I leave my soiled clothes on the floor of the bathroom and begin to curl up in my bed that still smells like him. I spring right back up and I grab my beer and take it over to the couch. I'm too tired to change the bedding, so I'll just sleep on the couch tonight. I toss my best first-lines-of-literature blanket over me and force myself to sleep. I'll fulfill my promise to him in the morning, and then he'll be out of my life.
For good.
I wake up the next morning sore and still furious. After downing half a pot of coffee and getting dressed, I leave.
I'm still reeling from seeing that whorecrux all over my man as I drive to the hospital. It just reminded me of all the reasons I'm not right for a guy like him. He's always going to have women all over him. Women like her—women who make more sense with a football player than a nerdy bookstore owner.
They want to have their photos taken by the paparazzi. They want to go to the games. They want the status. The want the fame. They want the money. And they're gorgeous and experienced and probably willing to do all sorts of crazy things that I'm not ready for and may never be ready for. And I don't even really like people. I like my books, my other worlds. Real life sucks. People suck. I should have known better than to stick my head out into the world and take such a huge chance on someone like him.
I stomp through the halls of the hospital to his room. I'm a little early, which is going to be awkward, but I promised.
His brows rise in surprise when I walk through his hospital room door. I was half expecting to see that floozy still here, possibly blowing him, or maybe I’d find them naked in bed or something. Those are the images that tortured me all night while I tried to sleep. On my fucking couch. He chased me out of my own damn bed.
I can't wait to burn those sheets. I should probably stop by Target on the way home and get a new set. Out with the old, in with the new.
"You came." He gets to his feet, clad in real clothes, looking way too hot for this early in the morning, the ass.
I huff and cross my arms. "I'm not a flake. I always keep my promises." It feels good, shooting that little dig at him.
His eyes are tortured and shadowed with lack of sleep just like mine. "Please, please let me explain, Tara. It's not what you think. I swear."
I snort. It's like he ripped that quote straight from fifteen different novels I could name right this second. "There's nothing to explain. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to start this with you." I shake my head, disgusted that that's what he went with. This entire relationship is a pathetic cliché.
We're interrupted by a nurse bustling into his room. "Here's your paperwork, and remember, you have to be wheeled out of here." She holds a hand up in the air to ward off the arguments gathering on his face. "It's hospital policy. Sorry. No exceptions."
He accepts the paperwork from her with a grumpy sigh and sets it on the bed behind him. "Thanks."
She bustles back out again, and he turns back towards me once the door closes behind her.
He takes a step closer to me, but I back away. We do that dance for a few minutes before he gives up, throwing his hands up into the air with frustration.
Does he expect me to make this easy on him? Does he expect me to automatically believe him and fall into his arms with a fucking swoon? To ignore what I saw last night? To get over it? To look past the incident because he's Zachary Gordon, golden boy of the Denver Broncos? To accept this is part of the deal and fall in line? Because I'm not that girl. He doesn't dazzle and blind me with his fame and gorgeous smile.
"She's just a woman I dated a while back. And not for long because I wasn't into her. She's my teammate's cousin, so I can't be a total dick to her and kick her out. But I did not want her to touch me. I also didn't want her to claw my eyes out." He looks at me hopefully.
I don't laugh like he clearly wants me to.
He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I'm not a player. I may have serial dated in the past, but it's different with you. I know I want you. There's no doubt in my mind."
The look in his eyes makes me think he's sincere—but can I really risk getting hurt? Do we really make any sense together?
I stay quiet while he finishes the last of his paperwork, walking silently beside him as they wheel him out to the front. I still don't speak as I drive him to his house; just nodding at the directions he gives me. Thankfully, he doesn't bother me with more explanations or chatter, either.
He gives me my space to figure it out.
Which makes this all so much fucking harder.
He actually gets me in a way no man ever has before, but he doesn't get me enough to avoid having women draped all over him with their clown boobs in his face. That's not something I can handle. I can handle the football, and I can even handle our relationship being turned into vines online of him carrying me like his trophy from the football stadium.
Inside his house, I take in his surprisingly simple decor as I get him settled on the couch. It's not what I expected. Honestly, I'd imagined trophies all over the place and a huge TV and gaming system. But he has bookshelves filled with books for crying out loud. Damn him. He does have a pretty big TV and a game system, but it isn't the center of the room. It looks barely used and it's an older model. But the books look like they've been read over and over again. He even has a fucking Nimbus 2000 replica leaning against one of the shelves. How? What? Who is this man?
"That's actually one from the set of the movie." He speaks from behind me on the couch.
"What?" I spin around to stare at him with wide eyes, forgetting my frustration with him for the moment.
He nods, smiling faintly. "Yeah. I won it in an auction. My sister keeps trying to talk me into giving it to her, but I keep telling her hell no."
"Not very brotherly, but I can't say I blame you." I turn back around to look at it. I can't believe this. I can't believe him. Why does he have to be famous? Why can't he just play on a sad old man team?
"I'll probably give in one day," he says.
I clear my throat and turn away from the broom and his shelves. He has Jane Austen. He has Jane-fucking-Austen on his shelves. The whole collection. Leather bound.
