Page 44 of Body Check

“Do you ever wear a shirt anymore?”

His palm comes up to rub the center of his naked chest. “They’re confining.”

“They’re appropriate for public places,” I shoot back, feeling altogether way too warm. Maybe I’m developing a fever. I mean, my hands are clammy and my head feels a little heavy with pressure, but I’ll persevere. A fever can’t hold me back.

Jackson selects a button, collects his drink when the machine spits it out a moment later, and then steps to the left.

Blocking my path down the hallway that’ll lead me to the elevator.

Dammit.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me, Holls.”

God, he’s so persistent.Even if he is a little bit right.

I step to the right, prepared to dart around him toward freedom. “We’ve both been busy. Do you know how many minutes I’ve filmed today?Hours’worth of minutes. Then there’s getting with Carmen and Adam to edit them all, and you’ve been at practice . . .”

Because Jackson knows me way too well, he does nothing but stand there, legs spread like he’s a gladiator prepared to fight to the death—or keep me from escaping. His soda canpops!as he thumbs open the aluminum tab.

Never mind, persistent no longer covers it, not when he’s clearly waiting me out.

Like he’s been yanked straight from a commercial on TV, he tips the soda can up to his mouth and takes a long pull, looking rugged and handsome and too masculine for comfort. His brown eyes never leave my face.

I fidget with the straps of my bag—and then I cave, miserably. “So, okay, maybe I’ve been . . . ensuring that we don’t cross paths.”

“Why?”

Because . . .

My eyes slam shut so I don’t have to make eye contact with the man who’s haunted my dreams these last few nights. I like to think that I’ve matured over the last year into a woman who doesn’t need a man’s approval. Not that I’ve ever really needed a man’s approval because I haven’t, but . . . Well, I’ve always lovedJackson’sapproval, and hearing him tell me how proud he is of me shifted something in my heart. Made me wonder all about thosewhat-ifsfor far longer than is socially acceptable when you’re talking about your ex-husband.

I need space, which is nearly impossible when we’re stuck in the same vicinity for days on end, with no reprieve in sight until we’re boarding the plane back home to Boston.

“Some things,” I finally mutter, “are better left unsaid.”

There’s a hollowthudsound, and then pressure is at my back, fingers slipping under the straps of the bag.Jackson.

Whirling around, I put one palm up, face out, and take two quick steps back. “What’re you doing?”

His mouth curls, not quite a smile but not so tight-lipped either. “Taking the weight off your shoulders.”

I stare at him. “Going for double entendres now?”

“Just being a gentleman.”

“I thought you were aiming high for a chance at playing king?”

“Well, that was the plan,” he says, catching me off guard when he pushes at the backstraps at my shoulders, “but that was before you told me Beaumont was already wearin’ the crown.”

My backpack slips down, and I make a move to stop its downward trajectory, bending my elbows.

Jackson is faster.

He tugs on the straps, sending them down to my wrists, where he hooks a finger under each plush arm. My tripod and light reflector fall to the thin carpet with a quietthud.His warm breath wafts over my face, and it’s only then that I realize the position we’re in: his arms looped around me, forearms resting on the curve of my butt, my hands palming his chest as I try to maintain my balance.

Hisnakedchest.

I swallow. “Your nipples are hard again.”

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