Page 38 of Body Check

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, cutting me off. “You’re safe from my teasing—don’t stress about it. Boundaries, right?”

Pushing off from the desk, I move toward the window. I press my fingertips to the cool glass, then glance down at the bustle of a Friday night in Boston. Car lights zoom down Arlington Street, and I think of all the evenings I spent here at the office instead of at home with the man on the other end of the line.

Curiosity pushes the words up and out of my mouth: “Why aren’t y’all watching the episode together? There’s no game tonight.”

A pause. Then, “Most of them opted to watch it with their families.”

My heart twists at everything he isn’t saying. The guys are with their wives, their girlfriends, their families, and he’s . . . “Are you at home?”

His home, girl, not yours.

I shove the thought away, refusing to give it any weight. I soldourhome almost a year ago when the memories proved to be too heartbreaking. I’m not someone who loves self-torture, and living in the same house that we bought together when we moved to Boston? It was torture at the ultimate level.

Not that being on the phone with him now is any better. Not for my peace of mind, at least.

“Jackson?”

“Yeah,” he finally says, “I’m home. Me, my takeout from Sam’s, and a bottle of water.”

At the mention of Sam’s Italian Cuisine, I can’t stop the moan from slipping out. Thinly woven dough with butter slathered over the toasted crust, and prosciutto tucked inside like a treasure of meat heaven. My mouth waters as though I’m starved, even though I scarfed down two slices of pizza less than an hour ago. “Oh my God, I haven’t had Sam’s in so long. I miss it.”

Like a lot of my other favorite things in life, I’ve avoided Sam’s since our divorce. It was the first restaurant we tried together here in Boston, and the same restaurant where we sat when Jackson first brought up that we might not be able to work out for the long haul. That night, I’d wanted to talk to him about the tension I felt growing between us. The words were barely out of my mouth before he was giving voice to the word no married person ever wants to hear.

Divorce.

I hadn’t wanted to hear it.

But deep down, behind the tears, I’d also known that we’d reached an irreversible place. We were strangers who no longer had any common ground between us beyond our wedding bands and our memories.

Good memories. Bad memories.

My forehead tips forward and kisses the window. I clutch the phone in my hand like a lifeline as I watch the activity beyond the glass—watching life pass me by as I’m forever hooked on the past.

On my ex-husband.

There’s more rustling, and then Jackson’s gravel-pitched voice drawls, “I got those little dough things you like so much.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Rub it in my face, why don’t you.” The bastard. Heknowshow much I love them.

I hear what sounds like foam containers being pried open. Hushed chewing as though he’s pulled the phone away from his mouth. A sex-on-a-stick groan that sends a spark of lust and need straight to my core.

“Damn,” he growls, “only one more left. I was going to save it for tomorrow, but I think . . .”

My mouth goes dry. “You think what?”

“I think I’ll eat it just for you, Holls. No need to thank me.” My stomach lets out a growl of its own when he tacks on, “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know, especially when I’m already stuffed.”

Listening to my ex-husband eat my favorite food shouldn’t be sexy, but here I am. Rock meet bottom: feeling hot and bothered as he tempts me with groans and happy sighs over the phone.

Figures that the sounds he’s making are as close to sex as I’ve gotten since the last timewewere in bed together.

“You’re a real gentleman, Captain.”

I hear him swallow, probably polishing off the last of the doughy treats at my expense. “I’m a lot of things, but—”

“Don’t say it.”

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