Page 120 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I nod, turning for a soft kiss. “More than okay.”
The water’s cooling by the time he shuts it off. He wraps me in a towel, one arm still around me as we move to the bedroom. We dry each other slowly, almost reluctantly, and slip under the covers. I curl into his side, his arm a solid weight around me, his breathing deep and even.
I fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart, the world narrowed to the warmth of his body and the feel of his skin against mine.
When I wake early, he’s there, solid and warm, one arm heavy across my waist. For a second, I stay still, watching him, letting last night replay in my mind. The memory is enough to make me want to stay right here.
But the gala is only two weeks away, and the list in my head is already starting to unfurl.
I slip from bed carefully so I don’t wake him, pull on one of his shirts, and pad into the kitchen. I make tea, open my laptop, and start tackling the list: silent auction notes, sponsor graphics, a quick email to Jenna.
Halfway through the second paragraph, a queasy twist rolls through my stomach. I pause, pressing a hand to it.
Not now.
It’s probably just stress. Late nights. Too much caffeine. Still, the timing makes me uneasy.
Two weeks to go. Too much to do.
Getting sick isn’t an option.
I sip my tea, willing the unease in my stomach to settle, and get back to work.
Chapter Thirty-Four
JACKSON
Iwake up alone.
The other side of the bed is cold, blankets pushed back. Faint light filters through the curtains, catching her hoodie still draped over the chair. She’s already up.
Not surprising.
The gala’s less than two weeks away, and Ava’s been in go-mode. I don’t have to guess where she is: either in her office or at the kitchen table, surrounded by her laptop, a spreadsheet, and that same mug she keeps reheating but never finishes.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub a hand over my face. It’s Game 5 tonight. We’re finally back on home ice, and it feels like the ice is ours again. A quiet buzz hums under my skin. Not nerves, just that charged stillness that always hits on game day.
Downstairs, she’s at the table, laptop open and papers spread around her like a halo of organized chaos. She’s in leggings and one of my shirts, her hair twisted up and mug in hand. She doesn’t look up right away, just types, clicks, reaches for her mug.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway.
She startles, then offers a tired smile. “Can you believe the gala’s almost here?”
I walk over and kiss the top of her head. “My tux is ready.”
She hums, but up close, I see the weariness under her eyes, the way she’s nursing the same sip like it’s too much effort to finish.
“You okay?” I crouch beside her.
“You’ve been running nonstop. If you need to rest today, skip the game.”
She gives a faint smile. “I’ll be okay. I can rest later. I want to see you play.”
I don’t press her. Just nod, squeeze her knee, and head for the shower.
When I come back downstairs, the boys are mid-cartoon, and Ava’s still at the kitchen table, but she’s closed the laptop this time, sipping what has to be her third or fourth cup of coffee.
She looks up as I grab my keys and gear bag.
