Page 37 of Beg Me

Markie

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter moments before my knuckles rap against a familiar door.

My pulse stutters as I wait for someone to answer.

I can’t believe I’m standing on Jory’s porch, preparing to ask him to help me win the tournament. After all the crap I talked, after telling him that I didn’t need him and wouldn’t need him … I need him. That’s humbling.

Music plays on the other side of the wood, loud enough that I wonder if they even heard my knock. So, I rap against the door again, louder this time, and hold my breath. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, footsteps come closer and the door swings open.

This is such a bad idea.

Jory leans against the doorframe with a smile as wide as the entry, as if he already knows why I’m here.

He's bare-chested, wearing only a pair of blue basketball shorts. His jaw is peppered with a day’s worth of stubble. I might’ve just woken him up, because his hair is a mess, unruly in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it.

Focus, Markie.

“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat.

“You missed breakfast, and it’s not lunch yet, but if you hold on, I’ll make you something for brunch,” he says, with a grin so divine that it could bring the holiest nun to her knees.

My head spins, recalling just how many times I thought about that moment last night—the one beside my car when things almost got away from me. Truth be told, I would’ve let it. Hell, I would’ve met him halfway. Admitting that now, while I’m here for the purpose of asking him to play with me—no pun intended—is overwhelming.

A barrage of red flags is waving in the wind.

“Get in here,” he says playfully, stepping to the side.

I enter the house, looking around for his son. He’s a rascal, but his comic relief might be able to take away some of the sting of the endeavor. “Where’s Gus?”

“He’s fishing with a kid he met at the park. Josh Jordan. He lives behind Miller’s Market. I talked to his mom, and she promised to keep an eye on them.”

“I know her. She’s a nice lady.” I smirk. “She’s single, too. Just sharing in case Gus comes home playing matchmaker again.”

Jory laughs, his abs rippling. I consider asking him to put a shirt on. But who on this earth would do something like that? Not this girl.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says, entering the kitchen. “But something tells me he’s a discriminating little matchmaker.” He pours himself a cup of coffee. “Want a drink? An omelet? I’m here to please.”

“I hope that’s true.”

He looks at me over his muscled shoulder with a carefully lifted brow.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” I say, pointing at him as my cheeks heat. Get on with it, Markie. “But I did come over to ask you something.”

He retrieves a water bottle from the fridge and tosses it to me. I’m not sure if this is a reflection of our chemistry, or if my mind is running a compatibility test for the court, but he smiles when I catch it easily.

“You just looked a little flushed,” he says before biting his bottom lip. “Thought a drink might help you cool down.”

“Asshole.”

He chuckles. “All right. Ask away. What question do you have for me?”

I follow him into the living room and choose a chair across the coffee table from him. My palms are clammy as I set the bottle on a coaster.

I’m stuck in this messy place of wanting to relive the feeling of his palm nestled against the small of my back from last night and wanting to ask him to help me win. He watches me expectantly, waiting for me to pop the question. Although I know I have to do it, a part of me doesn’t want to, because, once I do, the dynamic between us will be forever changed, and I quite like it the way it is right now.

“Adam called me this morning …” I say, taking a long, deep breath.

He smiles before sipping his coffee. “Oh, yeah? How’s your protégé doing?”