Page 16 of Pucked In Vegas (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t)

There's a single bare bulb overhead, casting harsh shadows that somehow make Jackson's cheekbones look even more sculpted.

We're close.

So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse jumping in his throat. My back is pressed against a stack of tablecloths, and he's standing between me and the door like a very attractive, very complicated roadblock.

"Why are you avoiding me?" Jackson asks, his voice drifting across my lips.

I lift my chin, summoning every ounce of professional cool I possess.

"Because this… us… was a mistake."

His jaw tightens. "You didn't look like it was a mistake when you were moaning my name last night."

Heat floods my cheeks, my core, every traitorous part of my body that remembers exactly how good he made me feel.

"That was... temporary insanity," I say, trying to ignore how his proximity is making my skin tingle. "A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by too much champagne and that thing you do with your dimples when you smile."

His eyes darken, and those very dimples make an appearance. Dammit. I have to bite my lip so I don't do something stupid.

"Funny, because I was stone-cold sober when I decided I wanted you. And these dimples?" He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "They've got nothing on the way you bite your lip. Even when you're trying not to smile at me."

I shove at his chest and release my bottom lip from my teeth, but he doesn't budge. "Let me out, Jackson."

"Not until you tell me why you left without saying goodbye." His eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me want to confess everything. "Come on, Cass… No note? No explanation? Just your signature on those papers like last night meant nothing."

"Jackson, it was a one night thing!" I rasp, hating that I'm not even sure if I mean the words. "We went out, got drunk… had fun and danced. Had way, way too much to drink and did what everyone does in Vegas."

He gives me a look. "Exactly. It was fun. Whenever we're together it's fun… so why do you keep running?"

I go to open my mouth, but he presses a single finger against my lips, sealing my voice shut. I hate that my body responds so instantly to him, like it knows something my brain refuses to acknowledge.

"And I want the truth this time."

A long, heavy sigh leaves my chest, dragging with it all my carefully constructed defenses.

I take a moment to stare into his eyes. Those gorgeous, stunning eyes that drew me in that evening by the pool.

Eyes that somehow saw past my ice queen facade when I was sitting alone, nursing a drink and pretending I wasn't hiding from another hockey event or drowning my sorrows from being a complete failure.

"Because I know who you are now," I whisper, hating how breathless I sound.

"You've always known who I was."

"No, I knew Jax . The stranger from the pool. The mystery man who made me laugh and forget the world for one night. The man who didn't ask about my job, about my father or my connections or—" I cut myself off, realizing I'm revealing too much.

"I'm still that same person, Cassie."

"Are you?" I challenge. "Because the Jackson Holt I see out there, surrounded by reporters and agents and every other hockey player's dreams of championship glory… that's not the man who I convinced to marry me for fun in a Vegas chapel."

"You're wrong. Just because I play hockey doesn't mean I'm not a good guy." His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Tell me you don't want this, Cass. Tell me that, and I promise I'll submit those fucking forms and leave you alone."

The words stick in my throat.

Because he's right.

I do want this. Want him. Want the way he looks at me like I'm the most fascinating woman he's ever met, not just a convenient hockey connection.

But wanting something and being able to have it are two very different things.

"See. You can't say it. Because you're fooling yourself. But I'm not giving up on you, Cassie," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Never."

"Jackson, we—"

"You'll see. Just wait. I'll show you, sweetheart. I'll show you just how good we can be if you can just let go of the past."

His fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I feel myself melting toward him. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to break free and leap straight into his hands.

"You're making this impossible," I whisper, my voice betraying me with its tremor.

"Good." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I fight the urge to take it between my teeth. "Some things should be impossible to ignore."

I close my eyes, trying to center myself, but that only makes it worse.

My body sways toward him of its own accord, like he's gravity and I'm helpless against the pull. I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him so badly I can taste it.

But if I do, I know I'll be lost.

I press my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my fingers. It matches my own, this frantic rhythm of want and fear and possibility.

Then, just as I'm about to close the distance between us, or possibly combust from the tension, the door flies open.

"Sorry, sorry!" An intern with wide eyes and an armload of gaffer tape stumbles backward. "Didn't mean to—are you two—"

I spring away from Jackson like he's on fire, my face burning with embarrassment.

"No! We were just—the lighting in here is—I was checking the—"

"Supply inventory," Jackson finishes smoothly, not looking even slightly flustered. No wonder he's the top draft pick. "Making sure we have everything we need for tonight."

The intern nods uncertainly, clearly not buying our bullshit. "Okay... well, I just need some of this tape..."

I bolt past both of them, mumbling something about urgent catering issues, and flee down the hallway with as much dignity as I can muster.

Which, right now, is approximately zero.

I escape Jackson, buying myself some time to think. I find a spot, hidden behind the main stage curtains, watching the final preparations unfold while trying to get my heart rate back to something resembling normal.

The venue is filling with VIPs, team executives, and media personnel. The energy is electric. Everything I've worked for is about to culminate in one perfect evening.

But I can't do this. I can't be here to watch the man of my dreams become my biggest nightmare.

I find Dana near the main sound booth, frantically coordinating with the broadcast team who will go live any minute now.

"Dana. Change of plans," I announce.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "Now? Are you sure? We're minutes from showtime, girl."

"I'm switching who announces the final draft pick," I continue, ignoring the way my chest feels like it's caving in. "It won't be me."

Dana blinks, clearly confused. "But your father specifically requested—"

"My father will understand," I lie smoothly. "You'll have to handle the announcement."

The decision settles over me with surprising calm.

This is what I'm good at. Damage control, strategic retreats, protecting myself before anyone else can do the protecting for me.

I ran from Iron Ridge, and now, I'm running from Vegas. From him .

By the time Jackson takes that stage tonight, I'll be nothing but a signature on an annulment certificate and a memory he can bury as deep as his agent wants.

And maybe, just maybe… I'll finally be free.

Either that, or I'll be alone forever, living with nothing but regret.