Page 91 of The Keeper and I

“You think it’s an empty threat?” Laci asked.

“I do,” Amy answered. “I think he’s trying to make you change something so he can find you. The routine you’ve got certainly hasn’t led him to you, but if you disrupt it, that could change.”

“That’s a good point,” BB said, her brows relaxing. “Maybe the best course of action is nothing. Chuck the note and the flowers in the bin and let him reveal himself when he inevitably fucks up trying to get to you.”

Laci wanted to argue. Something in her gut told her it wasn’t that simple. After all, they still didn’t know how Dane had managed to get inside her home. Slipping past security at a football match was a different story. He’d never make it in a stadium with a weapon or anything else he might want to use to hurt Jordan. And if he tried to get to the pitch or the dressing room, he’d be stopped right away. Logically, it wasn’t possible. But she couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t bluffing.

“How did he know where to send these flowers?” she asked suddenly.

“He sent them to my office,” BB said. “Not to the studio.”

Laci nodded. Her representation was in all her social media bios, and the address of the firm was on their website. She had been extra careful about her location settings and not posting things she was doing until hours after when she was safely with Jordan. If Dane truly didn’t know, and resorted to the easiest point of contact, maybe he was slipping.

She handed the note to BB. “Chuck it in the bin.”

“Atta girl,” BB replied, snapping up the flowers as well. “I’ll get rid of these, and we’ll have a fucking great shoot!”

“Hell yeah!” Amy cheered.

Laci drew her lips in. “Am I allowed to smile if I agree?”

Amy giggled. “Just this once.”

Jordan winced as he placed an ice pack between his legs, cursing the Brighton striker. At the time, he accepted the guy’s apology, but now, he wished he’d at least gotten a shove in. He eased himself onto the couch with a groan. He was grateful that he didn’t need to pick Laci up. She texted him earlier to let him know she’d gotten a ride with her makeup artist, and she was due back any moment.

As if summoned by the thought of her, she came through the door. He turned his head to look at her, and she beamed at him.

“Happy Late Valentine’s Day,” she chirped. He winced back at her, and she frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I know we talked about…y’know…having a lot of hot Valentine’s Day sex tonight, but I…I can’t.”

“Why?”

His face burned. “My balls are bruised.”

She blinked. “What?”

“My. Balls. Are. Bruised.”

“They can be bruised?”

“Of course they can, they’ve got…skin, muscle tissue, and shit, and—don’t laugh!”

Giggles poured from her steadily as a waterfall, and even though it embarrassed him, he couldn’t resent that rosy shade of pink on her cheeks. It was a color he could have painted with if art was capable of accurately recreating her beauty. She didn’t even try to stop herself.

“I’m sorry!” she wheezed. “It’s…it’s a little bit funny. Admit it. If we were in a movie, you’d be pissing.”

“No, I fucking wouldn’t!”

“You would!”

“Stop it!”

She took a deep breath and composed herself, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Okay, okay. I’m fine, I’m not laughing,” she said. “But can I ask, how this happened?”

“One of the Brighton guys took a shot. It bounced off the pitch and hit me.”

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