Page 5 of Jessa & Jaxon (What Happens In Vegas #1)

Something’s wrong.

I’m enveloped in warmth and my body relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in years. I snuggle deeper into the source of this unnatural comfort, then freeze as realization slams into me.

My eyes snap open.

I’m draped across Jaxon’s chest like it’s my personal mattress. My leg is thrown over his, my arm wrapped around his torso, my head tucked neatly under his chin. His arm holds me securely against him, his hand resting on my hip.

Oh my god.

My heart launches into panic mode, thundering against my ribs, but I force my body to remain still.

Maybe I can extract myself without waking him.

I’ll slip away, pretend this never happened, and we can avoid the mortification of acknowledging that I apparently decided to use him as a body pillow in the middle of the night.

Carefully, I lift my head to gauge if he’s in a deep sleep. His breathing seems steady, his face relaxed. Good.

Operation Extricate Myself From Embarrassment is a go.

I start by sliding my leg off his with slow, careful movements. Millimeter by millimeter. I’m practically holding my breath.

“Morning.”

The word vibrates against my cheek, like he’s still half-asleep.

I go rigid, pulse hammering. Abort mission. Abort mission.

My eyes travel up to meet his, and the impact is immediate. His hazel eyes are still heavy-lidded, his hair adorably mussed, his morning stubble giving him a rugged look that should be illegal before coffee.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. We just stare at each other.

His hand on my hip feels like it’s burning through my pajamas. I’m suddenly acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. The solid plane of his chest beneath my palm. The way his thigh feels between mine. The gentle pressure of his fingers on my skin.

“I—” my voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “I need to use the bathroom.”

With all the grace of a newborn calf, I launch myself backward off the bed, tangling briefly in the sheets before stumbling to my feet. Jaxon makes a move like he’s going to help, but I hold up a hand.

“I’m fine!” My voice is too high an octave. “Totally fine. Just...really need the bathroom. Morning routine. You know how it is.”

I’m babbling like an idiot as I back toward the door, nearly tripping over my own feet in my desperation to escape this moment. Jaxon watches me with an expression I can’t quite read. Amusement, maybe, but something else, too. Something softer.

“Take your time,” he drawls, stretching his arms above his head.

His t-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned abs and a deep V-line that should be banned.

I dart into the half-bath and close the door with more force than necessary, then lean against it, pressing my palms to my heated cheeks.

What is wrong with me? It’s just Jaxon. Annoying, arrogant, infuriating Jaxon.

The same guy who put a rubber snake in my backpack in seventh grade.

The same guy who told everyone at junior prom I’d only been asked as a charity date.

The same guy who...who held me all night, apparently, keeping me warm when the temperature dropped.

Groaning, I turn to the sink and refuse to look at my reflection. I know what I’ll see—flushed cheeks, guilty eyes and the look of a woman who’s in way over her head.

I go through my morning routine on autopilot, brushing my teeth with extra vigor as if I can scrub away these unwanted feelings along with the morning breath.

I take my time removing my scarf and moisturizing my hair and massaging my scalp longer than necessary.

I wash my face, apply lotion, and even floss—something I usually save for nighttime.

When I’ve exhausted every possible bathroom activity, I reluctantly acknowledge I can’t hide in here forever.

I’ll just go out there, act normal, and pretend I didn’t wake up on top of him.

We’ll get through this awkward morning, and then the power will come back, the roads will clear, and he’ll leave. Simple.

With a deep breath, I open the bathroom door, braced for the teasing and inevitable gloating. But the bedroom is empty.

Instead, I hear the clatter of pans and the unmistakable sound of sizzling. Not what I expected. Suspicious, I follow the sound, stopping short at the sight of Jaxon standing at my stove and flipping pancakes.

And is that George Strait playing from my Bluetooth speaker?

“Perfect timing,” he says casually over the twang of “Check Yes or No,” sliding a golden pancake onto a waiting plate. “Coffee’s ready, and these are almost done.”

“You cooked.” And you hacked my speaker.

He glances up, calm as ever, like this is normal. It is not normal.

“Figured we could both use a hot meal,” he says, pouring more batter into the pan with ease.

“Where is that music coming from?” I ask, eyeing the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

“From my playlist,” he says easily. “Figured I’d set the mood.”

“With old country?”

“Don’t act surprised. You’ve always been a sucker for steel guitar and heartbreak. I just gave the people what they want.”

I scowl. Jaxon Jamison does not belong in my kitchen. And yet, he moves around like he pays rent for the damn place.

I approach cautiously. “Thanks for... this.” I gesture vaguely at the spread.

“You’re welcome.” His voice is neutral, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Sleep well?”

There it is. I feel heat rushing to my face, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

“Fine.” I busy myself with pouring coffee.

“The storm’s still going,” he adds, nodding toward the window where snow continues to fall heavily. “Google says power might be out until tomorrow. Roads are closed. Tow company called—they’re unsure when they’ll come as roads are not cleared.”

“Oh,” I manage, taking a sip of coffee, grateful for the warmth and the caffeine. “So you’re here longer.”

“Yes.” He takes a bite of bacon. “Unless you kick me out before that.”

I look up to find him watching me, the intensity back in his eyes. “I won’t kick you out during a blizzard, Jaxon.”

“Good to know there are limits to your dislike of me.”