Dammit.
How can he be so perfect for me in so many ways and so terrible in so many others?
"Okay, so stay on the couch. You're supposed to rest all day. Do you have your phone?" I ask.
He holds it up, looking like I just kicked his puppy across the room. "Yeah."
"What about your charger?" I need to get moving. I need to get him settled.
He points at the hallway. "It's in my bedroom. Don't worry about it. I'm not on bed rest, Tara."
I shake my head. "No. I'll get it for you."
I wander through his house until I find his bedroom. It's decorated pretty simply. Blue comforter and a chrome and black bed frame. He has another TV in here and matching nightstands on either side of the bed. And just like he said, a copy of the book I brought to the hospital is on one of them. I shake my head, ignoring the ache in my chest and the burning behind my eyes, and grab his charger and one of his pillows, hurrying back to his living room. I shake away the images of us in his bed from my mind. Not going to happen. Never again. Nope. I can't.
I get the pillow settled behind him, closing my eyes in pain as his familiar scent swirls around me. I bend down and plug the charger into the wall and stick the other end into his phone, setting it on the coffee table in front of him.
"I'll get you some water too. Do you have your meds?" I ask, before I head off to find his kitchen.
"Tara, it's fine. I'm not an invalid," he protests.
"I know. But I said I would get you settled." And once I'm done, I have to leave. I grab him two bottles of water from his fridge and put them by his phone.
Okay, he's settled with his remote, water, and his phone charger. I can't believe I even plugged it into the damn wall for him. How pathetic. I've done all I can do, I've stalled as long as I can.
It is
time.
He watches me with huge, sad eyes, like he knows exactly what's coming.
I take a deep breath to prepare myself before speaking. "I'm leaving. And I don't want to see you again. I'm sorry. I believe you and everything, but this just...it isn't going to work." I’m thankful my voice comes out calm and steady. Inside, I'm a whirling mess of hurt and anger and grief, but I refuse to let any of that show right now.
I turn to leave, having said my peace, but his voice stops me. And his isn't steady. It breaks as he says my name. And my heart breaks along with it.
He half rises from the couch. "Tara, please. Let's talk about this."
I shake my head. If I stay and talk, he'll convince me. Just looking at him is hard enough, but if I stay, I'll never leave. And I'll regret it.
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly before I reply. "I'm sorry. I can't. It doesn't matter if you meant it or not. In fact, I even believe that you didn't want her all over you. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't. Because it showed me that I can't handle this. I can't handle the fans and the fame. I thought I could. I thought I could get past our differences and we could make it work. But we've only met and it is already so much work. It shouldn't be this hard. Not this soon—not in the beginning. It should be easy and fun and magical. Not work. Not already."
He shakes his head. "No. Maybe it should be a little easier. Maybe it is easier for other people, but I think we're worth fighting for. Things that come easy aren't worth near as much as the things you work for. And you're worth the effort to me."
I bite back tears. I will not cry here. I will not show weakness. "I'm sorry, Zach. But I'm not up for that kind of fight or work. It's not worth it to me. There's too much to overcome. I'm sorry."
I turn and all but run from his house back to my car.
I keep the tears in until I've driven a mile down the street. And then I sob the whole way home. It's as if Harry Potter had fallen for a muggle, and their worlds are just too separate. Just like Zach’s and mine. It's pointless to even try and merge them. It doesn't work. It can never work.
I've accepted it.
He may love books and I may even enjoy going to a football game enough to not even crack the spine of a book, but that's not all that comes with his job. The girls, the paparazzi, the online videos. I value my privacy and anonymity very much. I'm not even on social media and I have absolutely no desire to be. I like my quiet little life above the bookstore. I like not being surrounded by people, and I really don't want reporters camped out at my store, making things insane. That's my safe place, my comfort zone.
And I really don't want to see women throwing themselves at the man I'm trying to start a relationship with. It's good this happened so soon. Before things got even more involved. Before we fell in love.
This way, the pain will fade fast and I can move past it all. I hope. I pray. It has to. We don't know each other that well. I'll get past this. And I'm sure he has a hoard of women just waiting to soothe his wounded feelings and make him feel all better.
As I turn onto the main strip, I admit to myself that I wasn't totally honest with him. Or with myself. It's not our worlds that are too separate—I know muggles and wizards can live in harmony—it's that my feelings are too big, and I'm too afraid I'll look foolish in the end. My expectations of love are so huge, I'm just not sure a real man can live up to my fantasy expectations. My role models of romance are Darcy and Westley, Rochester and Wentworth. Granted, if I'm honest with myself, each and every one of them could be some really serious assholes a lot of the time. Oh hell. Am I so high-maintenance that I expect some sort of grand gesture from Zach? Or that I need the drama and angst that my favorite gothic novels are brimming with?
Oh, I really hope that I'm not that messed up and out of touch. Because that would truly be utterly ridiculous and I will indeed live the rest of my life alone because no one can live up to that. Maybe it's time I learned the difference between fantasy and real life.
