Page 180 of Jaded

Oops.

My heartbeat ratchets up in my chest—but like, calm thyself, Olli James. I didn’t confess some creepy undying love. Stop freaking out.

“Duh. What’s not to like?” Nat murmurs against my temple. “You and me . . . we’re pretty fire.”

“Yeah,” I agree, relief softening my muscles and bones. “We are, aren’t we?”

“I mean it.” He presses a kiss against my temple. “I don’t think anybody’s ever gotten me off in under five minutes before. Well, not since I was like, fourteen.”

I groan, slap at his chest. “So you do just keep me around for the blow jobs.”

“Maybe.” He grins, but it softens, dissolves into something . . . else. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“Um. Sorta?” I stare up at the ceiling, so I don’t have to read the reactions on his face. “I don’t know. Like, I got this big smile, right, but inside I am a very underconfident kid. Ya know? Well, no you probably don’t, because you’re Nat Taylor and you’ve probably never been underconfident in anything—”

“Olli.” Nat’s fingers slide against my cheekbone, and he turns my head towards him. “Stop it. I like you too. A lot.”

And in spite of the fact that like, yeah, it should be obvious at this point—the dude brought me to his mom’s house to meet his goddamn family, for dinner, then invited me over to sleep in his bed and didn’t even take my shirt off, and now he’s making me breakfast—it still feels good to hear him say it.

I grin.

His own smile matches mine. “But I am serious about getting up to make breakfast. You donotwant hungry teenagers afoot.”

He nudges back the blankets, and we’re up and getting ready to face the day. He makes breakfast, and I try not to stare too hard at the way his bare shoulders bunch and flex under his black tank as he lifts the pan or scrapes the spatula.

Then Sydney joins us, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, and Avery after, looking like the actual walking dead, between the bruises and the sleepiness.

Breakfast ends, and Syd’s saying something about high school practice, so I get in my truck and Nat’s piling the kids into his truck. And then I’m at the rink changing for my own upcoming skate.

Everyone’s yapping about the tournament last night, but I’m over here in my head, listening to the hum of the Zam out on the ice. Thinking about the man driving it.

Definitely, definitely should not be thinking about things like that.

At all.

Gonna be even worse the next time we skate together. Which we will, because me and Nat on the ice . . . might be even better than me and Nat in bed.

Well, toss-up. Fifty-fifty. Forty-sixty.

One hundred-one hundred, actually, ’cause both are—pardon my French—fucking awesome.

And then Nat comes in to take his usual seat in the cubby beside me. Right where he belongs. Which of course means I’m thinking about this morning with that very same man—Jesus. I’m gonna have to get used tonotthinking about how I gave my cubby mate a pre-practice BJ, aren’t I?

Is he thinking about it too? No, he’s not, because he’s talking to Holls about cars, something with cars, and I’m not talking about it because I don’t know anything about cars.

And I can’t join another conversation because I’m too distracted, and everyone else is a little shouty anyway. Two of the guys are having a conversation literally across the locker room about a sandwich place, and someone else is talking about alt rock and nobody is talking about things I’d know, like plants or hiking boots or why the hell they named it the DRUTS—

Overthinking, Olls. Focus on the music.

“Alt rock got nothing on metal,” I say, and then I commandeer the stereo ’cause I know of at least one person who’ll back me up if I slam some Trivium through the speakers.

I’m surprised when I get cheers from a couple of the other guys too. Can’t hold back the grin that cracks my face because damn, it feels good to be yourself and have people appreciate it.

Maybe that’s what gives me the courage to walk up next to Nat and hold out my hand. A silent offering, or maybe a request.

One he accepts without hesitation.

He weaves his fingers through mine, so the whole locker room can see—the two of us, together. Someone hoots. Someone else cheers.

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