Page 126 of Hiding in the Outfield

My phone dings. Jackson’s name stares back at me, but no message is visible. I tap open our message thread. My eyes fly wide, and I immediately click the lock button.

Ohmigod.

I can’t unsee it. The picture of Jackson on his knees, phone camera pointed at the mirror in front of him as his pleading blue eyes stared straight at me. Completely naked. Hair drenched, water dripping down his meaty chest and thick abs, steam slightly obscuring the picture. But it didn’t obscure what his fist was wrapped around.

My phone dings again, and I swallow hard. My fingers shake as I open the chat.

Jackson

Not even if I beg like this?

Oh dear.

Another message pops up.

Jackson

I’ll be such a good boy for you.

And I’m dead.

I also have a situation. I scoot my chair closer to the edge of the table I’m sitting at. Open-floor plans do not serve inconvenient hard-ons. Horrible day to choose to wear my thin linen pants.

I glance around the office and quickly type out a message.

Me

You will pay for that.

Jackson

Counting on it.

Who is this man? And what has he done with Jackson Olander?

I pause.

Or maybe…maybe this has been Jackson Olander all along.

“Frankie! Your date’s here!”

I grin at Pao Pao’s shout as I check myself in the mirror. I run a finger under my eye and clean up my eyeliner even though it’s already fine. My stomach is in knots, and my heart hasn’t stopped flitting around like a caged bird the entire time I’ve been getting ready.

I smooth my hand down my high-waisted forest-green trousers. The buckle of my gold belt glints as I turn from side to side and give myself one last perusal. My ivory silk shirt ripples, plunging V giving an enticing glimpse of my chest. That was a calculated decision. Jackson deserves a little torture after that picture yesterday.

I slide on my gold loafers, then slowly make my way down the stairs. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been on a date like this. I’ve met guys with the intention of hooking up. I’ve dressed up to go to the bar or the club. I took Jackson on a weekend getaway of batting cages and ice cream. But a real dinner date? Not since Nick.

I turn and make for the kitchen. The minute my feet hit tile, my gaze locks on ice-blue.

I still.

My world stills.

All I can register is the man standing in front of me as sound fades away. He’s in a black T-shirt that might as well be a second skin. I can make out every groove and ridge of muscle. The sleeves hug his biceps like my fingers itch to. It’s tucked into a pair of crisp black dress pants, black belt to match. His dark-brown locks have been styled so they’re slightly slicked back and out of his face, a slight curl to them.

Dear Lord, he’s screaming Johnny from Dirty Dancing right now.

His smile freezes, then slowly slides off his face until his jaw is completely slack. Something flashes across those blue irises.