Because when I finally get my hands on her again after the Cedar Falls interview, I want to be so desperate I can't think straight. Want to be so hungry I forget my own name. Want her to feel exactly how much I've missed her—in every thrust, every bite, every bruise I leave on her skin.
So I lie here. Aching.Counting the hours.
The room is quiet in a way the island never was.
After a moment, I reach for my phone again—not for messages this time. Photos. The island comes up in a rush: Jane in the sun, Jane in the water, Jane laughing at something I said that wasn’t even funny. Her hand in mine. Her head on my shoulder. Eight days that were supposed to be temporary and somehow became the truest thing I’ve had in years.
I scroll until the ache settles into something steadier. Something like certainty.
Tomorrow I'll walk the town. See it the way I'd want her to see it.
Colorado outside the window, quiet and wide.
If I’m going to ask her to consider this, I need to be certain what I’m asking.
But tonight, I'm just a man in a Colorado hotel room missing a woman somewhere on a road trip with her sister—who probably doesn't know she's already rewritten every plan I thought I had.
I should sleep. Early morning tomorrow.
I set an alarm for five. The game starts at six-ten and I want to be in the arena when it does.
Instead, I lie here and think about the way Jane looked on that Thursday Zoom call. The way she pulled down the zipper of that hoodie—slow, deliberate, her eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to look away.
I close my eyes and I'm back in the casita. Her legs on my shoulders. Her nails in my thighs. Her voice breaking on my name when I made her come so hard she couldn't remember how to breathe.
I palm myself through my boxers. Already half-hard.
I don't care.
I will myself to stay still.
The dam didn't just break for her.
It broke for both of us.
I don’t pretend this is simple.
But I’m done pretending it’s temporary.
Chapter 22
Miracle on Ice
February 22 | Cedar Falls
Jane
Grace Cooper does not believe in gentle wake-up calls.
She believes in assault.
"Up. UP. Get up get up get up—"
The mattress bounces. My body bounces with it.
I groan and burrow deeper into the pillows. This is cruel. This is inhumane. This is—
The blanket rips off me in one violent motion. "UP. NOW."
