bedroom door creaks, and my best pal waddles in, floofy belly swinging back and forth. Mittens lets out one of his famous screeching meows before leaping onto the bed. I roll onto my back, letting him climb aboard my chest, nuzzling his face against mine.

“Hello, little marshmallow. How’s the handsomest boy in the whole wide world? Yes, you’re so handsome and floofy.” He purrs his agreement, and I press a kiss to my favorite orange splotch around his left eye. “Don’t tell Daddy I’m your favorite. It makes him feel bad about himself.”

“Goddammit, Lennon! I can hear you!”

“Well, why are the walls so fucking thin?” I scream back, and Mittens turns his face toward the door, meowing what I imagine to be a Yeah, Dad! “Did you get Daddy’s balls this morning? Did you make sure your claws were out?”

“Fucking . . . women.” Somewhere, a door slams. Ten seconds later, the toilet flushes. “Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?”

I’ve been asking myself that all week. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m extremely pretty and an utter joy to be around. Jaxon’s subconscious couldn’t resist the pull to have me near, forcing the words from his mouth before giving him a second to think about it.

“What, no cocky comeback, honey?”

I sit up, scooping Mittens into my arms for a kiss before I deposit him in my spot and tuck the blankets around him. Then I slip my heart-shaped sunglasses on him, take a picture, and send it to Jaxon. “We both know you’re in love with me and that’s why you asked me to stay, Jax.”

“Ha! You’re gonna be waiting a long time if you’re—Lennon, what the fuck! He’s gonna get too hot tucked in like that! And I don’t want him getting comfy in there! Then he’ll think he can sleep there whenever he wants! And take those sunglasses off!”

I roll my eyes, but before I have the chance to deliberately disobey him, he opens his mouth again.

“Wait, can you get one of him with your sleep mask on?”

I swap the sunglasses for my purple silk sleep mask, wake me for snacks embroidered in loopy letters. Jaxon’s chuckle when he gets the picture a moment later has no right making me smile the way it does.

Five minutes later, with a fresh face and sparkling, perfect teeth, I amble out of the bedroom in my sleep shorts, tank, and fuzzy socks, Mittens at my heels. The apartment is still dark, so I wander through it, opening the shades, letting in the morning sun. It warms me from my head to my toes the moment it kisses my skin, and for a second, I’m transported back to Cabo. To a blazing sun, warm sand, the sound of the ocean just outside my door.

My honeymoon might not have been the happy occasion it was meant to be, but truth be told, it was the first time in a long time I’d felt so me. Maybe it was because I was able to listen to my audiobooks without Ryne looking over my shoulder, telling me how romance books only created unrealistic expectations. Maybe it was because I spent hours lying in my hammock after dark, staring at the stars, appreciating their beauty, how small they made my problems feel. Maybe it was the sunrises I watched paint the sky each morning, Mother Nature’s reminder that each day is a chance at a new beginning.

Cabo wasn’t my honeymoon. It was my new beginning.

Footsteps slap against the hardwood, and a bowl clangs against the countertop. I close my eyes as Jaxon dumps a fuck-ton of cereal into his bowl, same as every morning.

“You wan’ some waff-ows dis mornin’?” He pauses, and I pray to God he’s swallowing. “I’m starving today.”

“Sure, I like waffles.” I turn toward him, sighing when I see it. All eight inches of it, to be specific.

“Bananas and chocolate chips? Or blueberries and cinnamon?” He stares at the contents of his fridge, shoveling cereal into his mouth. “Know what? I’m gonna do half and half. ’Cause I can’t decide, and both sound good.” He looks at me, I think. “Len? You listenin’?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“I said I’m not listening.”

“Well, that’s rude. I always listen to you, even last night when you were telling me about how Justin and Henry tag-teamed Giselle in the parking lot.” Another spoonful of cereal, and the man doesn’t even blink as he goes on about the book I was listening to last night while he was playing a video game. “It was her first time doing double penetration, and now she’s worried nothing will ever stack up again. I said she should just get a DP toy, and you said, ‘That’s a good idea, Jax. I didn’t know you had those.’ And I said, ‘Don’t call me Jax’.”

“I . . . Jesus Christ.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I wave a hand in front of my face. “I genuinely can’t believe that this moment right here is my life.”

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me for taking an interest in your books and offering to make you two kinds of waffles.”

“You’re naked!” I shout, arms wide. “You’re fucking naked, Jaxon! And while Magic Mike and his backup dancers are swinging about, you’re standing there, casually eating your cereal and talking about a fictional character getting DP’d in a parking lot!”

