Dear Jane Page 15

  Evidently, Frank is also wondering what the fuck that means, because he asks, “Was there something wrong with him?”

  If he hurt her, I’ll hunt him down and rip his balls off.

  Jane makes a noncommittal noise. “We just didn’t click.”

  Thank God. I almost slump back against the wall.

  “That’s too bad,” Frank says. “Well, there’s always the next one.”

  My relief drains away as quickly as it came. Frank is right . . . sure, this guy was a dud, but if she’s actively searching, it’s only a matter of time until she finds someone who isn’t. It probably won’t even take very long. After all, she’s perfect. Any man would be lucky to have her. She can have her pick of the litter.

  Rage washes over me. Why did I act like such a fucking idiot? What was I thinking? How did I screw this up so badly?

  My hands shake as I change into my workout clothes. I storm into the weight room and work the chest-press machine like I’m trying to punish myself, barely noticing the 450-pound load, too furious at my own dumbassery and too haunted by mental images of Jane with another man.

  I’ve calmed down only slightly by the time my teammates start trickling in.

  Colin stops by me and comments, “Dude, you’re crushing it today.”

  “What? Oh. Thanks.” I go back to murdering the leg-curl machine.

  He doesn’t leave. Eventually he asks, “Are you okay, Chase?”

  This time I stop to look back at him. The pause makes me finally register how bad my hamstrings burn. “Yeah, man, I’m just thinking.”

  “Okay . . .” He sounds skeptical, but lets it go and continues on his way to the weight rack.

  Really, there’s nothing to think about anymore. I know damn well what I have to do. Stop pussyfooting around. No more fear and self-doubt. No more hesitating and waiting for the right moment. I’ve run out of time for that shit. I have to make my move now . . . and I have an idea on how to go about it.

  I rush through the rest of my workout routine and shower so I can be the first to arrive at the team meeting. Jane is already there, along with Coach Royce, sitting in a wheelchair at the front of the room. She looks away as soon as she spots me, but Coach raises his hand in a cursory wave.

  I walk to him and lean down to speak quietly. “Can I make a short presentation? It’ll take ten minutes, tops. I promise.”

  His eyebrows knit. “I suppose so. What’s this all about, son?”

  “It’ll speak for itself.” I hope so, anyway. “But I’ll have to borrow your laptop. I’m kinda flying by the seat of my pants here.” I find the file on my phone and send it.

  He checks his email, and his eyebrows wing up at the attachment’s name. Then he smiles. “I think I have some idea where this is going, but I’ll let you handle it your own way.”

  I nod gratefully and get to work fiddling with cables. I convince Coach’s computer to cooperate with the overhead projector just as everyone else finishes finding their seats.

  All right, Operation Hijack Team Meeting is a go.

  “Excuse me, everyone,” I say. “I’ve got something I gotta say.” I cue up my presentation’s title slide:

  DEAR JANE

  Several people mutter to each other. Someone in the back of the room stifles a snicker. But the only reaction I care about is Jane’s . . . and she’s staring at me in bewilderment.

  I quash my sudden urge to chicken out. Come on, man, you haven’t even started yet. Push through.

  I click to the first slide. It’s titled EXHIBIT A and shows a grainy photo of us from our high school yearbook. She’s draped in my too-big football jersey, and I have my arm around her shoulders, wearing a dazed, smitten grin like I can’t believe my own luck.

  “You were the first girl I ever loved.”

  Jane’s eyes widen and her lips part in shock. There’s a few more whispers, but the room is surprisingly quiet. Everyone’s watching Jane and me in curiosity.

  “And who could blame me for falling?”

  The next slide is a newspaper photo of a Hawks press conference where Jane stands onstage with Mr. Flores, her expression as keen as her outfit, not a hair out of place. She looks hot as shit.

  “You’re smart, dedicated, hardworking to a fault, a total football junkie . . .” A photo of her favorite rapper flashes on the screen. “Plus, it’s so much fun to hear you belting out gangster rap in your office when you think nobody’s around.”

