Page 77 of Body Check

Their heads are tilted towards one another, like they’re in deep discussion, probably regarding the game, and I duck my head to skirt past them for the empty row three behind theirs.

Familiar, blunt-tipped fingers tangle with mine as I step past.

The touch is so brief, so lighting fast, that my head whips to the right to stare at Jackson.

He’s still facing forward, big shoulders hunched as he discusses who-knows-what with Hall. My gaze skims down his broad, muscular form, over his shoulders and the heavy, corded muscles of his arms, to his right hand which is held straight down at his side.

It’s balled in a fist, his thumb rubbing slowly against his other fingers.

And I grin.

I grin so hard as I fall into an empty seat and plop my backpack down in my lap.

To the world, Jackson Carter is an enigma. A stone-faced enigma who sees what he wants and conquers it all in the same breath. He’s ice and confidence, cool reserve, and domineering in the face of adversity.

But long before we fell apart, he was something else to me entirely: a man who sought affection and gave it in return with no barriers held, a man who held my hand without worry as to who might question his masculinity or “toughness,” and a man who, when we went our separate ways for the day, would touch me and then ball his hand in a fist as he did just now. Only to make a joke about needing to keep me with him.

We had our own language, then.

My grin widens as I rest my head on the seat cushion, then bring my hand to my mouth, curled in a fist. I kiss my first knuckle, as I always used to do.

On our drive back to the hotel, for the first time in months, I allow myself to dream.

26

Jackson

“What can I get you to drink, my man?”

Giving a quick, cursory glance over my shoulder, I turn back around and make a move to grab my wallet before popping my credit card on the bar. “Just some soda—Coke, Pepsi. Whatever y’all got on hand. You can open a tab for me.”

If the bartender thinks it’s a little odd that I’m seated at the hotel bar and ordering a soda, he doesn’t say a word. After picking up my black Amex, he turns on his heel and takes another order from a guy a few barstools down who looks like the love child of Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg.

If Will and Marky Mark were to ever beat the odds and procreate together, that is.

As though sensing my stare, he swivels on his stool and meets my gaze. “You lookin’ at something?”

I go for broke. “You ever get told you look like—”

“Chris Hemsworth?” He shakes his curly brown hair, giving it some added fluff in the back. “Onlyevery day.”

My mouth opens, and I’m seconds away from asking in what universe does he think he would ever look like Chris-Thor-Hemsworth when a blur of blue sinks down onto the stool next to mine, effectively blocking my view of Mr. I’m-Almost-Famous.

“Did I miss anything?” Holly asks, her elbows landing on the bar as she settles herself on the stool.

I blink.

Then blink again.

No, I’m seeing things right. She’sdefinitelychanged out of the clothes she wore to the game tonight. Gone are the light denim jeans and black top. She’s in blue now, the same hue as her beautiful eyes. A dress, not jeans. It hugs her slim frame, cupping her small breasts and gliding over the curve of her hips and ass.

When she places her high heels on the stool’s metal rung, the dress’s hem drags up her thighs.

My mouth turns as dry as the Sahara.

The bartender chooses that moment to return with my drink, just in time to hear the groan that steals into my throat and escapes on a heavy exhale. He quirks a single eyebrow, then slides his gaze over to Holly. “What’s your poison, beautiful?”

Almost immediately, she wraps an arm across her chest, her nails biting into the shoulder closest to me. “Um . . . hot tea, if you have it?”

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