Page 30 of Play the Game
Take care of her.
My dad’s voice in my head has me shoving the covers off and jumping out of bed. Padding down the hall to the kitchen, I flip the lock on my apartment door, ensuring that no brothers can barge in uninvited. I put on one of the true crime podcasts that Amelia has me addicted to and then open the cabinet where I keep my cereal. Taking all the boxes out and setting them on the counter, I pop open the false backing on the cabinet that hides my decades-long con, revealing my secret stash of baking supplies.
Grabbing everything I need, I put the cabinet back together and then spend the next few hours measuring, stirring, and weighing, lost in my happiest place until the stars fade and the sky starts to brighten with the first hints of morning.
CHAPTER TEN
EVAN
With my tongue caught between my teeth, my fingers race over the keyboard. Sitting on my couch in striped pajama pants and a sweatshirt, under a blanket, with my laptop on my lap and a circle of fall-scented candles burning on my coffee table, I’m at peak comfort.
When I woke up fifteen minutes ago and my clock read four a.m., I knew I wasn’t getting any more sleep. I’m an early riser in general, but four is too early, even for me. My body is practically crying tears of exhaustion, but my brain is too busy to rest, which means I don’t get to rest.
Pregnancy fucking sucks, it turns out.
Turning my attention back to my laptop screen, I try to ignore the nausea churning in my empty stomach. I’m out of bagels, and the bagel store doesn’t open until five. My kitchen is filled with snacks, but the idea of eating any of them makes me want to throw up immediately. Instead, I take a sip of the seltzer on the end table next to me and focus on the scene I’m writing, counting the minutes until I can place my delivery order.
My characters want to be together so badly, but I’m doingeverything in my power to keep them apart. I’m trying to play the long game here, so I don’t want everything to be sunshine and rainbows too early. It’s way more fun this way, for me and my readers.
Despite feeling like absolute trash, in my cozy spot on the couch with my little amphibians swimming in the dim glow of the muted purple LED lights above their tank, and my fall candles scenting the air, for the first time since I found out I was pregnant two days ago, I feel just a tiny little slice of calm.
Five minutes later, the calm is shattered by a knock on my door.
“Dammit,” I mutter as my fingers falter on the keyboard. This early in the morning, it can only be one person. Well, two people, but they kind of come as a package deal. In fact, I don’t think anyone other than Chris or Rio has ever knocked on my door in the three years I’ve lived here. I can’t say I’m surprised that they’re showing up now, since I’ve been dodging both of them since the baseball game, which is why I’m absolutely shocked when I open my door to none other than Cooper Wyles.
In glasses.
Cooper Wyles, hated work rival, very excellent at sex, father of my child, is standing in my doorway wearing an extremely slutty pair of black framed glasses.
Fuck me.
He's carrying a paper bag and a reusable grocery bag, and he’s wearing black joggers, a soft-looking blue sweatshirt, and sneakers. The whole look is so cozy hot that, for a second, I’m practically overcome with the wild urge to burrow into him. And that just won’t do.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He just smiles and strolls into my apartment like he owns the damn place. “Nice sweatshirt.”
I look down at myI dissentsweatshirt, which I wore on purpose because I dissent from this whole fucking fiasco that mylife has become, and from the smirk on Cooper’s face, I think he knows it. “Thanks. But why are you here?”
“Brought breakfast.”
“You brought…” I trail off, trying to figure out what is happening right now. “How do you know where I live? And how did you know I would be awake? It’s barely even morning.”
“The firm intranet is a wealth of personal information, it turns out. And you’re usually at work before six. I took a chance.” Standing in front of me, he reaches out and strokes a thumb under my eye. “Didn’t sleep much, huh? Me either.”
Wild butterflies swarm my stomach at the gentleness in Cooper’s touch. The kindness and care in his voice. The concern in his eyes as he studies me like he’s trying to figure out every single thing about me. Or maybe it’s just the unrelenting nausea. Who could say, really?
“Too much on my mind, I guess. And my stomach. I get nauseous when I don’t eat, but I can’t eat anything but bagels, and the bagel store doesn’t open until five, so I’ve just been killing time. Hang on.” I glance around, a delicious scent suddenly invading my senses. “What’s that smell?”
Cooper grins at me like he’s delighted by my reaction and hands over the paper bag he brought. “It’s bagels.”
Glancing down, I almost cry actual tears of joy because there must be at least a dozen sesame bagels in there, and from the feel of the outside of the bag, I can tell they’re still warm. I look up at him incredulously. “Where did you get fresh bagels at four in the morning? None of the bagel stores open until five.”
Cooper shrugs, taking the bag from me and heading into my kitchen. “I made them.”
By the time I unglue my feet from the floor and follow him into the kitchen, he’s unpacking the grocery bag, setting cream cheese, a zip lock bag of what looks like cherry Jolly Ranchers, and a case of cherry seltzer on the counter. “Hang the fuck on. You made bagels? Like, from scratch? With yeast and flour and eggs and stuff? And an oven?”
“No eggs in bagels,” he says absently, as he opens drawers and cabinets at random, coming up with plates, knives, and a tall glass. “At least not in any authentic recipe. And you use the stove too. Boiling the bagels before you bake them gives them the best texture and crust.”
