Page 100 of Play Along With Me
I consider this, tracing a finger along his collarbone as I gather my thoughts. "Not terrible," I admit finally. "Scary, yes. Complicated, definitely. But not terrible."
"I'll take that as a ringing endorsement," he says dryly.
"You should," I tell him. "Coming from someone whose last relationship ended with Instagram stalking and emotional ice cream consumption, 'not terrible' is practically a proposal."
He laughs, but his eyes remain serious. "I know the timing is weird. I'm just starting with the Saints, my whole career is in transition. And you're working on your novel, still processing your ex's marriage. But I like you, Audrey. More thanI expected to, definitely more than makes logical sense given how we met and how little time we've actually spent together."
"Time is relative," I point out. "We've crammed about six months of normal dating experiences into four days—meeting the parents, encountering the ex, creating elaborate fictional histories, Instagram relationship announcements. By that metric, we're practically an established couple."
"When you put it that way, maybe we should slow down," he jokes. "Take things at a more conventional pace."
"Conventional is overrated," I declare, snuggling closer to his warmth. "Besides, we're already well past conventional. We started with fake dating and worked backward to real attraction. Very post-modern of us."
"Is that what this is?" he asks, his tone light but with an undercurrent of genuine question. "Real attraction?"
I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him directly. "After what just happened, I should hope that's obvious."
"Physical attraction, yes," he acknowledges. "But there's more to it than that, at least for me. I want to know if you feel it too."
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. Jake Marshall, professional athlete with the body of a Greek sculpture and the focus of a laser beam, is laying his cards on the table with a directness I find both terrifying and deeply appealing.
My instinct, as always, is to deflect with humor—to make a joke about his bedroom skills scrambling my brain, or to reference the fictional diabetes of my cat, or to create some other verbal smokescreen to avoid genuine emotional exposure.
But something about Jake's openness, the honest question in his eyes, deserves an equally honest answer.
"I feel it too," I admit quietly. "Whatever this is—chemistry, connection, mutual insanity—it's not just physical for me either. You make me laugh. You listen when I talk about my writing like it actually matters. You introduced me to your parents after knowing me for approximately five minutes. You remember details about my life without me having to repeat them seventeen times. These are not small things, Jake."
His smile in response is like sunrise—gradual, warm, illuminating. "No, they're not," he agrees. "They're actually pretty significant things."
"Terrifyingly significant," I correct him. "Hence my occasional retreat into sarcasm and deflection."
"I've noticed that tendency," he says dryly.
"It's a highly developed defense mechanism," I inform him. "Cultivated over years of emotional self-preservation. Very effective against most threats to my carefully maintained independence."
"But not against hockey goalies?" he suggests, his expression somewhere between amused and hopeful.
"Apparently not," I concede. "You seem to be immune to my standard protective measures. It's very inconvenient."
"I'll work on being more repelled by your humor and charm," he promises solemnly.
"Much appreciated." I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "Though maybe not immediately. I'm kind of enjoying the current lack of effective barriers."
His arms tighten around me, secure without being confining. "Me too."
We lapse into comfortable silence again, the events of the day catching up with me as exhaustion begins to set in. Despite my earlier bravado about functioning perfectly well on minimal sleep, the combination of emotional revelations, physical exertion, and the soothing warmth of Jake's embrace is making it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open.
"You're falling asleep," Jake observes, his voice tinged with affection.
"Am not," I protest unconvincingly, my words slightly slurred with encroaching slumber. "Just resting my eyes. Very different."
"Of course," he agrees. "Completely different physiological process."
"Exactly," I murmur, snuggling closer. "Glad you understand basic science."
His soft laugh is the last thing I register before sleep claims me, my usual insomnia apparently no match for post-coital contentment and the rhythmic sound of Jake's breathing.
I wake briefly in the night, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings until I register Jake's arm around my waist, his body curled protectively around mine from behind. The digital clock on his nightstand reads 3:17 AM. I should get up, call an Uber, go home to prepare for my early coffee with Patricia.
