She nods vaguely. “My ride’s waiting ...”
“He’s not driving you anywhere.” I wet a paper towel with cold water and press it to the back of her neck. “Where’s your phone?”
She fumbles in her tiny purse and pulls it out. Her battery’s at 12 percent.
“Who can I call to come get you? A sister? Friend?”
“My roommate,” she mumbles, and I manage to get her to navigate to her texts before the bathroom door opens.
Jake fills the doorway, a glass of water in each hand, his face serious. No smirk, no attitude, just worry. The ice in the glasses clinks as his hands shake slightly.
“Is she okay?” he asks, anger rippling from him like heat off hot asphalt.
“She will be.” I hand Olivia a glass of water and have her take small sips. After she obeys, I say, “Jake, there’s a guy out there who’s planning to give her a ‘ride home.’”
Jake’s jaw tightens. “Point him out.”
“I will. But first—” I turn back to Olivia, who looks dimly aware of what’s going on. “I’m calling your roommate. Jake’s going to get us a quiet table away from the main dining room, and you’re staying with us until she gets here. Sound good?”
Her eyes fill with tears. “You don’t have to?—”
“We do, actually,” Jake says, his voice gentle in a way I rarely hear. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Twenty minutes later, Jake has alerted security about the guy who almost definitely spiked Olivia’s drink, and Olivia’s roommate has arrived to get her. Jake helps Olivia out through aback entrance, and I hear him talking to the roommate before he sees them off.
When we finally get back to our table, more eyes are on us than before. Jake’s one of the biggest names in Major League Baseball, with a reputation for trouble that’s even bigger.
Tonight, at least, he’s proved that reputation wrong, not that anyone but Olivia and me will ever know.
“You were good back there,” I tell him quietly as we wait for dessert.
Jake shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “Jennifer Rodgers had no problem accepting drinks and rides from guys just like that,” he says.
Jennifer Rodgers is Jake’s mom.
I hate Jake’s mom. His dad, too.
My stomach twists, sick thinking about all the times Jake texted my parents asking for help when we were growing up. And I’m even sicker thinking about that period in ninth grade when he stopped, when things got so bad …
Point is, this is the Jake the press never sees. The one who remembers what it’s like to be helpless. To need someone and have no one show up. I’ve known this Jake my whole life, which is a big part of why I couldn’t leave him helpless after his latest PR crisis. My family practically begging me to is the other part.
“I’m glad we were there,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m talking about Olivia or a young Jake.
“Me too.”
The moment stretches between us—not romantic, but familiar. Every time I get ready to resent Jake properly, he goes and reminds me why I can’t. Leaving him alone to deal with the fallout has never really been an option.
“You know, you were in the bathroom so long, I almost hoped you fell in,” Jake mutters, trying to lighten the mood.
“Only in my dreams,” I say with a sharp smile.
He laughs, like this is all banter instead of the ghost of a fight that’s been raging since before I could walk. But there’s something deeper behind his eyes. A fear that he tries to keep buried but that resurfaces when he feels insecure.
I could say something sweet or something salty, and it would get the same defensive reaction, so I go a different route. “Did you see the latest video Dallas and Marisol posted of baby Mateo?”
A real smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t even like babies, and I’m obsessed with that kid. All he does is stare and drool. Why can’t I stop looking?”
“I know. I swear, I can smell him through the camera.”
