Page 115 of Cross-Checked

“Holy shit,” she whispers when we step into the hallway, shutting the door behind us. “Did that really just happen?”

I don’t stop my steps, leading her down the hall toward the exit. I want us out of this building. I want her far away from her old life in St. Louis—far from Chet and all the bad shit that happened here. I want to be alone with her, so I can remind her that I’ll always be here for her. That no matter what happens, no matter how hard things get, I’ll always stand by her side.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says when we step out into the bright morning sun.

I don’t know where we’re headed, but I put my hand on her lower back and guide her down the sidewalk. “Maybe not, but I wanted to. Not because I didn’t think you could handle that by yourself, but because I didn’t want you to have to.” I think a lot of AJ’s life has been her figuring out how to handle things herself.

“Did we really just both say we loved each other to a room full of reporters?” she asks with a nervous laugh.

I wrap my hand around her hip, stopping her progress as I spin us toward the brick wall of a restaurant so we’re out of the path of other pedestrians.

“We did, Sunshine.” I smooth her long, dark hair behind her ear and cup my hand against the side of her neck. “Well, first, you did. And then I didn’t want there to be any question about my own feelings. I’m just sorry I didn’t say it to you first.”

It feels like we both just adopted ago big or go homestrategy, and I’m at peace with that. I want to love this woman out loud, and I’ve hated the way I’ve had to hide my feelings for her.

Her head tilts back as she looks up at me, full lips curling at the corners. “I never questioned how you felt.”

I curl my fingers into her hips, and press a kiss to the top of her head before saying, “And I’ll make sure you never do.”

Chapter Forty

AJ

“Ican’t even tell you what a relief it is to know that you’re going to be on board part time,” I tell Morgan as I sit back in my office chair, watching her sign the consulting paperwork HR and our legal team drew up for her yesterday.

She laughs and relaxes in the chair opposite me, pushing her strawberry-blonde hair back over her shoulder. With her big eyes, fair skin, and freckles that sweep across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, she doesn’t look old enough to have earned an MBA and started her own company.

“I don’t know why you think I’m some sort of social media miracle worker.”

“Because youare,” I say, picking up my phone and clicking on the most recent notification on Instagram. “Please don’t sell yourself short. And I’m excited not only to have you on retainer personally, but to have you helping with the Rebels’ social media also.”

I glance down at my screen, noting how this morning’s post already has thousands of likes. I don’t even have that many followers, but Morgan had me post it as a collaboration with Ronan and because of his follower count it’s completely blown up.

Of course it has. It’s a series of six images of us at home together after returning from Game 2 yesterday.

I’m in a casual knit jumpsuit with a wide boat neck top that’s slid down off one shoulder as I sit on the living room floor, building a block tower with Abby so she can knock it down, which is still her favorite activity.

He’s sitting behind me in shorts and a t-shirt, his forearm casually wrapped around my waist, one leg stretched out the side with his knee bent and his elbow resting on it as he looks over my shoulder, smiling at Abby where she stands, arms up, ready to demolish the tower. In the next one, I’m laughing as the blocks come tumbling down, and he’s looking down at me with complete adoration written across his face.

The whole series of images is so “us,” that I felt good about posting them. They were exactly what Ronan wanted to showcase when I mentioned Morgan coming over to take photos—the three of us in our natural element, nothing about it staged except for the way I took extra time doing my hair and makeup because I wasn’t looking for people to comment on how much older I am than him.

All the positive comments in the post almost make me forget that we lost Game 2 in St. Louis. But then my eyes land on the most recent comment, and I hiss out a breath. Even though I love the photos, and a lot of other people clearly do too, there are still trolls emerging in the comment section.

“Delete and block,” Morgan reminds me, and I glance up to see her watching me closely. I’m sure she knows exactly the kind of shit I’m reading by the way I froze up just now, and the sigh I let out in response. “You don’t owe anyone—especially not someone who doesn’t even know you—the luxury of posting shit about you online.”

“People are entitled to their opinions, unfortunately. Even when they’re wrong.” I set my phone between us on my desk, so I won’t be tempted to keep checking the notifications.

“But they’re not entitled to post them onyourprofile. Delete. And. Block.” Her voice is decisive and commanding. “Do you want me to take over your social media for the next few days, just to keep an eye on it, reply to comments, delete the shitheads—that type of thing?”

“That’s something you can do?”

“Yeah, it’s part of what you’re paying me for. I do the same thing for Jules and Audrey with their business account.”

“That would be amazing. Honestly, it’s validating to see all the likes and the positive comments, but I don’t need to see the negative shit. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make me question the relationship, or whether it was the right decision to go public.”

There are two quick knocks on my door, and my assistant, Colleen, cracks it open enough to slide half her body through it. “Uhh, McCabe’s here to see you.” She eyes Morgan sitting across from me, and I get the sense that she hadn’t wanted to interrupt us, but he forced her hand.

“Send him in,” I tell her.

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