Halfway through the first episode, Taylor said, “I’m not sure this is the best thing for me to watch while out in the woods alone.”
“Except that you’re not alone,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, Twenty-Three.” She scooted even closer to him and wrapped her arm around his. “This is for heat and just in case I get scared. That’s it. Nothing else.”
“Whatever you say,” he replied. “Will there at least be a good night kiss?”
“No! Absolutely not.”
Because Taylor knew she wouldn’t want to stop at a single kiss, not when they were both snuggled up against each other with the entire night stretching in front of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Taylor reached over to the coffee table in Jamar’s living room and picked up the touch-screen display panel that controlled everything, from the room’s temperature, to the lights, to the television. She glided her thumb along the screen, bringing the temperature up a couple of degrees. Then she set the electronic tablet back in its cradle and returned her attention to her laptop.
“Where in the hell is it?” Taylor growled as she clicked through the five billion tabs open on her browser, searching for the article on ligament tears she’d run across this morning. One of these days she would learn to bookmark websites she wanted to revisit.
“Finally,” Taylor said as she clicked onto the article without bookmarking it.
Ever since the run-in with those drunken assholes at the sports bar Saturday afternoon, she’d turned into a woman on a mission. If Jamar thought she’d worked him hard before, he wasn’t ready for the nightmare she was about to unleash. She would do whatever it took to ensure he was in the best form possible when he tried out for those NFL teams.
From the extensive research she’d done on his knee surgery, Taylor now understood how lucky Jamar was that he could even walk. He’d undergone a massive amount of physical therapy after the operation. Yet, because of the severity of the injury and the threat of reinjuring himself, he was still considered a huge risk for any team to undertake.
But there was still a chance, and that’s all that mattered. All she needed was the slightest bit of hope.
She’d just clicked on another video uploaded by an orthopedic surgeon when she heard Jamar approaching. She twisted on the sofa to find him walking toward her with a huge smile on his face and a casserole dish in his hands.
“I finally found a brussels sprouts recipe I like. Try it.” He held it out to her with the enthusiasm of a kindergartener presenting his teacher with a finger-painting. He was as adorable as one too.
Taylor was bowled over by the memory of waking up next to him in that tent Sunday morning, his arms surrounding her, the front of his body flush against the back of hers. She didn’t know exactly when the spooning had occurred, but if things were different between them, Taylor would be just fine waking up that way for the next few decades.
Don’t go there.
She attempted to ignore his cuteness and those memories as she surveyed the dish. There was twice as much cheese as brussels sprouts.
“You could eat this if today was a cheat day—by the way, you’re out of those for the rest of the week,” she reminded him. “But unless this is a healthy vegan cheese, it won’t work with your diet.”
“I’m not eating fake cheese.”
“Well, say goodbye to these cheesy brussels sprouts.” She grabbed at the casserole dish, but he stretched it aloft, just out of her reach.
He gestured at the screen with his chin. “What are you watching?”
“I’ve been doing more research on your injury.”
“Hmm . . . that looks like my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Hoffman,” he said.
“I know. He’s pretty fancy,” Taylor said.
“Yeah. The League wanted me to have the best care money could buy.”
“So, was it Dr. Hoffman who told you that you would never play football again?”
“Actually, Dr. Hoffman was optimistic about my chances,” he said as he lifted a brussels sprout from the casserole dish.
Taylor snatched it from his fingers and popped it in her mouth. “Damn, thisisgood,” she said. She patted the sofa next to her, encouraging him to sit. “Come on. We’ll just add more time to today’s workout. And if Dr. Hoffman was so optimistic, why aren’t you playing?”
“Because it was the team’s doctor who made the final call. Micah and I have talked about it—Micah is my agent,” he clarified as he sat down. “And we both think that it has more to do with the team doctor thinking I wasn’t worth the risk if I were to suffer a second injury. He was looking toward the future. That’s his job. At the end of the day, he has to do what’s best for the team.”
