Page 58 of Worth Every Game

And I don’t mean my eyes get watery. I mean, a great big sob cracks right through my chest and erupts out my lips like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. Out of fucking nowhere.

Jack’s smile vanishes. “Shit. El. What the… Alexa. Stop.” But Barry White doesn’t stop. It gets louder. “Stop! Alexa!”

Alexa isn’t listening. And I’m crying, grateful that the booming voice of Barry White is concealing the ragged sobs leaking from my body like I’ve been storing them up for this exact moment. I sink back onto the stool, dropping my head into my hands.

The slapping of bare feet on the tiles tells me that Jack is moving around the room, opening cupboards, slamming things around. Finally, the music dies and we’re left in silence.

His footsteps approach. Closer and closer, his proximity compressing the air in my lungs, which does nothing to help my gasping, sobbing breaths. Any moment now, I’ll asphyxiate myself.

I’m a mess. A complete wreck.

“What’s going on?” He’s so close that I can smell him. My body prickles at his nearness, even though I’m mostly absorbed with my own pain. My tears. So much sadness I can’t keep it locked down anymore. “Is it David?”

I peek up at him, and the inches between us are lit only by the glow from the candles, giving the impression we’re alone in a shadowed world. “What?”

He’s staring at me with this tentative little smile on his face, concern flashing in his eyes. He gestures to the apron. “David. Is he too much?” I laugh, a helpless wheezing noise. “I can take him off, but I should warn you, I’m completely bollock naked under here. And David is a lot…lessthan me.”

Heisnaked.

More laughter bubbles up—although it could be tears, I don’t really know anymore—and I cover my face with my hands. “Why? Why are you naked?”

Please say it’s not because there’s a woman in the other room.

“Because you said ‘Game on’,” he deadpans, and, even through the tears, my stomach starts doing little flips. He’s naked except for that stupid apronbecause of me. I wipe the tears from my eyes with my fingertips.

“But now I’m thinking my timing is really fucking bad,” he continues, “because me being naked doesn’t normally reduce women to tears. Well”—he cocks his head like he’s reassessing this claim—“good tears maybe. Tears of ‘that was the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had in my life’ but not”—he waves a finger at my face, indicating the state of me—“this kind.”

“Sorry,” I sniffle, and Jack grabs a tissue from the front pocket of his apron and hands it to me, and I snort another laugh through my snotty tears. Only Jack Lansen would have tissues in his apron pocket. “Got anything else in there?”

His lips tilt up at the corners, and he fixes those insanely blue eyes on me. My heart thumps, and I really hope he can’t tell that he’s affecting me this way. “You’re deflecting. What’s wrong?”

“Are you really naked behind that apron?”

His eyebrow arches. “I can’t believe you doubt me. Stop avoiding the question.”

I wipe my nose and stuff the tissue in my pocket. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jack says nothing, crossing his arms over the apron. His bare, incredibly large arms. His biceps bulge.His skin is so tan.And the definition in his forearms is spectacular…I want to stroke them…

“My face is up here, El,” he says.

I close my eyes. “You’re a prick.”

I expect a snappy retort, but none comes, so I open my eyes again. Jack’s staring at my top, right where the tomato hit. “What’s on your shirt?”

I glance down at the stain on my cream shirt and the memories of the Marchmont Arms—the heckling and the tomatoes and Marie yelling and Kate trying her best not to make a big deal of it while she handed me tissues to wipe the mess off my face—invade my mind. This has been a shit night. I burst into tears again.

Before I know what’s happening, Jack’s great big bare arms are surrounding me and my face is smashed against that stupid apron and I’m sobbing so hard I can hardly breathe.

I fist my fingers into the apron. I want to get closer to him so I slide my hands around his back and his skin is bare and warm. I want him to hold me forever so I can cry and cry and never feel sad again.

And then, louder than ever, the memory of his words crashes through my skull.If she were any good, she’d have made something of herself by now.The recollection unleashes a flood of other thoughts, bursting through my psyche so fast I can’t stop them.He thinks I’m shit too. He could have thrown that tomato himself. He’s just as bad as they are.

I shove my palms against the rough fabric of the apron. “Fuck off, Jack. Get off me.” I’m wiping my nose, my eyes, toppling off the stool and gripping the island to stand up straight.

Jack backs off, eyes wide with alarm, hands raised in the air. “What did I do? What happened to you tonight?” The sight of his handsome face contorted with confusion, and the desperation in his eyes, penetrates my fury for just long enough that I give him a partial answer.

“I had a gig.”

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