Page 18 of His Jersey

“Not a morning person, huh? It’s not like I barged into your hotel room,” I counter, unsure why she’s so hostile.

“Not ayouperson. Maybe the night in the Jeep, eating cheeseburgers, and then sneaking a swim—not to mention our long conversation—didn’t mean anything to you.” Her expression crushes in on itself before she replaces it with one of annoyance.

I balk, trying to recall who she is, but come up blank much like I did with Cassandra. It doesn’t help that I can barely see her since she’s syncing her circadian rhythm or whatever.

“Listen, I didn’t ask you to come here. If this is about the game, my conversation with Remy—or wait, Aston didn’t put you up to this, did she?” This has @QueenAston written all over it.

Her jaw lowers because she has no idea what I’m talking about, she’s deflecting guilt, or shocked that I’d accuse her of doing something so absurd.

Bark Wahlburger whines, making my stomach sink like I’m as far from the truth as I am from winning another hockey game.

Squinting in the low light, I step closer, still in the towel.

She moves to cross her arms in front of her chest and her finger catches in her hair and the hoop earring she must’ve slept in. “This isn’t fair. You’re not allowed to look this handsome, dare I say, alluring with a bit of woo in your swagger—while I’m so hideous in my second-hand pajamas and muddy Big Bird-in-a-windstorm hair.”

My eyebrows shoot up, amused at the description.

Brown eyes bulging as if realizing what she said, she adds, “Oh, um, that’s just me talking in my sleep.” She attempts to make a snoring noise that sounds more like a snort.

A laugh escapes.

But she huffs, shutting me down, then tosses the pillows around, looking for something. One flies toward my head.

“Oops. Didn’t mean to try to take you out.”

With a chuckle, I deftly catch it. Bark Wahlburger snags one in his mouth like a frisbee.

“What a good boy! The dog. Not you.” Her lips bunch together. “You’re a first-class jerk.”

“Are there other classes?”

She grumbles in response.

Crossing the minefield of pillows, I throw open the curtains, letting the pale gray light of early morning pour in.

“I’m not ready for that.” She turns abruptly away, practically cowering and shrinking into the shadows like a creature from a lagoon.

Only she’s not. She’s beautiful, backlit by the glowing sun as I step into her space. She radiates warmth, yet goosebumps pebble my skin. I swallow.

I wasn’t ready for that either. My breath catches.

Her hair is messy, but in a sexy way. Those big brown eyes that I’ve thought about more than once sparkle, and her curves are deliciously feminine.

My thoughts come to me slowly, fitting together one piece at a time. “Tell me what’s …” but my gaze lingers, lengthens as I take her in.

“Wow. I must be the most atrocious thing you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

I shake my head, blinking because this cannot be.

She proffers a slim smile. “My ego is on fire, drowning, and being smashed to smithereens all at once.” She starts to turn, as if ready to cut her losses and she mutters something about getting her stuff when she cleans up later, but it doesn’t make sense because finding her here again, after all this time, seems impossible.

I grab her wrist and the wrinkles in my memory smooth and my voice surfaces as if from a dream, I ask, “Jasmin?”

A shaky breath escapes her chest and she nods slightly.

I feel myself brighten with the sun and an amused smile lifts onto my lips. “Your hair is longer, lighter.”

“And out of control.” She smooths her fingers through the strands like an old nervous habit.

---