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His frame fills the doorway. He’s a foot taller than me, and even under his long-sleeved workout shirt, his body is perfection. The thin fabric stretches over his broad shoulders. I’m vaguely aware of a dog barking and racing around the apartment behind him, but my gaze follows his movement as he props a hand on the doorframe. His sleeves are pushed up, and my gaze lingers on his forearm. Jamie Streicher’s forearms could get a woman pregnant.
Pippa Hartley is standing in my living room, playing with the dog, and I can’t breathe. When I opened the door, I thought I was hallucinating. Her hair is longer. Same shy smile, same sparkling blue-gray eyes that make me forget my own name. Same soft, musical voice that I’d strain to hear back in high school while she was talking and laughing with the other band kids. Grown up, though, she’s fucking gorgeous. A knockout.
I can’t fucking think around Pippa Hartley. It’s always been like this.
There’s no way I can tell her the truth—that she’s the girl I was obsessed with for two years in high school.
“I know. I trust you.”
Every time I smile, his mouth twitches. That realization makes my stomach warm and liquid, and I smile wider at him. Maybe he’s not such an asshole, after all.
“Jamie.” I’m giving him an appalled look, and when I say his name, he turns and gives me his full attention.
It’s intoxicating.
“Oooooh.” I nod, smiling at him. “Okay. I see it now.” “What?” His expression is concerned. I just continue smiling at him. “You’re nice.”
I nod. “Yeah. You are. You take care of your mom, you took in a stray dog that needed a home, and you made me move in.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in the direction we came from. “You bought us lunch. Jamie, you’re nice.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and the way she looks at me makes me want to scoop her up into a hug and never put her down. I’d never let her go.
“That guy was never good enough for you. Not in high school and not now. I hope you fucking see that.”
His expression is sheepish, and it’s adorable.
“I thought you were gorgeous, too,” he murmurs, looking at me in a way that makes me feel like I can’t breathe. “Even back then.”
I hope she knows she isn’t broken. I hope she realizes what she’s capable of.
I like that after the game, Pippa and Daisy will be at home.
Footsteps make my eyes open. Jamie stalks toward me with a furious look on his face. “Wha—” I start. His eyes flash with heat. “That was fucking amazing.” His hand comes to the back of my neck and he drags my mouth to his.
“You look beautiful.”
“Hey.” Jamie looks down at me, studying my face. “Don’t let them see you scared, songbird.”
Like he believes in me.
“I’m your goalie,” he says. “I’ll block all your shots tonight.” A chuckle escapes me, and I smile at him. The corner of his mouth ticks up, and his eyes fill with affection. For a split second, I wish he’d kiss me again.
His hand returns to my lower back. “I’m her boyfriend.”
He winks at me. He winks at me. His mouth curves up on one side, and I’m fascinated by the movement.
With him by my side, I’m okay. I’ve got this.
A realization hits me. I wrote that album for Jamie. I thought about him the entire time, and
when the impostor syndrome crept in, I remembered his words of encouragement and his warm looks of affection, and it spurred me on. I’ve never written even one song for someone, let alone a collection of them, and no one has ever encouraged me the way Jamie has. It’s like he thinks I can do anything. The truth is obvious, and no matter how hard I deny it or try to compare him to Zach, it’s not going away. I have major feelings for Jamie Streicher.
“Pippa.” His voice is firm, leaving no wiggle room. “I’d buy you every guitar in the city if I thought you’d let me.”
“We’re going to figure it all out together.”
