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“Really, it’s fine. But you should get him home. He looks beat.”
“Yeah.”
“Dad,” Ben said, tugging my shirt. “I really wanted Griff to sleep over tonight. Can he?”
A sleepover? I’d brought the idea up to Ben before and he’d always completely shut it down. I shrugged, even though I was fist-pumping on the inside for my little guy to show a sign that he was stepping outside his box. “Sure, if Nola is okay with it.”
Nola winced. “Griff is pretty attached to my hip. If he woke up and I was gone, he’d freak.”
“You can sleep here,” Ben said. “Daddy won’t mind.”
Even the thought of Nola sprawled out on my couch all night made my dick twitch traitorously. Why hadn’t I thought before I spoke? Obviously, she wasn’t going to leave Griff here with me alone. “Yeah,” I said, feeling a little strained. “You can stay here with him. If that’s what you want.”
“You’re sure?” Nola asked.
“Yeah, but you’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll use the couch.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
Nola chewed her lip, looking toward Griff, who was still face-down like a casualty of war. When she looked back up and her deep blue eyes met mine, a spike of excitement ran through me.
Dirty, ill-advised, stupid excitement.14NolaJack Kerrigan looked like a highly tuned, confusingly fit mountain man with tattoos. Except the closer you got, the more you saw hints that something else might be hiding beneath the beard and the rugged exterior.
Those were the thoughts running through my head as I stood by his bed and watched him make sure it was fitted with fresh sheets and pillows.
“I really don’t mind helping.”
Jack waved me off with his hand, eyes fixed on the sheets. He walked to the other side of the bed and tugged a little, making sure it was perfect. On his way back to my side of the bed, he stubbed his toe on the leg of the bed. Jack cursed under his breath, stumbled, but caught himself.
I put my hand over my mouth, hiding my smile. Little by little, I’d seen that Jack was absolutely a klutz. He also had a habit of quietly looking to see if I’d noticed after he’d whack his knee on a coffee table, spill something on his shirt, or bang his head on a cabinet door. As odd as it was to combine the word “adorable” and the guy who seemed like the epitome of manly capability, there it was. It was adorable how much he cared about his son. It was adorable that he was so concerned with making sure the bed was made just right. And it was adorable that he was somehow a professional athlete who couldn’t go a full day without at least stubbing his toe or adding another bruise to the collection.
It felt like a chink in the armor he wore, even if I wasn’t sure it was wise for me to search for ways inside his armor. No. I needed to stay right where I was. Outside his armor. Outside his bed.
Because all those things were reasons to let Florida slip by. Reasons I didn’t need to have floating around in my brain.
Jack gave a heave and tossed the heavy gray comforter over his bed. He repeated his obsessive back and forth process of tugging at the corners and moving around the bed until it was perfect.
“I’m going to feel bad climbing in there and messing up your artwork,” I said.
Jack looked up, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, it’s comfier when it starts out right.”
“Is that so?” I thought to the way I climbed into an unmade bed almost every night of my life and wondered if I’d been doing it wrong.
Jack shrugged. He bent down and smoothed the wrinkles from the comforter with his palms, then backed away and gave it one final look over. “Alright. I’ve got to go set up my spot on the couch.” He tried to move past me, and before I could think about it, I had put my hand on his arm.
“Hey,” I said. I swallowed hard when I saw how close we were standing with his body close enough to bathe me in his heat. “You’re sure about the couch?”
“I’m sure, Nola.”
Nola. Why did the way he said my name make my knees want to spontaneously combust? I blinked a few times, then nodded. “And you’re sure about me staying here?”
“If you promise not to touch me like this anymore, I’ll be more sure.”
I looked at where my fingertips were still on his hard, tanned skin. I felt how my breasts were practically sandwiching his shoulder. And when I met his eyes, I saw it wasn’t irritation or revulsion that drove his words. It was worry.
Why would he be worried?
Automatically, I took a jerky step back from him. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better at—well, keeping my hands off you. Mr. Kerrigan,” I added to make things sound more professional.
