How have the tables so drastically turned? I am usually the one to give sly grins and cheeky words, not him. I’m the one who has actually been with a man, but he is the one rushing ahead. He was averse to touch when we first met, and now he can’t stop touching me in all these deliciously sinful ways.
“Then stand up,” I pant, breathless with need. “Before I skip about a million steps.”
With one more kiss to my tattoo, Hendrix stands and corrects my waistband. Then, he presses his mouth to mine in a sweet good-morning kiss, a lingering taste of kale and mint on his lips from the smoothie.
Pleased, I hum into the kiss and let my hands slide up his bare stomach and chest to rest on his shoulders. I finally break away when our eagerness starts to turn into excitement. “I want to call you my boyfriend,” I breathe in a rush against his mouth.
Hendrix leans back to look at me, lips deliciously wet and swollen. “Hmph.”
Hmph? Hmph what? Is it too soon? Am I rushing like I always do?
My wide eyes must convey my internal freak-out because Hendrix chuckles and pecks my lips. “I kind of figured that’s what we are to each other,” he says teasingly. “Unless that’s too fast for you—”
“No. Yes.” Damnit. “I mean, no, it isn’t too fast. Yes, I want to be boyfriends. I’m planning to reiterate to the staff that they signed a nondisclosure and that you will be here more often. I know we aren’t telling anyone yet, but it’s the only way I can think to—”
A finger presses to my lips, cutting me off. “I understand, and that’s fine. Let’s do it.”
I offer him some clean clothes I hope will fit him, and he accepts them with a skeptical look at the tight boxer briefs. Recalling that time he told me about the struggles of his large package—as if I could ever forget—I internally groan yet again at the fact that I can’t have him inside me yet, stretching me, filling me. He can stretch and fill those boxers, though.
He showers and dresses before we head downstairs together, him chugging the remainder of his green smoothie that can’t possibly still be cold.
There are cleaners in every room—a whole crew for things I’d never think to do like dusting, fluffing pillows, and shaking curtains to prevent dust bunnies from building up. They sweep and mop and—I don’t even know—wax the floors? Vacuum couches and tune the piano that never gets used. This crew comes once a week. My mother recommended them.
My first stop is the kitchen, where Emma is putting the finishing touches on breakfast. She always makes plenty to keep up with my high calorie intake, but today, I notice there are more eggs and oats and lean turkey sausage than usual. Taking a seat at the kitchen bar, I give her a bright smile and gesture to the man occupying the chair beside me. “Emma, this is Hendrix. Hendrix, Emma.”
“We met,” she responds politely, as she always is, and busies herself wiping down the counter. “I made extra in case he joined you for breakfast, Mr. Ellingsworth. I have your smoothie in the refrigerator. Did you want another one, Mr. . . .” She looks at Hendrix, and so do I.
“Hendrix is fine,” he tells her in a flat tone. “And no. The first one was plenty.”
Satisfied with her cleaning, Emma tosses her rag down the laundry chute. “Well, I’m off to the store. Any special requests, Mr. Ellingsworth?”
“No, Emma. Thank you. Before you go, I want to emphasize how much I value you as an employee because you have always been accommodating to my guests and discreet about your employment as my nutritionist. That being said, I’d like to inform you that Hendrix is my boyfriend, and he will be here as often as I can convince him to come. I’d appreciate your discretion with this as well.”
She goes still, eyeing me oddly—probably because I have never tried to ensure her loyalty and silence the way I am right now. “Of course, Mr. Ellingsworth. I would never speak of you or your guests to those greedy gossips.” She turns to the man beside me. “Mr. Hendrix, is there anything I can get from the store for you? Mr. Ellingsworth makes shopping entirely too easy for me.”
Hendrix is already shaking his head, not wanting to trouble her. “No, I’m fine.”
“He doesn’t eat meat,” I practically interrupt when I realize he isn’t going to be forthcoming with information. “And he likes barbecue.”
“Tahegin,” he hisses. I glance over to see his cheeks tinged adorably pink.
Waving him off, I say goodbye to Emma before filling my plate with eggs and all the meat. I leave most of the oats and fruit for Hendrix, as well as a little over half the eggs. My protein intake will be high this morning, fiber and vitamins lower than usual, but I know the green smoothie waiting in the fridge has plenty of supplements to keep me on track.
“Where does most of your protein come from?” I ask him as we eat.
“Eggs,” he says around a mouthful, pointing his fork at his plate. “I really like chickpeas; I’ll eat them as hummus, crispy snacks, mashed, made into veggie patties—all sorts of ways. Tofu isn’t bad if it is cooked right. Oats. Beans—especially in a hearty vegetable stew. Peanut butter, of course. Spinach in salads or a smoothie. Milk. I drink a lot of milk. Protein bars or meal replacement shakes. If I need a boost, I’ll dry scoop some protein powder.”
I wrinkle my nose at that last one, but otherwise, it all sounds good. I could totally be vegetarian.
But bacon . . .
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
I tilt my head, giving him a curious look. “Ask you what?”
“If I’ll try eating meat again? My past girlfriends always pulled that ‘please, for me’ crap.”
“Hey.” I shrug. “If you aren’t asking me to eat applesauce”—don’t gag, don’t gag, don’t gag—“then I won’t question your choices.”
He laughs in such a carefree manner, grey eyes alight with humor and lips forming an endearingly crooked, toothy grin, that I have to blink in shock. Whatever happened to the grumpy guy from all those months ago, I don’t care because this—this is the real Hendrix Avery.
And now he is all mine.
CHAPTER 22
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“I can’t believe we just clinched the number one seed for our division!”
“I can’t believe you have your own driver.”
My head, which is tipped back against the headrest while I grin giddily at the ceiling, rolls to face Hendrix. His blond hair is dark from a locker room shower after the game, grey eyes shadowed save for the headlights of cars passing by, and still, I can’t help but think he is outrageously handsome.
Oh, I am riding this game-winning high right now.
“It’s your first year in the NFL—how are you not ecstatic right now? Rix, you broke the season record for completed passes today. You got three touchdowns. You ran over a hundred and fifty yards this game. You were amazing, and now we get a bye week before the divisional playoffs. Yet you’re worried about Jay? Come on, man!” Grabbing his face, I give him an intense stare, shaking him a bit. “Be happy!”
His mouth quirks up on one side, though he tries to hide it.
