I groaned, dragging the duvet over my head, limbs still deliciously sore. I swiped open the article.
And just like that, my blissful little bubble? Popped.
There we were, caught outside the hotel in Washington, his hand squarely on my arse—for fuck’s sake, Jordan—my head tipped up mid-kiss. Another of me laughing with Maggie in the stands. A third, grainy shot of us holding hands, leaving dinner.
“Jordan Taylor’s girlfriend?
Speculation is mounting that Taylor, thirty, has entered into a serious relationship with the mystery blonde who’s accompanied him to several events over the last few weeks…”
I tossed the phone on the bed and leaned back, heart thudding now for a different reason entirely.
WasI his girlfriend?
We’d never actually had the conversation. This whole thing had just happened. He’d told me he loved me. That meant something. That meant everything.
But seeing it splashed across a tabloid, turned into a headline, into content, it felt real in a way I hadn’t prepared for. Not just whispered between us in the quiet darkness of our bedroom. Now it was public. The kind of public that had a life of its own.
I picked up my phone again.
Me:
Canoodling? What the actual fuck? Who uses that word anymore?
Also…he told me he loved me last night.
So yeah. I guess maybe I am his girlfriend.
Fuck. What do I do with that?
Gwen:
You let yourself be happy, for once.
And then you tell him you love him back, idiot.
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. She was right. I loved him, there was no denying that. But still every headline felt like a theft. Like I’d woken up to find my life had been hijacked because I’d fallen for someone who happened to be an internationally famous tennis star.
I flopped back on the pillow, phone still in my hand as I checked the time. Jordan would still be out for at least an hour. I could either sit here and lose my mind, or do something to burn it out of me.
I flicked back the covers, pulled on my running shorts and sports bra, and grabbed my headphones. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and slung my gym bag over my shoulder.
The hotel gym was mercifully empty when I swiped my keycard. Sleek, modern, rows of treadmills gleaming under fluorescent lights. Perfect. I climbed onto one, jammed in my headphones, and ran. Pounded out every tabloid headline until the storm in my chest eased to something manageable.
I’d just passed the halfway point of my 5k when my phone buzzed on the treadmill stand.
Jordan:
Got my girl coffee. Where are you?
My shoulders loosened. I slowed the treadmill to a walk and typed back:
Me:
Gym x
Ten minutes later, he strolled in, coffee in hand, his grin wide, until he caught sight of my scowl. The grin slipped into concern instantly.
“Bloody hell, Katie, you look like you’re about to punch the treadmill. What’d it do to you?”