He sets his bowl down and gestures aggressively at his junk. “This is who I am, Lennon! If you can’t appreciate us”—another jab at his crotch, followed by one toward the door—“then there’s the door! Don’t let it hit your ass on the way out!”

“Oh my God,” I murmur, running a hand over my mouth. “You are so fucking weird. Why do I like it so much?”

The crease between his brows disappears. He lifts a lazy shoulder. “Gran says I’m endearing.”

I’m beginning to think there’s a good chance Gran might be smoking something, but she also might be onto something. I’ve wanted to hate Jaxon with every bone in my body from the moment I heard him call Brielle Breanne. Every day the four-letter word loses more and more meaning. Dare I even say it, I’m beginning to . . . look forward to what each new day will bring me with Jaxon’s antics, and what I’ll learn about him in the process.

Jaxon picks his bowl up, eyes locked on me as he drains the milk. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still too cold in here for you?”

“No, it’s perfect. Why?”

“You seem cold, that’s all.” He aims a pointed look at my tits, sipping his orange juice a little too smugly for my liking when I follow his gaze to my rock-hard nipples.

I tilt my head, staring at his cock. “Is that why Magic Mike looks like that? Because you’re cold?” Swiping his orange juice, I lift it to my mouth, hiding my smile. “I don’t remember him being so small and shriveled, but then again, I was five Bahama Mamas deep when I fucked you.”

“You’re fucking annoying. And also, I fucked you.”

“Mmm. Well, annoying must be your type.”

“Must be. Only way to explain how I went from Breanne to you in the same day.”

I gasp, setting the glass down. “Don’t you dare compare me to Brielle.”

He shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

“It doesn’t. The shoe doesn’t fit.”

Another shrug, and Jaxon heads down the hall, leaving me staring after his unbelievable hockey ass, so damn firm, and why is his back so hot? Knots of muscles framed by tattooed arms, two little dips above his bubble butt, thick thighs, powerful enough to pin someone to a mattress, or a wall.

Someone, but not me.

Again. Not me again.

“Jaxon! Take it back! Take it back right now!”

He pauses at his bedroom door, having the balls to look me over before lifting his shoulder one last time and offering an “Eh.”

I march toward him, pointing at his door. “Don’t you dare go in there.” He reaches for the handle. “Don’t you dare touch that handle.” He touches it. “Don’t you dare turn it.” He turns it. “Jaxon, I swear to God, if you—” He opens the door, and I halt, head tilting as I give him the eyes, the ones that tell him he needs to think very carefully about his next move.

But what does the little shit do? The little shit smirks, stepping inside his bedroom, and it must be my imagination, because there’s no way in hell his cock is actually getting hard right now.

“Take it back,” I whisper.

“I’d love to, honey, but I can’t right now.” He aims a pointed look at Magic Mike, growing firmer by the second. “Gotta take care of something.”

The door slams in my face as my jaw drops, and Jaxon calls out, “I’ll tell you one thing, though, honey. Arguing with Breanne never got me hard.”

“What the—I don’t—fuck.” My fists ball at my sides, and my belly tightens way down low. “Not now, coochie,” I mutter. “We’re mad at him.” Splendid timing too. I’d really love to start my morning off with a gingerbread oat latte—Jaxon has all the fancy syrup flavors—but ever since he caught me pressing three different buttons at one time on his espresso machine, he’s been making all my coffees for me. “I guess I’ll make my own coffee,” I call toward his room as I head back to the kitchen. “I just hope your espresso machine doesn’t blow up!”

“You’re gonna do great, honey!”

He and I both know that’s a lie, which is why I head to the living room windows so I can survey the weather. It’s a nice, bright morning, and the closest Starbucks is only a five-minute walk away. I could go get my gingerbread oat latte, come back here, pour it in a mug, and pretend I made it.

I briefly consider how long it’ll take Jaxon to jack off. Probably only thirty seconds. Not enough time. Ugh.

Making my way into the kitchen, I pull my favorite mug down. It’s Jaxon dressed as Ginger Spice. Apparently, Cara had it made for him for Christmas. I set it down next to the espresso machine, line up all the ingredients beside it, and then get overwhelmed. I like annoying Jaxon, but I’ve been known to cry when in trouble. If I break his expensive machine, I’ll turn into a blubbering mess, because, secretly, I’d prefer he doesn’t hate me. So I gather everything in my arms and move to put it away.

Except right there, to the left of the machine, is a small notebook that wasn’t there yesterday.

I pick up the small green book, and something thick and foreign settles in my throat, something I can’t swallow down as I read the words scrawled over the cover.

Lennon’s Guide to Making Coffee

The tightness in my throat expands to my chest, pulling it taut as I flip through the pages, directions on how to use the machine, recipes for different drinks. He’s even added a section that tells me which cereal pairs best with each drink.

