Mmm.

This beats all of it.

The mediocre dates that fizzled, resulting in and meaning nothing. The sex I had with my ex-boyfriend.

I must have rolled away from him in my sleep, and the space between us is cold, so I scoot back, inching toward him in the dark. Press my back against him where it belongs, my ass firmly planted against his front—his resting dick no longer at full mast and stiffly begging for attention.

I cuddle deeper, loving the warmth from his big body. He’s kicking off heat like an inferno—a hotbox, my mother would call him. His gentle snore reminds me of a slumbering bear.

A gentle, slumbering bear.

Jackson is more sensitive than I would have given him credit for; his passion for football runs deeper than his passion for anything else, and that’s what makes him fantastic.

But there’s more to him than that, and I believe he’s just starting to realize it. He is discovering things about himself he didn’t know before. Like there is life after football if you open yourself up to it.

There is life off the field. People can love you for more than what you can give them; they can love you for you.

Love.

It’s too soon for that, but the stirrings are there—I can feel them every time I’m with him. They grow every single day, every time he says something sweet in that Southern accent of his. Charming. Aloof.

Jackson is shy.

It took me some time to realize it because I was judging him solely by his size and appearance—huge, towering giants of men don’t normally give off a timid vibe, but now that I’m learning more about him…

I see it. I see him.

A sweet boy who wants more than the ball he throws around.

Jackson Jennings doesn’t give a shit about money or fame; all he wants is his father to be proud of him. Wants his mother to show him affection. He’s craving it.

Well I have some news for you, Jackson Jennings: I’m proud of you. And I want to show you affection.

I just wish he would tell me how he felt so I knew…

His arms tighten around me, slowly snaking down to my midriff and hugging me gently. The low snore in my ear is oddly satisfying.

We’re both content.

I sigh.

Lie there quietly thinking, trying to settle my brain so I can rest, not even sure what woke me in the first place.

Stifling a yawn, I close my eyes—it’s too dark to see, anyway—choosing a spot in my mind so my thoughts can wander back to sleep. Classes. Fall. It’s going to rain tomorrow. Sweaters. The holiday. Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.

Ugh. Go back to sleep, Charlie! Turn off your brain!

It takes me a good while. Listening to Jackson’s breathing pattern helps; it’s constant, the rhythm soothing. I feel safe and secure wrapped in his arms, and he shifts, his large form behind me, nose still buried in my neck.

I lie still as he readjusts, hands unclasping from my midsection, one of them working up my hip, my arm, until his fingers are brushing the long strands of hair away from the column of my neck where his face just was.

He kisses below my ear.

Lies in the dark, coming awake, stroking my hair, fingers raking through it tenderly. Quietly, not making a sound.

My body relaxes, drifting. Weightless.

Then.

Jackson speaks.

It’s a low whisper—just my name.

“Charlotte.”

I remain still; for some reason, I remain completely unmoving. Unflinching.

Curiously, I wait.

“Are you awake?”

I pretend to be sleeping, control my breathing.

His fingers lightly play with the hair by my ear, coiling it around his index finger, trailing it down the skin of my cheek.

His chest makes a sound, and though we’re pressed together, he moves closer still, lips on my shoulder. Hand on my upper arm, he presses another kiss on my skin.

I hear his breath pause. His mouth opens. “What are you doing to me?” he asks out loud, softly.

What am I doing to him? What does he mean?

“I thought I had everything figured out. What am I supposed to do now?”

What on earth is he talking about?

“I’ve never met anyone who made me want to change.”

Oh.

Oh!

I try to keep my breaths even to hide the fact that my heart begins beating in overtime. It’s racing inside my chest as I wait for him to keep talking, silently begging for more words.

He’s opening up because he thinks I’m asleep and can’t hear him. Should I say something? Is it wrong that I’m lying here pretending?

“You’re so pretty,” he coos near my ear. Kisses my hair. “God you’re gorgeous. I could stare at you all day, do you know that?” He chuckles deep in his chest. “Of course you don’t know that, you’re sleeping.”

Oh my god, could he be any more adorable? Guh!

“I don’t know how to give you what you want, but I want to try,” he continues. “Don’t hate me when I fuck it up, please. You’re the only one who gives a shit about me right now.”

My heart.

My heart…

It clenches. Breaks for him. That’s not true! I want to shout, not knowing if it’s actually true or not. It’s his truth, and that’s really all that matters.

A tear escapes the corner of my eye when he lays a soft kiss to my temple.

“I wanna do right by you, Charlotte Edmonds.”

Do right by you.

So Southern I want to swoon—and I would, if he knew I was awake and I could gush over his words.

I continue playing dead.

“What do you want from me? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”

Don’t talk like that, I want to say. You don’t have to give me anything—just your…just you.

“I’m not fallin’ in love with you.” Jackson pauses. “That can’t be what this is.”

I think he’s done—because what more is there to say? He practically admitted he’s falling in love with me—but he keeps talking to the bedroom, spilling his guts to the dark.

The walls have ears…

“You like me, don’t you? Me for me, not because I play ball? You’d stick with me if I decided not to play in the pros I know you would.” He’s wishful-thinking out loud, but he’s one hundred percent right. I would stand by him, no matter what. If we were in a relationship, it wouldn’t matter to me what Jackson decided to do.

Besides…

Being a professional football player is dangerous. Why would I want to send him off week after week with the possibility that he’d get injured? I’d be a nervous wreck watching him on the field every week—waiting for the career-ending hit to take him down. Could my nerves handle that?

Doubtful.

“I don’t love you.” Pause. “Do I? Shit.” Then, “Do you love me?”

My breath—it escapes me completely, and my body goes completely still.

“Do you love me? Of course you don’t.”

Jackson laughs, this time louder than before. If he thinks I’m sleeping, it’s certainly loud enough to wake me up. Does he care? Does he know what he’s saying? What he’s asking me?

“Love.” He tests the word, his voice deep and baritone and smooth. “Love.”

Luuv.

I can hear him thinking as the seconds tick by. He sighs into my hair. “I’m an idiot. What the fuck am I even talkin ’bout?”