  There’s a ripple of scattered chuckles. It may be my imagination, but Jane’s eyes seem to glisten.

  “Not only that, but we make a kickass team.”

  Exhibit C is a stock image of orange and black socks. That gets blank stares from everybody except Jane and the cornerback Ramirez, who laughs at the memory of Philadelphia.

  “Seriously, though . . . when we put our heads together, I feel like I can handle any problem.”

  Next comes a low-res snapshot of her with her Dad, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. She’s constantly giving up her free time to devote herself to helping her parents, both on and off the football field.

  “And you’re kind too.”

  Jane smiles up at the screen, even as she blinks back tears.

  Exhibit E is just a bulleted list, but I’m glad now that I couldn’t find a decent photo last night, because my stomach’s wound itself so tightly, I’d never remember what I was planning to say without notes.

  “Just the sight of you has the power to make me smile. Even if I’m having the world’s crappiest day, as soon as you’re there, it’s like I’ve come home. I know everything will turn out okay, no matter how messed up things feel.” I force myself to take a deep breath. “More importantly, you make me want to be a better man . . . and when I’m with you, I feel like I’m already on my way.”

  Jane’s eyes finally spill over. At the sight of tears running down her flushed cheeks, I almost choke up too. I swallow the knot of hope and anxiety and desperate need in my throat. The risk that most terrifies me still lies ahead.

  “I know I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes. But if you’ll let me, I’m willing to work hard to fix them, because . . .”

  One final click. Exhibit F is a photo of an elderly couple sitting side by side on a porch swing, her gnarled hand resting atop his, their smiles content.

  “I want you to be the last girl I ever love too.”

  I turn off the projector and set the remote on the table. The ball is in her court now. Whatever happens, at least I can tell myself I tried.

  Her eyes lock with mine, and the room stays completely silent. Then she stands up.

  Jane steps forward, slowly at first, then with more purpose as she heads straight for where I’m standing at the front of the room. At first, I can’t tell if she’s pissed at my very public apology, but then I meet her eyes, and everyone around us fades away. She stops right in front of me.

  “What the hell was that?” she asks, her voice soft and without any hint of anger.

  “That was me winning you back.” My voice has more confidence than I feel.

  She shakes her head, a smirk shaping her lips. “Everything’s about winning with you, isn’t it?”

  I wrap my hands around her upper arms, carefully at first, to be sure she doesn’t pull away. But when her mouth lifts in a smile, I tug her close.

  “Damn straight it is, baby.”

  Jane only rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

  “I’m an idiot who loves the shit out of you. And I won’t lose you again.”

  The time for exchanging words is done, because I pull her to my chest and our lips meet with a trembling sigh. And then I’m kissing Jane, kissing her like my life depends on it, and her father’s not standing ten feet away. Her lips part, and I greedily devour her, sucking on her tongue when it reaches out to taste mine.

  The rest of the team erupts in cheers, clapping and whistling and hooting like we just won the Super Bowl. But I barely hear th
e ruckus. I’m holding my dear Jane tight, and this time, I won’t let go.

  • • •

  “You’re crazy, you know that? That presentation back there . . .” Jane’s tone is stern, but her mouth draws up in a hope-filled smile.

  I shrug and take a step closer. “I want you back, Jane. Simple as that.”

  We’re in her apartment—her place is closer to the training facility, and the desire to be someplace quiet as soon as we left the meeting were the main driving factors.

  “Before this happens . . . can we talk?”

  “Of course we can. Whatever you want.”

  She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Twice now I’ve given you my heart, and twice you’ve tossed it aside.”

  I swallow, the lump in my throat the size of a damn football. “I know. And we can both agree that it was completely my fault and I was wrong. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t fuck this up. Trust me one more time?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. But something in me knows she won’t deny this. This connection we have. But there’s one thing I’m not sure of—will she agree to trust me one more time?

