Page 132 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Five minutes later, we start announcing the winners. A few people groan good-naturedly as they’re outbid. Others beam like they just won the lottery. I catch Jackson chuckling when someone fist-pumps over winning his signed hockey stick.
And just like that, the energy shifts again. Lighter now. Celebratory.
The music kicks in. The lights soften. And slowly, the ballroom begins to slide from formal to festive.
Jenna appears beside me, grinning. “Want to know the number?”
“You already have it?”
She nods, eyes sparkling. “Total from tickets, sponsors, donations, and auction items combined… it’s just over two-fifty.”
For a second, I forget how to speak. Then I let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little.” She nudges my arm. “You did it.”
No,wedid it. But the pride blooming in my chest is impossible to ignore. All the sleepless nights. All the planning. All the pressure.
Worth it.
Jenna tilts her head. “Are you going to make him wait all night to dance with you?”
I glance at Jackson across the room, who’s already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He catches my eye, smiles that slow, easy smile, and starts making his way toward me.
A moment later, he’s at my side, one hand slipping into mine, the other settling low on my back as he leans close. “You blewthem away,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my temple. “Seriously. That was incredible.”
His words land somewhere deep, unexpected. I press my cheek to his shoulder, letting myself rest there for a moment. His familiar musky scent grounds me, calming the last of my nerves.
The music swells, and he shifts slightly, guiding me toward the floor. I follow without resistance.
As we step into the light, something shifts low in my abdomen. It’s a faint pull, not painful, just enough to catch my breath. The sensation lingers, a low, unfamiliar tension that makes my stomach flutter before it fades.
It’s probably just stress. Or fatigue. Or the four bites of dinner I managed all night.
I blink, steady myself, and breathe it away. Just the end of a very long day.
Jackson squeezes my hand, and I lean in, willing my body to fall in line.
Right now, all I want is this moment.
Just the music.
Just him.
Just us.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JACKSON
The house is still when I wake. No cartoons echoing down the hallway. No tiny footsteps barreling toward the kitchen in search of cereal. Just the soft breath of morning and the weight of Ava curled beside me.
She’s still asleep, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched toward my side like she reached for me in her dreams. Her hair’s a dark halo against the sheets, a few strands stuck to her cheek.
I shift onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow. The sun’s just barely breaking through the curtains, washing her skin in gold. She looks peaceful. Spent, but peaceful.
I brush a knuckle lightly down her arm. She doesn’t stir.
She pulled off something massive last night: quarter of a million dollars raised, a ballroom full of people hanging on her every word. She was fire on that stage. Brilliant and radiant and in control.
