“Rowyn,” Jaxon begins when my silence stretches, his voice careful, as if he knows he’s stepping over a line I don’t want crossed. And maybe he is. This—this vulnerable, unraveling version of me—doesn’t belong in the front seat of his car after he just led his team to semi-final victory. He deserves laughter and champagne, not my ghosts.
“Right there,” I say quickly, spotting a car pulling out of a spot near the pub. My tone is too bright, too forced, but I grab onto it anyway. An escape route.
Jaxon goes quiet, slowing the car. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, and I can feel the weight of his concern pressing against the silence between us. It makes my chest ache. Damn it, I don’t want to drag him down. Tonight should be about celebrating, not circling around the wreckage of my childhood.
“No,” I finally say, because I can’t stand the tension coiling between us. “My career is all I want.” The lie scrapes my throat raw.
“Okay,” he says after a beat, his jaw tightening, the muscle ticking as he swallows whatever thought he wants to say.
I force a smile, searching for levity. “Looks like the party has already started.” I nod toward Nicklas swaggering down the sidewalk, two women hanging off his arms like accessories.
Jaxon exhales and pulls into the parking space, the engine’s rumble fading as he shuts it off. “Do me a favor,” he says, voice low, “Stay away from him tonight.”
“Really?” I glance back out the window. “He’s a flirt, sure, but I figured he was harmless.”
“He is. He just…” Jaxon’s gaze flicks toward me, dark and unreadable. “He said something stupid about taking you home.”
“Oh.” The laugh that escapes me sounds lighter than I feel. “Well, maybe this little plan of ours is working after all.”
His brows lift. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. A guy like Nicklas never looked twice at me before. Now suddenly, because I’m with you, he’s interested.”
Jaxon shifts, turning toward me, one arm draped casually along the back of my seat—but nothing about his gaze feels casual. “You can bet guys notice you, Rowyn.”
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” I say, smiling softly. “But… thank you.”
He studies me for a long moment, the air thickening with something that feels both fragile and charged. “I think people see your seriousness. The way you write, the way you carry yourself—it’s sharp, focused. It keeps people at arm’s length. Maybe being with me…” His mouth quirks, eyes glinting. “Maybe it makes you seem less intense. More…accessible.”
“Accessible?” I arch a brow, teasing to cover the strange flutter in my chest.
He laughs under his breath. “Not the right word.” His finger taps gently against my temple. “I never was as smart as you.”
I laugh, because it’s easier than admitting how deeply that small gesture hits. “You’re plenty smart, Jaxon.”
He looks at me again, really looks, his expression softening in that way that makes it hard to breathe. “Maybe the word I’m looking for is approachable.” His voice drops, rougher now. “Or maybe… touchable.”
The word hangs between us, a whisper that hums low in my stomach. His thumb brushes my cheek, and for one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to the feel of his skin on mine—the warmth, the tenderness I didn’t know I craved until now.
Then a car horn blares, shattering the moment. He straightens fast, guilt or restraint flashing in his eyes.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, reaching for composure. “I’m not interested in Nicklas touching me.”
“Right. Just hot coffee shop guy,” he mutters, checking his mirror as he opens the door.
I watch him for a second—broad shoulders, the easy confidence, and something between my legs squeezes tight. Oh boy. I push open my own door, and he’s already there, hand outstretched.
I take it. His palm is warm, steady. The wind whips around us, biting through the night, but his arm comes around my shoulders, shielding me as we cross the street.
Inside, the pub glows with laughter and music, and the scent of fries and spilled beer wraps around us. For a moment, I let it. The warmth. The noise. Him.
“Rowyn, over here.” Brighton waves from across the room, her smile bright and welcoming. Jaxon’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. The pressure is light, protective—and warms me in a way I’m not used to. Laughter rises above the music, and even though I know I don’t belong in this world of camaraderie, a part of me wishes I did.
“Hey,” I say as Jaxon pulls out a chair for me. I glance at him over my shoulder as I shrug out of my coat. Our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat—and there’s something there, something quiet and steady that almost makes me forget how to breathe. He takes my coat and I sit, smoothing my hand over my pants and pretending I don’t feel the echo of his touch burning at my back.
“I know you know everyone from watching the games,” Brighton says. “But let me personally introduce you.”
She goes around the table, naming each of them, and the guys greet me with genuine warmth—smiles that reach their eyes, teasing comments about Jaxon bringing a reporter into the mix. Even though I know they’re teasing, a part of me does worry that some of them who’ve been burned by the media before might think I’ve appeared out of nowhere in search of a sordid story.