  My grand public display in front of the entire team was . . . sweet, I hope, if not a little awkward. But it was sincere, and I could see the emotion in her gaze as she watched me in that conference room, working out in her head if she was going to crush my heart, or love me forever. I hoped like fuck it was the latter.

  For me, it wasn’t even a choice. She’s mine, like it or not. No woman has even come close to measuring up in the last ten years. I tried to move on, tried to get over the crushing blow of our breakup, but she’s always held a piece of my heart. My feelings for her have never faded.

  And I know with certainty that no one has made her feel so deeply, even if the emotions were as wide-ranging as love to hate. But I once heard that the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference. And if there’s one thing she’s never felt for me—it’s indifference.

  She places her soft palm against my cheek and nods. “You’ve got one more shot, big boy. Don’t blow it.”

  My lips meet hers. I intend for the kiss to be slow, sweet, exploratory, but the moment she kisses me back, it’s like throwing a lit match into a can of gasoline. We combust. I groan and bring my hands to her jaw, deepening the kiss when she opens for me. And then I walk us backward toward her bedroom, because the need to show her how much I love her is a physical ache.

  I don’t stop until we’ve bumped into the edge of her bed, and then I break from her sweet mouth only long enough to peel her shirt off over her head and tug down her skirt. Jane’s fingers fumble with the opening to my pants, and fuck, I’ve never wanted her more than in this moment. But I need to slow the hell down or this will be over before it’s even started.

  “So, tell me about this date you went on.”

  Jane chuckles and rolls her eyes. “While we’re naked? Really, Wes?”

  Part of me knows that we should be talking, taking things slow, that we should be making peace and figuring out where we stand. But the other part of me—namely the raging erection between my legs—knows there will be time for that later. The fact that my little impromptu presentation won her over is a fucking miracle.

  “Did you kiss him?”

  She blinks up at me, stroking my chest. “Would it matter?”

  I clench my teeth. “Guess not. As long as you know one thing.”

  She tilts her chin up toward me. “What’s that?”

  “That I’ll be the last man you ever kiss.”

  Yeah, I’m cocky, but fuck it, it’s the truth. I want to be the last man who ever has the pleasure of feeling her lips.

  Her eyes widen slightly at my serious tone. “Are you . . . proposing?”

  I touch her bare arms, trailing my fingertips from her shoulders to her wrists. “Not yet. I’m missing a certain piece of hardware, but you should know my intentions, baby.”

  “Which are?” She’s fighting off a smile.

  “To marry the shit out of you. Build a home with you, to make babies. Worship you like the goddess you are for all the days of my life.”

  I swear I see the hint of tears in her eyes before she blinks. “I love you, Wes.”

  I lean down and press my lips softly to hers. “I love you too. Always have. Sorry I was such a jackass.”

  “Well, you have been hit in the head a lot,” she whispers, her lips nearly touching mine. “And for the record, no, I didn’t kiss him. He didn’t even like football.”

  I chuckle, but once our lips meet, it’s like all the electricity in the room zaps to life at once. The time for talking is done. She makes a needy noise in her throat when my tongue reaches out to meet hers.

  Then she’s reaching down, taking my cock in her soft hand, stroking me in long pulls . . .

  And that’s the game, folks.

  The muscles in my thighs tremble as I guide her onto the bed. Once her head is on the pillow, I waste no time, kissing a path down her body until I reach my new favorite place, the spot between her thighs. It means she can’t reach my cock anymore, but that’s fine, because I intend to make this all about her. As I plant wet kisses all over her tender flesh, Jane whimpers and squirms beneath me.

  “Need a taste of this, baby,” I murmur before lowering my mouth to her in earnest, sucking and nibbling and kissing my way along all the spots that make her moan.

  It takes only minutes before she’s moaning my name and coming apart under my tongue. I have to reach down and wrap a strong fist around the base of my cock to keep from going off like a rocket on the Fourth of July.

