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I’m not entirely sure I haven’t hallucinated the offer until Celeste nudges me with her elbow. “Manners, darling.”
I blush. “Yeah, sure.” My tone is allno big deal. I get rides from gorgeous men on the regular. Nothing to see here. “If it’s no bother.”
“Not at all. I’ll pick you up first thing.” He pushes hair out of his eyes, then grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when I’m on my way tomorrow.”
My gaze flicks toward Yvonne, but she’s gone back to watching the match, unfazed that her boyfriend asked for my number. I pose absolutely no threat to her.
She’s got Nate fetching her champagne after all.
“Are you coming too?” I ask her.
The crowd suddenly erupts in cheers as someone apparently scores. Yvonne claps against her glass, careful not to jostle her drink, before glancing over at me.
“No, I’ve things to do,” she says, smiling. “But good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Okay, yeah, cool. A two-hour ride alone with Nate and his hair. That’s fine. That’s totally fine.
Shit.
I’m up and dressed early Sunday morning when I come downstairs. I received a text from Nate about fifteen minutes ago, informing me he’ll be here in forty minutes. Which gives me another, oh, twenty-five minutes to battle my growing anxiety and hope it doesn’t turn into a full-blown panic attack.
I know this isn’t a date.
But it still sort of feels like one.
Jack is at the counter when I walk into the kitchen. “Morning,” he greets me.
“Morning.” I tentatively shuffle past him toward the pantry for some cereal and pretend he’s not shirtless. That his biceps aren’t rippling as he uses a wooden spoon to mix pancake batter.
It got me rock hard.
Those rough whispered words have been haunting me for more than a week now. They’ve also become the soundtrack to my Hot Jack fantasies, which I like to alternate with my Broody Nate fantasies. The number of orgasms I’ve had while thinking of those two might be a cause for concern.
As I pass him, I notice for the first time a scar on his back. Small and round, with jagged, weblike borders. Almost like a bullet wound.
“What is that?” I demand. “Were you shot?”
He half turns to see what I’m looking at, then glances over his shoulder at the scar, feeling it with his fingers. “That? No. I fell off a four-wheeler my sister was driving. Rolled into a ditch and was impaled on a branch.”
“Wow, seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Now, this one. This one’s from getting shot.” Jack turns sideways to point out a faint mark above his hip. “My mate shot me point-blank with a paintball gun.”
“A paintball did that?” The pink raised area is evidence of the torn skin that was once blown open.
He chuckles. “A hazelnut. He filled the paintball gun with them.”
“A freaking hazelnut?” I’m at a loss. What is it with boys? Why don’t they just freeze each other’s underwear like normal people? “You need new friends, Jackie.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Abbs. Go on then. Show me yours.”
My heart does a stupid flip. “Um. Pardon me?”
Jack pours out some batter on the griddle before facing me again. “Your scars. I showed you mine. Fair’s fair.”
“I only have one.” Shrugging, I throw my foot up on a stool, roll up my linen pant leg, and point to the pale, thin line just above my knee. “Summer camp. I came in too hot on the zip line and crash-landed. Found a nail poking out of the deck with my leg.”
“Damn.”
