Page 25 of The Coach

And there he is.

Standing at my stove in nothing but a pair of black briefs, flipping bacon like he owns the place. The full daylight streaming into my apartment only makes him look better, his tanned skin glowing, every muscle and line of his body on display. He even has those little defined ridges where his abs meet his hips, my kryptonite. His happy trail, more pronounced in the natural light, disappears into the waistband of his briefs, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The man either has extremely good genetics, or is incredibly disciplined to look like that into his thirties. Probably both.

I sit up slowly, raking a hand through my hair and trying to pull myself together. My sweat pants and an old T-shirt are on the couch, and I tug them on, stealing another glance at him. He’s still humming, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m one doorway away from combusting.

When I finally step into the kitchen, Jackson glances over his shoulder, a spatula in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. His blue eyes light up when he sees me, and he smirks. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning, Coach,” I manage, my voice still hoarse from sleep. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, turning back to the stove. “Eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, coffee... the works. You seemed like you needed it after last night.”

“Pancakes?” I raise an eyebrow. “Really.”

“I raided your cabinets, and for that I apologize.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the counter as I watch him move. “And here I thought I’d have to kick you out and eat leftover pizza alone,” I joke.

He laughs, setting down the spatula and reaching for a plate. “Sorry to disappoint. I figured I owed you breakfast after making such a mess of your sheets.”

I flush, biting back a grin. “You’re very thoughtful.”

He slides a plate across the counter toward me, then pours a fresh cup of coffee and sets it beside the plate.

“Thoughtful is my middle name.”

“Is it now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I take a sip. “I thought it might be ‘Trouble.’”

Jackson grins, leaning casually against the counter, looking way too good for someone with messy hair and bare feet.

“Depends on who you ask.” He smirks. “And what’s your middle name?”

I tilt my head. “Last I remember, you were trying to decide if it was ‘Angel’ or ‘Devil.’”

“Seems like you’re trying to decide the same about me.”

I meet his gaze, smiling. “Maybe I am.”

We eat together, the conversation light, easy, and full of heat.

His knee brushes mine under the table. His grin lingers just a second too long.

And when we’re done, he leans back in his chair, cradling his coffee mug, watching me with that lazy, smoldering look that I’m getting use to.

“So,” he says casually, “I’m staying at the Riverbend Inn—nothing fancy. Would you mind giving me a ride back there to pick up my things?”

I blink. “You’re staying at a hotel? Why didn’t you mention that last night?”

He shrugs, his grin widening. “Seemed irrelevant at the time.”

“Right,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even as my brain replays every moment of the past twelve hours. “What time do you need to head back?”

“My train leaves at five,” he says. “From Riverbend Station. So anytime before that works for me.”

I hesitate, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze on me. “You’re...leaving? You’re not staying here forever?”

He nods, his expression softening. “Work calls. But I’ve got the whole day until then.” He pauses, tilting his head. “What are you doing until five?”

My instinct kicks in immediately. “Oh, you know. Busy Saturday.”

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