Page 145 of The Defender
“I try. How are you liking your meals so far?”
“They’re good, and I’m so glad they taste likesomething. I swear my old nutritionist was allergic to seasoning. Her recipes were so bland, you’d think she’d explode if she added a little pepper to her chicken.”
I laughed. “I am definitely not opposed to pepper.”
We were in her family’s kitchen, going over some last-minute items before she left for her afternoon training.
It was early March and my second week in Chicago. With regionals coming up fast in April, I’d hit the ground running theminute I arrived. Between onboarding with the Moores, trying to get situated in my new home, and collaborating with Haley to create a system that worked for her, I’d barely had time to sleep.
Thankfully, Derek and Haley were as warm in person as they’d been during my interview. They had high standards, but that only pushed me to work harder and be better, which was easy when I enjoyed what I was doing.
My instincts had been right: working with an individual athlete fit my style way better than spreading myself thin with a team. I had the freedom to experiment with different recipes and methods, and Haley was responsive to most of my suggestions.
Overall, it was a smooth start to my new life, but that didn’t stop me from checking the clock every two seconds. I was itching to talk to Vincent. We didn’t get to video call each other often, and my body was already thrumming with anticipation.
“I forgot to tell you earlier, but my grandparents are in town,” Haley said. “My dad and I are having dinner with them earlier, so we don’t need to check in tonight. You can take the rest of the day off.”
My pulse sped up. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I know the past two weeks have been crazy, so get some rest. Let’s meet back here tomorrow, same time, same place?”
“Sounds good.” I said goodbye to Haley and left, my face breaking out into a grin. Her timing couldn’t have been better.
I had the afternoon off, and it was evening in London, which meant Vincent and I could talk for as long as we wanted.
I practically floated on my way back to my apartment. It was only a ten-minute walk from Haley’s house, but my face was already stinging from the wind by the time I got home. Chicago winters were brutal, but even that wasn’t enough to ruin my high.
I quickly showered and changed into a silk nightshirt and lingerie (just because Vincent wasn’t here in person didn’t mean I couldn’t dress up for him). I topped it off with some mascara and lip gloss before I took my laptop to my bedroom and logged on at our scheduled call time.
Vincent’s face filled my screen, and my heart cartwheeled just like it had the first time we kissed.
His dimple flashed. “Hey, buttercup.”
“Hi.” I smiled back, soaking him in. God bless whoever invented video technology. The firm curve of his mouth, the sculpted arch of his cheekbones, the teasing gleam in his eyes—they were so sharp and vivid, it was like he was actually standing in front of me.
“Tell me about your day,” he said. “I want to hear all about it.”
We always started our conversations with detailed rundowns of our day, including what we ate and which errands we ran. To other people, it might seem mundane or even boring, but I lived for these moments. Now that we lived in different cities, I didn’t want our connection to hinge only on big life events; I wanted to know the same details I would’ve been privy to if I were still in London.
After I finished, Vincent told me about training and Spike’s apparent aversion to talking.
The bodyguard seemed determined to blend into the background, which was his job, I guess. I was just glad Vincent had someone looking out for him. Even though the intruder hadn’t made another move since the Angry Boar photo, not a day passed when I didn’t worry about him.
I kept that to myself. Vincent would worry about me worrying about him, and that was a vicious cycle we didn’t need to get stuck in.
“Great match over the weekend, by the way,” I said. “Defense looked good.”
“Yeah?” Vincent drawled. “How good?”
“Good enough for me to look up the club’s captain.” I tapped my fingers against my desk and pretended to think. “Have you heard of a player named Vincent DuBois?”
“Vaguely. He sounds like a charmer.”
“He is. He’s good-looking too. Tall, dark, handsome…just my type.”
“Is he?” Vincent said silkily. He leaned in, an ember of heat flaring in his eyes.
“Mmhmm.” My breath hitched as the mood shifted from playful to something heavier, more electric. Anticipation curled low and hot between my thighs.
