Page 28 of Enticing the Enforcer
“I should probably give the girls a heads-up,” I mumble.
“Tell them to ignore anyone that contacts them and to lock down their accounts,” she frowns, “to protect you and them from the vultures.”
My phone buzzes before I can open our group chat.
Jparks23
I freeze. The letters of his username glow up at me.
Madison narrows her eyes. “Who’s that?”
“My dad.” The lie tumbles out before I can think, and I flip the phone facedown. My pulse is hammering, traitorous because of Jefferson Parks. Number twenty-three. The reason my face looks so alive in those photos.
I chew my lip, heart pulling in two directions at once. On one side, the rising panic–headlines, speculation, the constant question of whether my choices are ever really mine, or if I’m just playing games. On the other, the memory of his mouth in the bathroom, the way he kissed me like I was just Ingrid, not Ingrid Flockton™.
And now he’s texting me.
Jparks23:You look good in the stands, Flock. Bright cheeks. Pom-pom hat. Real cute.
My stomach dips.
IngFlock:So you’re one of the internet detectives then?
Jparks23:Nah. Didn’t need to investigate. Had front row seats from the penalty box to you cheering for me.
Heat climbs my neck. Madison is scrolling through comments, but her voice fades into the background. He didn’t mention this once last night. Probably because he was too busy kissing me.
Jparks23:Thought about you last night. Couldn’t sleep. Should’ve been resting up for tonight’s game, but all I could think about was your mouth.
I press my lips together, trying not to grin like a complete idiot.
IngFlock:Yeah?
Jparks23:Tell me you’re thinking about me too.
My throat tightens. Because I am. God, I am. Even here, with Madison two feet away and my whole career hanging on threads of discretion.
Me:Maybe I am.
Three dots pulse. Stop. Start again. Then–
Jparks23:Not enough. I want details.
I bite down harder on my lip, pulse racing, because if I give him details, I’ll never stop. And that’s dangerous.
Madison gives me a weird look. “Are you blushing?”
I tuck the phone under my leg. “Nope.”
“Well, I’ll talk to the rest of the PR team and see how they want to handle it–especially since we’re going again tonight.”
I trust my team to do the dirty work and I spend most of the morning curled up on the chair in my office with my guitar balanced across my knees, notebook open beside me. My brain has been churning with inspiration for a new song for days now and it’s reached the point where I can’t avoid it any longer. A few scraps of melody have been stuck in my head since we were in Wittmore last week, so I pluck them out, scribble lines, cross them off, and try again.
It’s messy and unfinished, still needs a tighter bridge, but it feels good. This is the part I love: just me and the music without anyone watching. No cameras, no managers, no gossip pages posting about what I did last night.
By the time the sun starts sliding low outside the windows, I set the guitar aside and stretch out. Tonight I’m meeting the girls at the rink. That thought alone has my stomach fluttering. Not because of them, but because of him. I still haven’t responded to his last text, and he hasn’t messaged again, either. I know he’s busy. I respect that. God, I love it. I love a man that has passion for his work.
I try to distract myself, flipping back to the notebook and tapping my pen against the page, but the words blur. I can’t stop circling back to Jefferson. To that kiss. To the way he makes me feel alive in a way Jake never did. Seen in a way I didn’t know I was craving.