Somewhere behind me, I’m conscious of a door opening. Of footsteps on hardwood, the jingle of a bell as Jaxon pauses to scratch Mittens’s chin, tell him how much he loves him, and that he’s Daddy’s bestest boy. I feel him when he enters the kitchen, feel the heat of his body as he moves about around me, hear the murmur of his voice as he rambles on about God knows what.

But all I can focus on is this damn notebook in my trembling hands.

“Len? Did you hear me?”

My gaze rises to Jaxon’s, and I clench my jaw to keep my chin from quivering. “You made me an instruction manual,” I whisper, and goddammit, there goes my chin.

“Oh. Yeah. That. I mean . . .” He scrubs the back of his neck, searching for his words. “It’s not a big deal. You didn’t know how to use it.”

“There are recipes.”

“Yeah.”

“And cereal pairings.” Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Not the tears. Hey, God? Are you there? It’s me, Lennon.

“’Cause you like to eat cereal when you have your morning coffee,” he mutters, and oh my fucking God, is Jaxon Riley blushing right now?

“You made me an instruction manual,” I cry out, and as the tears tip over the edge and stream down my cheeks, I lose my grip on reality and launch myself at his chest. He stands there with his arms above me, and the frantic beat of his heart beneath my ear tells me I’ve just overloaded his system, all his signals are misfiring, and he has no idea what to do.

“I don’t know what to do right now,” he whispers. “And I can’t reach my phone to text the girls.”

I squeeze him tighter in response. Slowly, his arms come around me, one hand gliding over my back, the other tangling in the curls at the base of my neck, and any chance I ever had of hating this man flies out the window. How can you hate someone who’s hiding all this adorable beneath his arrogant, blasé exterior?

“Meow!”

The tiny, angry screech startles us, and we jump apart. Jaxon scoops Mittens up, letting him lick at the scruff on his face, his eyes bouncing from me to any other place in the kitchen while he tries to think of something to say to ease the sudden tension.

“Your face is all wet.”

That was it, huh? That was the best he could come up with?

I grab a fistful of his hoodie, drying my eyes on it. “Thanks.”

“For the instruction manual, the hug, or letting you use my hoodie as a towel?”

I pat his chest. “All three. You’re so generous.”

He rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to Mittens’s nose before laying him on the chaise lounge in the sunshine. He heads to the front closet, steps into a pair of boots, slings his gym bag over his shoulder, and tugs a beanie over his hair. “I’m heading to the gym with the guys. Want me to grab anything while I’m out?”

“No, I don’t think—oh!” I clap my hands excitedly. “Could you go through a Tim Hortons drive-thru and get me some Tidbits? I’ve been dying to try them! People are always walking around with those cute little boxes. It feels wrong that I was born in Canada but have never tried them before.”

Jaxon stills. Slowly, his eyes come to mine. “What did you say?”

“Tidbits. You know, the little doughnut hole things? I’m not picky about flavors. What about a variety pack?”

He stares at me. For so long, and just as I’m about to ask if something is wrong with his eyes, he keels over, howling with laughter. “Tidbits! You called them Tidbits!”

I pin my arms over my chest, because I fail to see the problem.

Jaxon stalks toward me, still laughing—is he crying?—and scoops his keys off the counter. He drops his forehead to my shoulder, holding me as he shakes with laughter. “Tidbits,” he snickers, tears coating the crook of my neck, and when he pulls back, grins down at me, I’m too thrown by the sheer beauty of the man wearing a smile as bright and light as that to be angry with him. “Sure, Len. I’ll get you your Tidbits.”

His laughter follows him out of the apartment, and I turn toward the speaker in the living room.

“Hey, Google!” I shout. “What are the doughnut holes called at Tim Hortons?”

“Timbits. Tim Hortons, a popular fast-food chain in Canada, makes Timbits, similar to doughnut holes.”

“For fuck’s sake.” I march to the door, throwing it open as Jaxon climbs into the elevator. “I hate you!”

He winks at me. “No, you don’t, tidbit.”

I wish he was wrong. I wish more than anything that he was wrong. And when he comes home three hours later without Timbits, for a moment I think he just might be.

“Hey, tidbit.” He kicks off his boots, drops his gym bag to the floor, a grocery bag to the counter. “I didn’t get you Timbits because they’re not tree-nut-safe. I got you these instead.”

He opens the grocery bag, pulling out two boxes of cereal with tiny Timbits on them.

I pick up the boxes, my heart pattering as I read the names.

Timbits Birthday Cake and Timbits Chocolate Glazed.

“They’re nut-free,” he says, and fucking shit, there goes my goddamn chin again.