Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(5)

I dig into my lunch, a signal to the ever-perceptive Georgia that I’d rather not continue this conversation. My gaze is glued on rice, beans, and protein when I feel a hand touch mine. Georgia squeezes my fingers between hers.

“Okay, Ana. Just tell me if you ever feel unsafe. I’m with you through all of this. You might still think of Seattle as your new home, but it is your home, and you shouldn’t be run out of here.”

My chewing slows and I meet her eyes. “Thanks,” I murmur through a mouthful of beans.

“And let me know if you ever need a massage. To alleviate some of that stress. Free of charge,” she says brightly with a wink. “I know someone, and I’ve heard she has magical fingers.”

I wash my food down with a cold gulp of water. We’re always offering each other massages, but neither of us has taken the other up on it. It’s just a simple way of saying I love you without really saying it.

“You too, Georgie.”

? ? ?

That afternoon, my keys rattle in my hand as I struggle to open the door while holding leftovers from lunch and a small grocery bag in my arms.

After finishing my shift, I dropped by the market to grab some ingredients for white chocolate and pomegranate cookies—a specialty of mine. Baking always relaxes me, and after a stressful day, I need to relax. I can hear Hobbes whining from his kennel on the other side of the door.

“Coming, baby cakes,” I call out. Hobbes is my Maltipoo mayhem machine, fondly named after the troublemaking stuffed tiger of comic strip fame. One of my mother’s favorites, to be precise.

When I make it inside, I drop the food in the kitchen and immediately head for the kennel. When he’s overexcited like this, I can’t leave him alone for a second too long or he’ll make a mess. I unlatch the kennel and Hobbes bursts out, running laps around the small one-bedroom apartment.

When I first moved here with Jason, he’d lost a lot of money in a bet. That catastrophe, paired with my own measly income, meant we could only afford something small. I actually prefer it. With the packed-to-the-brim bookshelves, secondhand furniture, and tight corners, our cozy little apartment reminds me of home. Or at least a slice of what life used to be.

I walk back to the door, coat and shoes still on, and call for Hobbes. He comes racing to me, jumping and twisting and showing me all of his tricks. It takes a moment for him to calm down, as it always does, but once the initial excitement to see me has passed, I can get him on the leash.

Out to the enclosed courtyard we go, just moments after another dog has left her own mark on the muddy ground. I unclasp Hobbes’s leash, and he preoccupies himself with sniffing for a while before he ventures away to find his own patch of grass.

My thoughts wander back to last night, sitting in Grant’s warm car as he drove me home. How he put his number in my phone, without any reason to believe that I’d use it.

Would I? If things ever got that bad, would I call the team captain? I can imagine how angry and hurt Jason would be if it ever came to that. How betrayed he’d feel.

As I watch Hobbes sniff around, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t care about what Jason would think. If it ever came to calling Grant, it would be because Jason had majorly screwed up—like leaving me abandoned last night at the party. It’s at this realization that I pull out my phone and send off a quick text to Grant.

Hey, it’s Ana. I just wanted to say thank you for the ride home last night. I hope it didn’t cause you too much trouble. I appreciated it. Thanks again.

I consider adding a smiley face and then decide that Grant doesn’t exactly seem like an emoji type of guy. And if he was an emoji, he wouldn’t be the smiley face. Though, I don’t think there’s one with a stern grimace and muscles everywhere. Smiling crookedly at that idea, I click SEND and shove the phone back in my pocket.

Hobbes scampers across the courtyard back to me, and I gather him in my arms. I’d rather not deal with the landlord sending yet another memo about mud tracked on the carpets of the communal areas.

I carry Hobbes inside, feeling his tiny little heartbeat racing from all that running around. I wonder momentarily if this is what I must look like to someone as giant and capable as Grant. Just a tiny little animal, unable to properly fend for herself in this big, bad world.

When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I pull it out. It’s a text from Grant, consisting of one single word. I chuckle and shake my head.

Welcome.

Back inside the warmth of my apartment, I wipe Hobbes’s paws with the towel I keep by the door and let him loose to pursue whatever shenanigans he’s so eager to get into. In the kitchen, I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands, then I set the oven to 375 degrees and start making the cookie dough.

Flour, brown sugar, two eggs, a few drops of vanilla, and a pinch of salt . . . the methodical measuring of ingredients is calming to me. The tension in my shoulders begins to melt as the unsalted butter does the same, rising slightly above room temperature as I begin mixing. Oats and white chocolate chunks . . . comfort food.

I’m just about to start rolling the dough into little balls when I hear footsteps down the hall. My stomach clenches, which I know isn’t the reaction I should have at the thought of my boyfriend arriving home.

Jason rattles the front doorknob, cursing loudly when he realizes it’s locked. I stand in the kitchen, frozen. I could open the door for him, but my hands are all doughy.