Page 64 of Body Check

“I . . . I feel like I need to breathe.” Her hands flutter upward, pulling out of my grasp to shove her hair behind her ears. “Tonight was—well, honestly, it was sort of dreamlike. I need to process it all.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to prove to her that all this is very much real.

The fact that she got down on her knees? Real.

The fact that she came in my arms? Real as fuck.

Through self-control alone, I only give a curt nod. Settling my hands on my hips, I stare down at her. “One week.”

She blinks once, twice. “What?”

Screw it.

Caving to my need to touch her, I brush her lips with the pad of my thumb. “One week, Holls. Think about everything you need to—work it all out in your head and figure out if you want more from me than just tonight’s hookup. If you do, next weekend . . . next weekend, I’ve got a three-day stretch with nothing but me, my couch and TV in sight, and I’d rather spend that time with you. We’ll go somewhere.”

“Gosomewhere?” She laughs at that, the sound feminine and light. “Jackson, we can’t just . . . we can’t just leave the state.”

Wanting to keep that half-smile curling her lips, I blatantly tease her. “Why not? You on house arrest or something?” I glance down at her feet. “No ankle monitor that I can see. Unless you got the invisible kind?”

She laughs again, and my heart warms right up. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a realist.”

“Says the guy who was allegedly wishing on shooting stars.”

I grin. “What? Not manly enough for you?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “I’m not saying anything about manly. I just mean that realists don’t normally wish on shooting stars. It’s not in their DNA. Way too frivolous.”

“There’s a first time for everything, sweetheart.” I tip my head back to squint up at the dark sky sandwiched between the two towering buildings on either side of the alleyway. Dramatically, I thicken my accent and drawl, “Lookie there, Ms. Carter, a shooting star!” For effect, I clamp my hand over my chest and give a fakeyee-hawof joy.

She huffs out my name through peals of laughter. “I can’t. I can’t—please, Jackson—”

Unfortunately for her, I’m not done.

I draw her up against my side, her small frame tiny against mine, and tap her chin to encourage her to look up toward the sky, too. “There she is,” I say, boisterous enough for her to hold her belly and continue to laugh. “Hold on, hold, gotta think about the right wish. Maybe somethin’ about my car forgetting about her defilement? Nah, she’ll have to learn about the birds and bees at some point.”

“To winning against Buffalo tomorrow?” Holly pipes up, getting into the spirit.

“No, ma’am.” I curl my arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. “Only one wish will do, but you have to go first.”

“I thought it was age before beauty?”

I laugh softly. “Cute, Holls, real cute.”

“Okay, okay.” She shifts her weight, feet squaring off with her hips, which brush up against mine. “If I had to wish upon a fake shooting star, I’d . . .” She taps her chin, leaning her head back to get a real good look at the midnight sky. “I’d hope that if Iwereto go on this weekend away, then I’d maybe have the chance to convince the organizer that we should visit somewhere along the coast, WiFi not needed—so we could, you know . . . talk or what not—and pancakes may be necessary.”

My heart squeezes and I do the same as her, lifting my face to the sky.

Wishing on a goddamn fake shooting star.

“I’d wish for us to go in with an open mind. No promises, no guarantees. Just leaving the past at the door for seventy-two hours and just . . . breathe.”

I hear the sharp way she sucks in a breath, and then the quieter murmur, “It sounds like paradise.”

22

Jackson

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