Page 46 of Body Check

“Holly.”

My eyes screw shut at his deep baritone and the plaintive note that he can’t quite hide.

“Your snack-stealing habits aside, can we agree that lying never had a seat at our table?”

Tipping my head back, I stare up at the ceiling. Suck in a harsh breath, even though my heart is pounding a mile a minute. “You were my best friend. Even if I’d wanted to keep something from you, my heart never let me—and my mouth, well, we both know that I say everything that sometimesshouldn’tbe said.”

Jackson sets my backpack down inside the room, then makes a grab for my other gear. He puts those down too. He faces me, then, hands on the doorframe, his muscled torso all on delicious display.

“I don’t want to lie to you.” His dark eyes slip down my frame and then seem to drag, slowly, all the way back up to my face. Above his stubble, his cheeks are flushed. “I don’t want to lie, and I feel like I’ve got to say this—to get it off my chest—but, fuck, I know you’re not going to want to hear it.”

Immediately, scenarios dart through my head and none of them are all sunshine and unicorns.

He’s seeing someone else.

He’s seeing someone else and he doesn’t want me to find out the hard way.

He’s seeing someone else and it’s serious, and oh my God, I think I’m going to vomit. Or cry. Or maybe a mixture of both.

I thought I’d be ready for this moment. Hell, I’ve spent months preparing for a time when Jackson moved on and then I forced myself to move on, and I don’t think I’m breathing.

In and out, girl. In. And. Out.

My hands go to my chest, tugging on my cotton T-shirt. I pull it away from my clammy skin, desperately needing air because my head feels like it’s going to pop clear off my neck. I’m Holly Belliveaux Fucking Carter.

Carter.

I’ll need to go back to my maiden name because no new girlfriend or future wife is going to appreciate theex-wife still sporting her ex-husband’s surname. And maybe I should have changed it by now, but—confessional—I’m rather attached to it.

I don’t feel like a Belliveaux, I feel like aCarter.

“Holls.”

In. And. Out.

In and out.

Inandout.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got to breathe.”

I’m trying. Doesn’t he see that I’m trying?

“Fuck it.”

Muscular arms swoop around me, hauling me up into the air before I can protest. His name leaves my lips when he sweeps a palm over the back of my head, tucking me in like precious cargo so I don’t bang my skull on the doorframe.

The door creaks shut behind us. The light flickers on with a flip of a switch. And then Jackson moves smoothly toward the full-sized bed in the center of the room. He sets me down with ease, on the edge so my feet come in contact with the floor. As though they’ve betrayed me—like they remember a time all on their own when Jackson used to fit himself between them—my legs spread, leaving enough room for him to settle in the V of my open thighs.

Jackson takes advantage.

He sinks to his knees before me, but he’s so tall and I’m so short that we’re almost at eye level. And then he settles his palms over the curve of my hips.

Like he has every right to do so.

I don’t tell him to back off.

“You need to breathe,” he husks out, gently squeezing my flesh until I meet his steady gaze. “You need to breathe for me, Holls. You’re having one of your panic attacks.”

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