He huffed a rough little laugh. “Honestly? Most of ’em don’t mean anything. I was eighteen, drunk, and thought they’d make me look tougher than I was. Stupid shit, really.”
His eyes flicked down to where my hand lingered over his chest, and his voice came gentler. “Except the phoenix. I got that one when I first went pro. Felt important, like I had to mark the moment. My whole life felt like it was burning down around me, but that…” his jaw tightened, then I felt him relax. “That was the first time I thought maybe I could rise out of it. Maybe I wasn’t just the fuck-up everyone thought I was.”
My heart pinched. The man who’d just torn down a door for the woman he loved was also the boy who’d once needed proof he could survive a world he’d been thrown into.
God. He never stopped showing me pieces of himself I hadn’t expected and every single one only pulled me deeper. My gaze drifted to the dressing table. The bottle of perfume sat there,gleaming under the lamp light.Myperfume. The expensive one I wore every day. I hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.
“You really bought me the perfume?” I asked, angling my face toward his.
He turned to look at me like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I did. Though I should warn you, it’s already open. I sprayed it around every day because I missed the smell of you.”
A laugh escaped me; I was feeling a little overwhelmed. “Jesus, Reed, you’re getting real soft, lately.”
“That’s the Orla effect,” he said, that glint in his eyes back again.
He kissed me slowly, reassuringly, like he’d been doing all night, before I let my head sink back against his chest. His hand traced circles on my shoulder, making my skin tingle under his fingertips. He’d succeeded in making the once painful feeling in my ribs lift. I’d spent years convincing myself that I’d never find anyone who truly loved me. But here he was, proving me wrong one tiny gesture at a time.
“I’m sorry.” The words slipped after they’d been boiling in my core all evening.
He turned his head sharply. “For what?”
“For everything. For doubting you. For not giving you a chance to explain. For how quickly I believed the worst. I hate myself for it,” I said shaking my head
His arm tightened around me, his other hand tipping my chin so I had no choice but to meet those deep, steady green eyes.
“Orla. Stop that. You and I are more alike than you think. We both react before we think. Maybe that’s why we get each other.”
I gave him a small, guilty smile. “Guess that means we’re screwed.”
“Nah.” His mouth curved. “Just means we’ve gotta learn to handle it together. You don’t run, I don’t let my temper get the better of me.”
I snorted softly. “That’s a tall order.”
“Yeah, well… you’re worth it.” He brushed his thumb over my jaw, his gaze holding me still. “So, next time you think about running, remember: your perfume’s already in my room, your toothbrush is in my bag, and your name’s the only one in my head when I picture the rest of my damn life. I meant what I said, Orla. I love you.”
I was addicted to hearing that. Like a wave that crashed so hard it left me breathless before retreating again. He wasn’t asking for perfection. Just me. And for once in my life, I had someone telling me that was enough.
“I love you, too.”
He pressed his forehead to mine, and spoke unwaveringly. “And I’m not going anywhere, O. You can push, pull, scream at me, and I’ll still be here. Screaming back probably.” He laughed, soft and tired. “You’re it for me, and I’ll spend as long as it takes proving that, over and over, until you never doubt it again.”
Chapter 43
Orla
The weekthat followed felt like a reset for Tyler and I. We were steadier, more at ease, and somehow stronger for what we’d survived. Then, New York hit fast, loud, and impossible to ignore.
It was all high stakes and drama. Tyler was playing like his life depended on it in that fast, ruthless way that had become his trademark. He’d bulldozed his way through the rounds and landed himself a spot in the final against the reigning champion. None other than Mr. Jordan Taylor.
A few days after our reunion, Tyler finally admitted his leg had been fine for weeks. He just wanted an excuse to keep me close. Turns out, he didn’t have to look far, because in his heroic hour of battering down my hotel room door, he’d managed to tweak his shoulder. Nothing serious, but enough to remind me that if he didn’t keep me in work with tennis related injuries, he’d find other creative ways to do it.
The ATP nearly fined him for the door incident until I stepped in. Tyler still doesn’t know I went straight to the sponsors and his agent, looked them dead in the eye, and told them ‘exactly’ what happened: I’d been sick, passed out,and Tyler had to break in to get to me. His fine miraculously disappeared. It wasn’t my proudest lie, but protecting him felt instinctive. Plus, there was no way I was letting anyone turn him proclaiming his love for me into another headline.
The afternoon before the final, my phone pinged with a message from Kate:
Kate:
Now that we’re on the same continent, fancy an early dinner tonight? Nothing late just an excuse to keep the boys from pacing all night.