  God, this woman. She gets me more worked up than anyone. Ever.

  I reach for my wallet on the floor and extract a condom, but Jane shakes her head.

  “No condom.”

  I meet her eyes, and the emotion I see reflected back at me makes my insides twist.

  This moment is huge. Monumental.

  I’ve come inside her before, back when we were stupid fucking teenagers. And I got her pregnant. It ruined everything between us, unbeknownst to me. And yet Jane, with her huge heart and forgiving nature, is telling me that she forgives me. That she really does love me.

  My chest feels like it’s been split wide open as I align myself with her damp center and begin to push forward.

  Heaven. The only way to describe this is heaven. My own personal slice of heaven on earth.

  “You feel so good,” I murmur incoherently as I bury myself balls deep inside her.

  Jane makes a noise of pleasure, and I’m lost.

  Kissing her neck, I begin moving my cock in shallow thrusts, afraid that if I fuck her like my body craves, I’ll come way too soon and embarrass myself. And I want to make this good for her. I have to. She’s given me everything.

  “More,” she says on a groan. “Please.”

  I can’t deny her, and soon I’m racing toward orgasm, but won’t let myself go before she comes again.

  And holy fucking shit. Fucking her bare? It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. She’s so hot and tight, I have to clench my teeth and focus on the wall above her head in an effort not to come too soon.

  Then Jane takes my jaw in her hands and guides my mouth to hers. She tilts her pelvis, meeting me thrust for thrust, and then she shudders, milking me as she climaxes.

  I follow her over the edge moments later, my entire body trembling with the powerful release before I collapse onto the bed beside her, breathless.

  Damn. I never knew sex could be so good.

  “Does this mean we’re back together?” I ask, my voice shaking from the intense pleasure still zipping through my veins.

  Jane only chuckles. “Shut up and kiss me, you big idiot.”

  And I do. A lot.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jane

  There’s something about Wes’s new place that just feels like home to me. Maybe it’s because his building is so close to my apartment, only a few blocks down the street. Or ma
ybe it’s the framed picture of us hanging on the wall of the living room, a shot of us kissing on the field at the end of the last practice of the season.

  Or maybe, and most likely, it’s the smell of chicken parmesan wafting out of the kitchen as the Hawks’ MVP, Weston Chase, who is now officially my boyfriend, is hard at work making me dinner.

  Yup. That has to be it.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never cooked your favorite food before,” I tease, taking a good long sip of my gin and tonic. I lean against the kitchen counter, watching the show from a comfortable distance as Wes concentrates on creating the perfect homemade bread crumbs.

  He shrugs. “I always get takeout. That, or go home and see my mom.”

  It seemed only right to let Wes take the reins on cooking the chicken parmesan this time around. Admittedly, it’s more than a little gratifying to watch him bring his usual laser focus to the task of breading chicken.

  It’s his first time cooking in the new apartment, and it’s fun to watch him try to remember where he put everything when he unpacked. The entertainment value is increased by the fact that he’s wearing the apron I bought him.

  I picked it out as a housewarming present when he signed the lease on this place. It was the biggest apron I could find anywhere, but it still looks miniature on his bulky frame, the words DON’T HATE, TAILGATE printed in Hawks red across his broad chest. A corny present, I know, but when he opened it, he smiled like he’d just unwrapped a Rolex, kissing me and promising he’d wear it when he cooked for me in his new place. That was an offer I couldn’t turn down, and luckily, I knew just the recipe.

  I grin as my gaze drifts down to his tight butt.

  “I thought Mom said this was easy.” Wes plops the last piece of chicken into the bowl of bread crumbs, flips it over a few times, and sets it gingerly on the baking sheet. He’s been at this for almost an hour now, which makes me feel a bit better about how long this recipe took me to complete.

  “I bet it is easy.” I shrug. “For a couple that doesn’t have every takeout place in town on speed dial.”

  He smirks, wiping his hands on the apron before bringing the baking sheet over to me for final approval.