Page 48 of Their Greatest Strength

“You’re welcome.”

“If you don’t sneak out at the break of dawn, Nate will see you when he wakes up.”

He scoffs. “You’re not a bad hookup. I’ll be here. He needs to learn about what’s happening.”

“What are we even supposed to tell him? The truth or the lie?”

“What do you want to tell him?”

I want to sneak a look down at where he lies on the ground, but it’s so silent he’d hear me moving around and tease me about staring.

“We both signed an NDA. Wouldn’t telling him the truth be breaking it?”

“Not if nobody found out that we did.”

I contemplate that, knowing he’s right. “Nathan’s too smart to fall for a lie.”

“So we tell him the truth,” he declares, sounding like he’s on the brink of passing out on me.

“That . . . I’d appreciate that, Jamie.”

He yawns and then groans while moving around on the ground. “It’s my pleasure.”

Without a second thought, I slide the pillow out from under my head and hang it over the edge of the bed.

“Here. I have an extra one,” I lie.

He takes it from me and shifts again. “I have the sweetest wife.”

“Good night, Pretty Boy,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Bandit.”

Even with the mattress beneath my head, it’s better than the floor. I don’t want to be in trouble for putting the Pythons’ star wide receiver in such terrible sleeping conditions. If he pulled his back out and couldn’t play, the fans would be outside with pitchforks.

That’s why I offered him my only pillow.

Totally.

“Um. What’s going on here?”

I roll from my side to my back and wince at the sharp pain in my neck. It’s bright as shit in here too. When I open my eyes, I immediately cover them with my arm before freezing, realizing who spoke.

“Morning, Nate,” I say, fully aware that the moment I put my arm down, I’m going to see my brother gaping at the man on the floor. “How did you sleep?”

“Looks pretty well rested to me,” Jamie rasps.

I press my arm harder into my eyes when his husky tone fills the room, and a shiver travels down my spine.

“You—You’re Jamieson Bateman. You’re the best wide receiver in the CFL. This ismyhouse. My living room—Jamieson Bateman is in my living room! How? And why? What? Did you . . . Is this why the door was unlocked this morning?”

There’s a record scratch in my ears. I drop my arm to the couch and push up to stare at Nate. “The door was unlocked?”

He doesn’t stop staring at the floor. “Yeah. I locked it before I noticedthis.”

“I don’t leave the door unlocked,” I mutter.

But he’s right. I don’t remember locking it behind us or double-checking before I fell asleep. That hasn’t ever happened.

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