Page 16 of His Jersey

Sniffing the air, I catch a whiff of wet dog. I spot the silhouette of the mongrel guarding the door.

I swallow thickly and whisper, “Nice doggy.”

Calculating my options for escape, I scramble to get out of bed but am tangled in the sheets. My shorts are twisted around my waist and my tank top strap won’t stay up.

Looking left and right, I consider where I could hide. There’s a wardrobe, the voluminous floor-to-ceiling draperies, or maybe I could fit in one of the oversized dresser drawers. The balcony door is too far away. The dog is still in front of the other one.

What am I going to do?

The dog’s glowing eyes stare at me as if wondering whether I’d be tasty. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. On second glance, from what little I can see, he actually has a cutely expressive puppy face. If this were any other circumstance, I’d give him all the scratchies and belly rubs—I always wanted a dog, but Paula, my stepmom, was allergic.

Time to make a mad dash for the door and hope I don’t get bitten. But the sheet is like a squid and locks around my ankle. Icareen over the side of the bed. Thankfully, my landing is relatively soft atop several of the throw pillows on the floor.

A warm gust of steam billows from the bathroom, and a man emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist.

I’m looking at him upside down, which would be silly if I weren’t so stupid. I should never have risked staying in here.

He has well-defined shoulders and a chest etched from stone. Drops of water drip from his brown hair.

My pulse bangs against my chest.

His attention abruptly shifts from the bureau to me. I’ve been spotted. He goes still.

Most people would freeze or flee, but instead, I slowly shift to sitting, blinking rapidly and repeatedly because I cannot believe my eyes.

The corners of his lips lift in an amused grin. “My, my, my. What do we have here?”

My cheeks flame.

Not only am Inota resort guest, but this is supremely embarrassing. All things considered, I kind of feel like a creeper given our brief yet storied history.

But it’s definitelyhim.

Same dark brown hair, strong jaw, full lips, and toned muscles—this time glistening from the shower.

I’d never forget his low rumbly voice with the subtlest southern accent like he started in Texas but hasn’t been back in a while. The first time we spoke, I thought of Mathew McConaughey. It’s the kind of voice for late nights in a pool under the stars.

It’s Jack who I locked eyes with at the Beachside before Slater danced into my life.

Jack, who I saw the following year, jogging like he was trying to outrun something.

Last year, Jack who got his Jeep stuck in the dunes,resulting in us spending an evening together that ended with a kiss that I still feel faintly on my lips.

Jack who I told myself to forget about.

Scrambling, I say, “This is not what it looks like.”

He takes a few steps closer, reaching for a light switch.

The dog yips as if telling his person that he did a good job guarding me and should get a treat. I wrinkle my nose at him. Okay, fine, I give the puppy dog puppy-dog eyes because I’m mush when it comes to furry animals and maybe I want him to side with me.

As the light flashes on, I wave my hands frantically. “No, please, no artificial light this early. We have to center ourselves with the circadian rhythms from the sun,” I say, parroting a conversation I overheard between two designer women wearing designer sunglasses in the lobby one morning.

He exhales shortly as though debating with himself.

From the slit of light coming through the shaft from the bathroom door, I see that he must not have used the shaving supplies because he sports second-day stubble. In fact, he looks like he’s had a rocky time.

“This looks like quite the Goldilocks and the Three Bears situation.” His tone is flirty despite the circumstances.

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