Page 86 of Body Check

Lifting his duffel bag off the floor and over one bulky shoulder, he stares down at the innkeeper with a look that would send any sane person running. “We’ll take the room keys, Ginger.”

Keys?As in plural?

I try to catch his eye, but he keeps his gaze resolutely on the woman in front of us.

She giggles at the steel in his voice. “I know you mentioned the two rooms, Mr. Carter, but this will be on me.” Prancing behind the front desk, she plucks a key from an old, fancy-looking vault and thrusts it up in the air. “You’ll have one, instead.” At Jackson’s protest, she cuts him off with a raised hand and an unsubtle wink. “No, no need to thank me. I’m just doing what anyone else in my position would do.”

When I make a move to grab the key off the counter, she adds, “An invitation to the wedding wouldn’t hurt either, of course.”

“Jesus,” Jackson breathes out next to me. He scrubs a hand over his face, his dark hair falling over his forehead. Louder, he says, “You got it, Ginger. Where are we?”

She drops a chin to an upturned hand and lets out a long sigh. “Second floor, second door to your left. There’s a king-sized bed, too!”

The last bit is hollered at our backs because we’re already halfway up the flight of stairs. Neither of us says a word until we’re locked in the guestroom and taking in the “charm.”

Four-poster, king-sized bed.

Floral decorationseverywhere.

Creepy porcelain figures situated on every flat surface throughout the room.

An old TV that’s the depth of my arm span, or close to it.

“The view’s pretty, at least,” I say, setting my camera bag down next to the door.

A low chuckle is my only answer before he mutters, “The curtains are clear plastic.”

I point at the settee in the far corner of the room. “It looks like the seventies vomited all over.” Striding forward, I whip open the plastic—who usesplastic?—curtains. There’s nothing but ocean as far as I can see, a beautiful blue that I can’t wait to photograph over the next two days. “But this view makes up for it.” Throwing a glance over my shoulder at Jackson, I murmur, “Who knows what our othertworooms would have looked like had Ginger not given us this one?”

His heat warms my back as his hands rest on the glass doors that lead out to a tiny balcony. “I didn’t want you to feel as though you were quarantined to the same room as me.” I feel his heavy sigh skate along the nape of my neck, and I fight off a shiver. “Let’s face it, Holls. Talking is gonna happen this weekend, and I’m sure most of it isn’t going to be all sunshine and unicorns. I never wanted you . . . fuck, I . . . I need you with me on this, us taking these steps together, not me pulling you along behind me. I figured space would help with that. I figured it wouldn’t make you panic.”

Panic, just like I did that night in Chicago when we kissed for the first time in a year.

I get where he’s coming from, I really do.

And, in a way, I want to hug him for thinking this out and doing what he can to make sure I have the space I need at all times. He’s assuming that things will get bumpy and I’ll want somewhere to lick my wounds in peace.

But space tore our relationship apart.

We were two boxers sitting in our own designated corners of the ring, never confronting each other with the issues that bubbled up between us.

He went to his teammates.

I stayed in my office.

Until our lives truly became a permanent separation.

Staring hard at the glass door, watching the whitecaps of the waves as they crash and tumble over each other, I lift my hands to settle them over his. “Sometimes love gets messy, babe. The way we were before didn’t work, so if we’re going to do this—you know, making Ginger a proud member of our future wedding—then we’ve got to change the game, flip the rules.”

His big hand leaves mine to sweep my hair back from my neck. It’s a gentle gesture, a familiar one, and so are the lips that claim that spot right behind my ear. The shiver I fought earlier returns, and this time there’s no holding it off. Jackson knows how to touch me, how to make me pant with want.

“You’ve always been a rule follower, sweetheart,” he says, his tone husky, “you sure that you know how to change the rules?”

“Weren’t you just telling me two days ago how much trouble I am?” I rock my butt against his crotch, which is nestled up against my backside. “Don’t doubt my troublemaking prowess, Mr. Carter.”

He grips my hips, pulling them sharply backward. “To a weekend of trouble.”

I ignore the fact that we don’t have champagne to properly toast and instead twine my fingers with his and rest the back of my head on his hard chest. “To a weekend of messy love.”

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