Knock.

Low, masculine baritones are the only sounds I can hear. They’re not raucous or wild or loud, so I know nothing crazy is going on inside. I mean, Jackson already said the only thing happening is studying, but I don’t think I actually believed him.

They’re football players, for heaven’s sake; why would they be sitting quietly around their house on a Wednesday night?

You’re being ridiculous, Charlie. Knock on the damn door.

I pull at the hem of my shirt so it’s down over the waistband of my jeans. Then fuss with my hair for a few seconds, smoothing down the strands though I can’t see what they even look like. I’ve gone from my place to my car, then from my car to this porch—there’s no way it could have gotten mussed.

Still.

I’m nervous.

More nervous than I was for the biology midterm I had to take and pass so I could begin my application to enter the nursing program. (Totally aced it, by the way.)

Knocking on the front door of the football house is weird. The last time I was here, I entered with Jackson, which made me feel protected.

I feel like a sitting duck here on the porch by myself.

Ugh, why did I wear these stupid shoes? Heels.

Well, fine, they’re wedges—high or tall or however you want to describe them, and I wore them because Jackson is crazy tall and…dammit, I’ll probably wind up taking them off as soon as I step into the foyer. Shouldn’t have bothered.

So why did I?

Because you want him to think you’re pretty.

This isn’t a date, and we’re not buddies—I don’t think? Fine, we’re friends…I’m just not sure what kind. Being here is an odd place to be. I have no idea what to expect when I get inside. Who’s going to be sitting around, what they’re going to say, how I’m supposed to be behave…

…like a normal person?

Wow. Calm yourself, Charlie. Get into the house and overthink it later.

I text him to let him know I’m standing outside.

Me: I’m here

Jackson: K

Ugh. I hate when people use the letter K as a reply. It’s enough to send me over the damn edge, but I get it; what kind of reply was he supposed to give me?

He needs to come get me like, right now, because I am about to start actually talking to myself out loud.

The door swings open, but it’s not Jackson standing there; it’s the outline of a Hispanic guy I remember from the pumpkin-carving party.

“Hey Charlotte, what’s up?” He pulls the door open wider so I can step through, and I’m shocked—shocked and in awe that he remembers my name.

They must have dozens of girls here on a weekly basis.

“Triple J is upstairs, probably wanking it to cheap porn.” The guy smiles—for the life of me I can’t remember his name and I feel horrible about it—not flinching at what’s obviously a lie.

Jackson wouldn’t be jerking off knowing I was downstairs, would he?

Nah.

“Right.” I laugh, feet on the small patch of hardwood floor closest to the door, looking around to see who has their shoes on and off. A large dude is sprawled out on the couch, yellow headphones around his neck, glasses on his nose, laptop glowing, fingers typing faster than mine do.

Another guy is in the kitchen nearby…washing dishes?

A sight I wouldn’t have expected to see, but there you go—football players do chores. Who would have thunk?

“You want to go upstairs? His lady dungeon is the second room on the left.”

When he says lady dungeon, I laugh again, his speech laced with a sexy Spanish inflection.

Muy caliente.

Stop it, Charlie. Focus.

Up the stairs and to the left.

“Thanks, I’ll just…” I point to the staircase, and the big guy closes the door behind me.

“You kids behave yourselves. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”

“And wrap it up!” the guy in the kitchen shouts. “No pumping and dumping. Keep that shit on lockdown.”

Jeez. With friends like these, who needs enemies? If Jackson were down here, he’d be positively red, I’m certain of it.

I climb the staircase slowly, hand gliding along the shiny wooden railing, counting them out.

One…four, five.

Nine…twelve.

When I’m at the top I go the only way I can go: left. Pass one room then stop at the closed door, wondering why Jackson hasn’t come crashing through it yet, knowing he needed to come get me from the front porch.

For the second time tonight, I raise my arm to knock.

And just as my hand hits the solid wood door, it goes flying open, Jackson Jennings filling the entire space. Broad. Huge.

“Hi,” I say dumbly. “Your friend let me in.”

“Sorry, as soon as I sent that last text my mom called.”

Oh?

“She never calls, so…”

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his track pants and steps aside. “You comfortable chillin’ in my room? Or we could go downstairs?”

“Yeah, this is fine. I doubt you’re going to put the moves on me, haha.” Jackson is barely a womanizer; there’s no doubt I’m safe going into his… “Your roommate called this your lady dungeon.”

“My what?”

“Lady dungeon?” I laugh; it sounds so stupid leaving my mouth.

“Jesus Christ, what does that even mean?”

“No clue. It sounds more like he’s referring to my lady business.” I point to my private parts as a joke then catch the look on Jackson’s face. His brows have shot up into his hairline, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oh relax, I’m kidding. But it does.”

He stares at me for a few awkward seconds. “Er…’kay. Well, come on into my dungeon.”

I cross the threshold of his bedroom, busying myself by setting my purse on the desk against the far wall. Slowly, I let myself look around, taking in my surroundings.

“This looks more like a lair than a dungeon, if I’m being honest.”

“No it doesn’t.” His deep laugh echoes in the space that’s way too small for a guy his size. He dwarfs the room, larger than life.

It’s painted deep forest green, the trim a golden brown. It’s a dark man cave with a studious, library vibe. Two bookshelves flank the desk where I set my things, both of them filled edge to edge.

“You moved all these here from Texas?” I finger the spines of the books sitting on the third shelf down, the majority of them paperbacks.

“Some. The rest I’ve read over the past few years. I’ve lived in this room since I was a freshman.”

“You’ve read all these?”

“Most, yeah.”

“Huh. Another layer to your onion.” I smile, toying with a tiny action figure. “Who is this?”

I glance at him over my shoulder; Jackson still has his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Um…He-Man.”

Hmm, never heard of him. “And this?” The next figurine looks like a wolverine.

“That’s Wolverine.”

“Oh.”

The entire collection is organized neatly in a straight line, lined up one by one toward the front of the shelf. Tiny toy soldiers. A piece from a Monopoly board game—the dog, to be exact.