Page 95 of Body Check

I got him there. Boyishly, he scratches behind his ear and flashes me an endearing smile. It’s all innocence, which I don’t believe for one hot second. I tap him on the chest, right over his heart. “Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” he asks, giving me The Look, dialed up to a hundred.

A giggle escapes my mouth. “The one where you’re thinking about getting me nak—”

“Carter!”

At the masculine voice behind me, I whirl around, only to find Mark Fillmore standing there with his arm wrapped around another man’s lean frame. After two months of working withGetting Pucked’s director, I’ve never seen him out of his usual attire: slacks, dark shirt, leather loafers.

That’s not the Mark Fillmore who showed up tonight.

He’s rocking dark-washed jeans and a burgundy turtle neck, and holy crap, but is he wearingcowboy boots? Not an everyday sight here in Boston, that’s for sure.

“Carter, I’msoexcited that I ran into you.” Fillmore sends me a quick hello and draws the other man forward. “Sorry for pulling the fanboy act over here, but my husband Carl has always been a fan of yours.”

When I make a move to step back and give them some space to talk, Jackson’s arm tightens around my back and stalls my flight. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure how Mark Fillmore might take my relationship with Jackson. Had he hoped for some drama like Steven Fairfax had? When he doesn’t even bat an eye at seeing Jackson and I standing so close together, I decide that Mark Fillmore probably doesn’t care at all.

“As soon as I told Carl that you’d be here tonight, hehadto come,” Fillmore is saying now, all bright smiles and twinkling eyes. “From one queen fan to another, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity.”

Beside me, Jackson’s body freezes.

Tossing him a quick, confused glance, I fix my attention on the Fillmore couple in front of me. “A Queen fan?” I ask, my hand looping around Jackson’s back to slip into the front pocket of his slacks. “Like,We Are the ChampionsQueen?” I bump Jackson’s hip with mine. “How appropriate, right? This season is totally reminding me of a scene fromThe Mighty Duckswhen Emilio Estevez first met the team.”

“Emilio Estevez?” Fillmore asks, brows drawn together.

“Coach Bombay? You know, now that I think about it, it’d be hilarious to do a round-table interview with the guys on which player they think they’re most like from the movie.” Slyly, I prop my chin on Jackson’s arm and glance up at his face. “You’d be Charlie Conway, I think. Stoic, an overachiever, the captain.”

Jackson’s throat works with a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple dodging downward. “Fillmore’s, ah, not talking about Queen.”

“No?”

A flush crests over Jackson’s cheekbones. “No, he, uh . . .” He hooks a finger over the starched collar of his button-down, pulling at the material in obvious discomfort. “He’s talking about—”

“Celine Dion,” says Fillmore’s husband, Carl. “Thetruequeen.”

I think, maybe, a sound emerges from my throat. It’s tough to tell when I’m choking on air and burying my face in Jackson’s arm.Celine Dion? Not that there’s anything wrong with her—she’s got anamazingvoice—but Jackson is more of a heavy metal or rock connoisseur. The more screaming, the happier he is. He wouldn’t know a Celine Dion song if it bit him in the butt.

Jackson fidgets under my touch. “Listen, Carl, I think it’s great that you’re a fan but—”

“I asked the bartender if he could play usMy Heart Will Go On.”

Oh, oh this istoogood.

Conspiratorially, I lean toward Carl. “You mean, like karaoke?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man smile the way Carl does now. He positively lights up at the mere thought of rocking it out to some Celine with his athlete crush, Jackson. “That would be lovely!” he exclaims, hands already forming a fake mic and a stand. In pure mime fashion, he dips the invisible stand like he’s impersonating Elvis Presley, and even begins to tap one foot in beat to the rhythm playing in his head.

“I think I need to piss.”

“You’re fine,” I tell the terrified man beside me as he eyes the bathroom over the sea of heads. “You play in front of thousands of fans weekly. What’s one little song with a fan?”

His dark eyes narrow to slits. “I don’t know,sweetheart,” he grinds out, mouth next to my ear, “how about you find out with me?”

I jerk back. “No way am I singing with y’all. No effing way.” Pointing at my chest, I feel my anxiety spark to life. “I’m the woman behind the camera, not the one in front of it.”

Jackson quirks a brow. “Scared?”

“Yes. Are you kidding me? Of course I’m scared.”

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