“I don’t dislike you.” The words surprise us both. “I mean,” I backpedal, “I don’t like you either. You’re... tolerable. Sometimes.”

“High praise from Jessa Smith. I’ll take it.”

“Thank heavens for gas stoves,” I say, desperate to fill the silence with something safe.

“And for pancake mix,” he adds, joining me with his own plate. “And for someone who keeps her kitchen well-stocked.”

“Thank you,” I respond. “For... all this.” I point at the breakfast servings.

“Least I could do. You’re letting me crash here, after all.” He takes a bite of his pancake. “Besides, I was hungry, and you were busy doing... whatever you were doing in the bathroom for forty-five minutes.”

“My morning routine is extensive.”

“Of course.”

His lips quirk up at the corner, but he doesn’t push it. We eat in relatively comfortable silence, the awkwardness gradually dissipating with each bite. Outside, the world is white and still.

“About this morning,” I finally say, unable to leave it unaddressed. “When we woke up. I didn’t mean to...”

“Use me as your personal space heater?” he supplies.

“Yes. That.” I focus intently on cutting my pancake into unnecessarily small pieces. “I must have gotten cold in the night.”

“The temperature dropped pretty low,” he agrees. “And body heat is the most efficient way to stay warm.”

“Exactly.” I nod, relieved he’s being rational about this. “It was purely a survival instinct.”

“Of course.” He takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Although...”

I look up, instantly wary. “Although what?”

“You did say my name while you were asleep.”

“Doubt it.”

“Twice, actually.”

“Then you were hallucinating.” I take a sip of coffee. “Might want to get your mental checked.”

“Denial this strong?” His voice drops lower. “Must’ve been a hell of a dream, JJ.”

I shoot him a glare. “I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts smoothly. “You don’t have to tell me what it was about. I already know.”

“Eat your food.”

He obeys, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. We finish eating in silence, though it’s charged with awareness.

As I gather our empty plates, I’m grateful for the mundane task that gives my hands something to do. We settle into washing dishes together, me washing while Jaxon dries.

“You seriously think Reba tops Dolly?” I ask, wiping a spot off a mug before passing it to him.

“Dolly’s a legend, but Reba’s got grit,” Jaxon says, reaching for the mug. “And that red hair? Iconic.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re just thinking about the Fancy video again.”

“Guilty,” he grins.

From my speaker, George Jones starts crooning about love gone wrong. Jaxon softly hums along.

“You know the lyrics?” I ask, surprised.

He doesn’t look at me, just keeps drying. “Every last one.”

I study him from the corner of my eye, wondering how many other things I don’t know about the man I’ve despised for years.

I reflect on how surreal this is. Twenty-four hours ago, I was preparing for a quiet weekend alone. Now I’m snowed in with Jaxon, debating country music legends while washing dishes together, after spending the night in his arms. And it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should.

Later, I watch from the window as he joins other men from the building, shoveling the entrance clear of snow. When he catches me watching, I quickly step away from the glass.

The power doesn’t return that day. Or the next.

By the third day of our unexpected cohabitation, we’ve fallen into a strange rhythm.

Jaxon becomes the keeper of candles, strategically placing them throughout the apartment to maximize light while minimizing fire hazards.

I become the manager of food, rationing our supplies and creating increasingly creative meals.

“This is great,” Jaxon says on night four, spooning up the last of my improvised pasta dish—a concoction made from the random contents of my pantry.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply. “In my next life, I plan to be a chef.”

We pass the time with board games, seated across from each other at my small dining table. I accuse him of cheating at Monopoly. He claims I’m making up words in Scrabble. Between turns, we hum along to Kenny Rogers, off-key and confident, like we’re auditioning for a honky-tonk revival.

“That’s not a real word,” he insists, pointing at my tiles.

“‘Qi’ is absolutely a word. Check the dictionary.”

“Fine,” he concedes after verification, his eyes lingering on mine a beat too long. “But I’m watching you.”

At night, I construct a fortress of pillows, strategically placed for maximum separation. It never lasts. Somehow, by morning, I always wake up tangled with the enemy.

On day five, the water pressure drops.

“Perfect,” I mutter, jiggling the kitchen faucet as the stream reduces to a pathetic trickle. “Just what we needed.”

Jaxon reaches around me to check for himself, his chest briefly pressing against my back. I step away, ignoring the electricity from momentary contact.

“Winter Bay’s infrastructure can handle frostbite but not a full-out blizzard blackout,” he explains, maintaining the new distance between us. “Pumps are probably failing.”

“How long do you think this will last? The whole situation?”

He glances toward the window where snow continues to fall steadily. “Hard to say. I’ve never seen a storm this persistent in April.”

That night, I lay rigidly on my side of the bed, the pillow barrier firmly in place. But as the temperature drops to its lowest point yet, I find myself unable to stop shivering.

“This is ridiculous,” Jaxon mutters from his side. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” I insist through chattering teeth.

I pull the blankets tighter. It doesn’t help. I curl into myself. Still cold.

Jaxon shifts closer, then slides his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest. I lock up. But then his warmth seeps through my clothes and melts my resistance one degree at a time.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

“Of course not.”

“And the pillow barrier returns tomorrow,” I add, needing to establish this is a onetime concession, not a precedent.

But as I drift off to sleep, the efficiency of this arrangement becomes harder to deny. Perhaps some solutions don’t need to be complicated. Perhaps, just this once, the simplest answer is the right one.