“You’re…” He swallows. “So. Pretty.”

Now I’m swallowing; his nerves are contagious. “We’ve kissed twice before—it wouldn’t kill you to do it a third time, would it?”

“I…”

I let my back hit the headboard so we’re matched, sitting on the bed beside one another, both facing the opposite wall. Jackson’s hands unclasp, then spread. Palms get set on his knees, until he lets his left hand drop to the bed. Flat on the mattress, it rests next to mine, our fingers mere centimeters away from touching.

I look down.

Jackson looks down.

I watch as his long, strong pinky finger moves toward mine, slowly but surely creeping those few millimeters to close the gap. Suck in a breath when he strokes my pinky with his. Moves his entire palm over my skin; it’s warm and calloused. Huge.

Engulfs my hand entirely, dwarfing it like a tide sweeping in, onto the beach and swallowing the shore whole. I’m enthralled by the sight of our hands together on his dark blue bedding. Mine pale and light, his tan and weathered. Bruised and battered.

Abused.

It’s rough, but still it sends nerves bouncing around my body when it caresses the skin of my knuckles, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing back and forth. Curious.

“Your hand is so soft.”

It is.

“I, um, use a lot of lotion.” Was that a stupid thing to say?

We sit like this a little too long, neither of us really knowing what to do or say, how to make the next move. And since Jackson still hasn’t said whatever it is he invited me over for…I let him. Let him stroke my hand.

“You haven’t dated anyone in three years?” His question is random and out of the blue. Unexpected.

“Yeah, it’s been three years.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “No reason. I guess I just haven’t felt…” My shoulders rise and fall again. “I haven’t met anyone I clicked with.”

“Do you click with me?”

“Are you asking because you think we have a connection? Or because you genuinely don’t know if we have chemistry?”

“I want to hear your answer first.” So annoying, but I get it; he’s insecure and wants reassurance. Isn’t about to open himself up until he knows how I feel.

Fine with me.

“I think we click. I hope we do? Maybe I’m wrong, but…” I shift on the bed but don’t move my hand. “I think we get along.”

Get along? Ugh, I want to face-palm myself.

“I don’t mean get along—I meant we’re attracted to each other. I think we’re…that. I think we have a connection? Don’t we?” My god, why are you still talking? Shut up, Charlie. “I’ll stop talking.” I sneak a peek at him. “What do you think?”

“I agree.”

“Is that why you wanted to talk?”

Jackson nods. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout a bunch of stuff, mainly ’bout how I’ve been wastin’ time—not wastin’ time, that’s not the right word.” He pauses, searching. “My focus has always been on football, but I think I might be ready for it to…not be only on football. Do you know what I’m tryin’ to say, Charlotte?”

Yes, but I want to hear you say it. “Not really? Could you be more clear?”

Jackson’s face turns as red as a beet. “I’m sayin’… Shit, I’m sayin’ I want to spend time with you. In a romantic capacity.”

Romantic capacity? Welp, that’s the most unromantic way to put it, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the poor boy looks as if he’s going to shit himself.

Plus, he’s from the South, and don’t they say flowery shit like that? No offense.

“We already have a head start since we’ve already been on our first date.” I bite my lower lip, remembering how fun that date was. The pumpkins and the boys who live in this house crashing the entire thing. Giant children, the entire lot of them. If I dated Jackson, I’d be spending more time with the football team.

“I’ll probably fuck most of this up. I won’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

“Who does?”

“Plenty of people.”

“Jackson, all you have to do is be sweet and, uh…kiss me when you want to.” I straighten my spine against the headboard, knowing—expecting—him to take the hint. Expecting him to seize the moment and plant one on me.

“Whenever I want to, eh?”

“Eh.”

“I can do that?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” We watch each other until the energy inside the room crackles. Until he moves his hand from my palm to my thigh, sliding it up my jeans, causing my breath to hitch—it’s so unexpected.

Our shoulders bump when he tries to lean in and kiss me, and we’re in such an awkward position—side by side—making it difficult. His shoulders are way too wide. Even when he tries twisting his torso to reposition himself, it’s just as uncomfortable. And impossible.

Maybe not for someone with experience, but it is for us, because Jackson has none.

All this is so new to him; I don’t want him to get discouraged and stop because we’re plopped on the bed like morons.

So.

I do the only thing a girl can do in this situation: shift out of the spot I’m in, get on my knees, and crawl over to him. Straddle his legs so we’re face t0 face, my ass resting on his thighs.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” His voice is gruff, and his hands? He’s not quite sure what to do with them. Nature takes over a few seconds later, though, and those big paws get planted on my hips. Gripping them gently, holding me steady.

“Is this okay?” I ask. “I feel like I’m manhandling you.”

“If I’d known you were this bossy…”

“You would have what?”

“Invited you over weeks ago.”

“You didn’t know me weeks ago.”

“But I know you now.”

Jackson is still, eyes fastened on my mouth. His chest heaves up and down, a physical sign his heart is racing—like mine is.

“You know…” I lean in close—so close. My loose hair hangs around my face, brushing his chest as I whisper, “At some point, you’re going to have to be the one to kiss me. I’m not going to make the first move all the time.”

He gives a definitive jerk of the head. “Deal.”

Then.

I kiss him.

Cup his beautiful face in my delicate hands and kiss him square on the mouth. My palms slide over his skin, relishing how warm it is. His ruddy cheeks, burned from the sun. Freckles on the bridge of a nose that looks like it’s been broken in a few places and probably has.

I kiss the freckles. I kiss the sunburn.

The corner of his bushy eyebrow, first one, then the other. They’re dirty blond, like he is, and unkempt—like he is. Jackson needs a haircut, and I weave my fingers through the longish locks, pulling them back as if I’m going to tie them with an elastic band.

I have one on my wrist, but I don’t use it, instead letting his silky strands slip through. Again. And again.

My body dips so my lips can kiss the column of his neck, just below his ears, and Jackson groans when they make contact. Mouth brushing along the sensitive skin just below the lobe. Give it a teasing nip and suck.