Only the main elevator goes to the penthouses, though, so I slink across the lobby with my head down, blocking the front desk’s view of me by staying on the other side of Jake.
We get to his room and I scan his card and we walk inside. I set his wallet and room key on the desk and lead him back to the bedroom.
“How ’bout a drink?” Jake says.
“How ’bout no. You need to go to bed.”
“With you underneath me?”
“Just lie down.”
He arches his brows and grins. “Oh, me underneath you? I like.”
When his back hits the mattress, I untie his Doc Martens and set them beside the bed.
“You know about me now,” Jake says. “You know I’m a piece of shit.”
I’m about to fire back a response, but something in his tone stops me. There was nothing playful there. His voice was sorrowful.
“I stopped talking to them after Dustin died,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Couldn’t do it anymore. Mom was with me when he died. It wasn’t right.”
I sit down on the bed next to him. I didn’t expect to see this side of Jake, and I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to, either.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Just rest, Jake.”
“Don’t let me puke on you,” he says.
“I’m an expert puke dodger, don’t worry.”
“Stay with me.” He says it so softly I almost don’t hear him.
I think about taking the couch in the other room, but quickly decide against it. We’d both be uncomfortable in the morning and I’d have to sneak out of here in daylight.
“Sleep,” I say, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “It’ll all feel better tomorrow.”
He doesn’t respond, and within a minute he’s snoring softly. I take a few more seconds to look at him. Even with his gray-blue eyes closed, he’s beyond attractive. The boots, jeans, flannel and dark stubble are a delicious combo. Jake would make a sexy lumberjack.
I carefully get up from the bed and walk to the door, turning off the lights in the suite on my way out. I keep my head down until I’m out of the Dupont, hoping none of the security cameras caught my face.
Once outside, I breathe in the cold night air and realize I’ll have to catch the L to get home. Great. The three A.M. crowd on the train is pretty spectacular.
I’m glad I was there to help Jake. I felt an attraction for him since I first saw him wearing nothing but a towel, water dripping off his hard muscles. But getting a glimpse of him unguarded tonight made me see that the playboy routine is just a cover. There’s more to Jake Birch than most people ever see.
And I want to see more.
Chapter 7
Jake
A loud pounding on the door of my room the next day wakes me up.
“Housekeeping!” a throaty female voice calls out.
I sit up in bed and groan. Shit. My head is throbbing and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. I haven’t been this hungover in years.
I hear the door to my suite opening and I scramble out of bed. That voice didn’t sound like Miranda’s, but she’s supposed to be the one coming. Or is she already here?
Last night comes back to me in a blurry rush. Miranda brought me home. She sat next to me in bed. Holy shit, what did I say to her?
From the doorway of the bedroom, I see a short, round woman with a graying bun pulling her housekeeping cart into my room.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She lets out a yelp of surprise and turns around. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here.”
I must look like hell. I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. I remember drinking an obscene number of shots at that seedy bar.
“Where’s Miranda?” I ask the older woman. “She’s supposed to be the one who cleans my room.”
“She’s off today, sir.”
“Oh.” I exhale deeply, disappointed. “I don’t need the place cleaned today, then. Will she be back tomorrow?”
She shakes her head. “She’ll be back Monday.”
“No cleaning until Monday, then.”
“Do you need fresh towels?”
“No.” My answer comes out harsher than I meant it to, but I want this lady gone. I don’t feel like seeing anyone but Miranda.
She nods and pushes her cart out the door. As soon as she’s gone, I flop down on the couch and turn on ESPN. I like the background noise, but I’m not paying attention.
I’ve got that “date” with Hailey Hampton tonight. How the fuck did I get myself into this mess? Part of me wishes I would have told Gene I’d rather ride the bench than pretend to date Hampton’s daughter. If they’re stupid enough to put their top-dollar man on the bench over that, let ’em.
But I can’t, because it would hurt like hell to watch my team play without me.
After some Tylenol, two bottles of water and a hot shower, I’m feeling more like myself. Damn, that was cheap shit I got drunk on last night. I wish I’d gone for a run instead.
I dress in a T-shirt and shorts and drive to the arena, where I work out in the team weight room. It’s rare to have a Saturday off. The guys with families are at home today, so I’ve got the place to myself.
Lifting heavy weights and running clears my mind. I work out for almost two hours and then take another shower and go back to the hotel. Tuck texts me at three.
U alive?