But no. I have a valid reason. Maybe the reason isn't really how different we are, but I've fallen hard and fast for him. And there's no way I'm what he wants. He may think I am, but he's wrong. He's never been with a woman like me. I'm shiny and new and different, and a challenge. The excitement will fade eventually and I'll be the one bleeding when it does.
I'm not ready to give up on my fantasy of what I want in a relationship. I have to believe it exists, that it's possible. I'm not an idiot, waiting for a prince to wake me like in Disney movies. But I want more than settling too.
And I'm not sure I've fallen hard enough yet to be able to get past the things that come along with his job. And I really, really do not want to get hurt and be the loser book nerd who gets dumped for some blond, big-boobed whorecrux like the girl from last night.
He'll get tired of me. Or bored. Or frustrated, because I'd rather stay in than go out. I'd rather read than talk sports. I'd rather not go to every single one of his games.
I did the right thing. The best thing for me. And really for him as well. I can keep my fantasies. And he can keep his blondes.
12
Zach
I wait a few days for Tara to change her mind and contact me—but I get nothing. Just pure radio silence. So I show up at her damn bookstore with a huge bouquet of flowers made from her favorite books—Harry Potter, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, The Princess Bride. This is possibly the lamest thing I've ever done for a woman, but she's worth it. I'm determined to get her back. It's only been a few days, but I missed her smile and her laugh and her quick wit every second of our time apart.
So here I am looking like an ass, like I'm Hugh Darcy in one of those movies that I secretly like, and praying she doesn't slam the door in my face. Or throw a book at me.
I wander through her store, looking for her. She's working in the back, stocking shelves when I finally find her. There are way more customers in here than I'd like for this situation, but so be it. If I can face a dude three times my size on the field and take him out, I can handle this. Just please lord, let there be no one videoing it on their phones. I really don't feel like seeing this on TMZ or YouTube later.
I clear my throat and she speaks without looking up. "How can I help you? Are you looking for anything in particular?" Her head finally raises and her green eyes widen with shock. And I might be wrong, but I swear I see a little relief swimming in them as well.
I smile, a little sheepishly and with hope swelling in my chest. "I am looking for something in particular. You. I've realized that even though we come from different worlds, that you're a muggle in my world, and I'm a muggle in yours. That the biggest lesson in Harry Potter is that love triumphs all, and that wizards and muggles can live side by side. And I love you the way you love books. I love you the way I love football. And I want to make little football-playing wizard babies with you."
I brace myself for her response, but her eyes and expression giving nothing away. Like a moron, I shove the bouquet at her.
She looks down at it and then looks back up at me. "What the hell have you done? You paid to have someone deface precious books?"
Oh no. Oh no no no no. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I open my mouth, but I can't find a single thing to say. I'm the biggest idiot in all the lands.
Then the little sorceress grins wide and takes the bouquet carefully from me before throwing her arms around my neck and pressing her lips against mine. I smile against her mouth and sweep her into my arms, relief and joy flooding through me. The store thunders with applause and whistles, and I just know it'll be viral in less than an hour, but I don't give a flying fuck. The girl of my dreams is in my arms.
She slides back to the floor, taking my hand in her free one, clutching the bouquet to her chest. "Julie, can you handle things down here for the rest of the day? Something has come up."
The cashier grins and holds up two thumbs. "I've got it."
The customers part like the Red Sea before us as she leads me upstairs to her loft
. Inside, she places the book flowers inside a Doctor Who coffee mug and turns back to me.
"Are you sure about this?" she asks, worry darkening her green eyes to an emerald color.
I rub her arms, unable and unwilling to stop touching her. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life. Are you sure?" I ask.
"Yes." The word is so simple, but it fills me with relief.
She pulls away and turns to start fussing with the flowers, nervousness shining in her movements.
I stalk towards her, my cock taking over all my thinking. "Yeah? Prove it."
A sly grin spreads her lips wide and she meets me halfway, falling gracefully to her knees at my feet, reaching for the button of my jeans. "Okay."
I close my eyes and thank the universe for this perfect creature. She frees me from my jeans and immediately wraps her lips around my cock. I've had a hard on for her for days, and I'm not going to last long with her bobbing up and down on me like this.
I have never seen anything so fucking hot. Ever. Tara is on her knees before me, her lips around my dick, her eyes peering up at me, watching my reactions.
I moan, "Oh fuck. Fuck."
Her mouth is hot and wet and my cock's new favorite place to be. It's heaven. She rubs my head across and around the flat of her tongue, teasing me, making my legs shake. She takes me back all the way into her mouth until I hit the back of her throat. And then she fucking swallows. I jerk and air hisses between my teeth. She's going to kill me. Or I'm going to collapse right on top of her, and that will kill the mood real fast.
My hand comes to the back of her head, fisting her hair, and I start guiding her movements. She's gotten a lot more confident since the last time she did this. Her lips, her tongue, her teeth glide up and down my cock. And I thought she was amazing the first time.
I can't take anymore. I'm going to blow my load now and I want to focus on her. I want to come when I'm inside her pussy.
God, she is so fucking perfect.
I want to be inside her. Now.
First Down: A Nerdy Virgin Meets a Badboy Football Player Romance Page 10
