Page 49 of The Problem with Players

“You always did know me best.”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

Almost another smile.

Damn.

I missed her smiles.

“Bath, Nathaniel.”

“On it, Coach.”

I headed to the bathroom and began to draw her a bath. The number of bath products I had was a running joke with my brothers. Every time they come over to my place, they’d mock me for my drawer of bathtime goodies. From oils to bath bombs to skin conditioners, I had it all. The joke was on them, though. Due to my bath routine, I’d have baby-smooth skin into my late sixties.

I got the water running and added lavender bath salts because I figured that would help Avery relax a little. I could only imagine the thoughts swirling through her mind as she tried to process what she’d been through that afternoon.

What happened with her and Wesley?

Why did the wedding get called off?

Who called it off?

There were a million questions I wanted answers to, but Iknew it was none of my business until Avery made it my business. The only thing I knew was that if she was willing to run away with me—her sworn enemy—she must’ve been dealing with a lot of heavy thoughts.

Even seeing that single tear move down her cheek was a big sign of her hurting. One teardrop from Avery Kingsley was like a million tears from the average crier.

Willow was so in touch with her emotions that she probably would’ve cried enough to create her own river.

I lit a few candles around the bathroom, too, and poured her a glass of red wine. Before she came in, I tossed a jazz record onto the turntable. Was it odd I had a turntable set up in a bathroom? Maybe. But I took my bath time seriously. I was one to stay in until my fingertips looked like raisins.

As I walked out of the bathroom, I found Avery sitting on my couch, flipping through the baseball book I had as my coffee table centerpiece.

“Bath time,” I said, breaking her stare from the book.

She shut it and held it close to her chest. “Can I read this in the tub?”

“You can do whatever you want here, Avery Kingsley.”

She took a deep breath. “That’s right. I’m still a Kingsley.”

“Does that make you happy or sad?”

“Neither.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It just makes me numb.”

That made me sad for her, but I didn’t mention that because I was almost certain she’d chew my ass out for being sad for her.

I walked her to the bathroom, and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she looked around the dimly lit room. “Oh my gosh. Your bathroom is the size of my bedroom.” She paused and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh my gosh.I don’t have a bedroom anymore!” Her voice cracked as the realization rolledoff her tongue. “I lived with Wesley. In his house. Oh my goodness. I’m homeless.”

“You’re not homeless.”

“I am! I don’t have a home. Not having a home means homeless, Nathan. Oh my gosh, I don’t have a home.” She began pacing in my bathroom as the realizations settled in. “What am I going to do?”

“You have a home,” I said once more.

“How so? How do I have a home if I don’t have a home?”

“Well, I have a home. So if I have a home, you have a home. If you need one, I mean.”

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