Page 19

AURORA

A seductive, masculine cologne, one I know intimately, rouses me from sleep and releases a flurry of butterflies.

For a fleeting moment, I let my walls down. I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale deeply, allowing his scent to set my skin ablaze. Memories take me back to the night our worlds collided, the first time I breathed him in, thinking he smelled like sex in a bottle.

He was unlike anyone I’d ever met—a hurricane of chaotic energy and a whirlwind of unpredictable passion. The intense force that is Jackson O’Reilly utterly consumed me.

Tears well, and I let go of my illusions, facing the painful reality. It’s impossible for me to have him this close. He’ll break through all my defenses, and I can’t keep allowing him to rip me apart.

I open my eyes, and I’m greeted by a heart-aching sight—beautiful, tragic, and mere inches away.

He sits on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the bed. His arms are crossed over his chest, his head turned toward mine, as if he drifted off to sleep while watching me.

With no one present to witness, I let my gaze trace his features. Sharp jawline from chewing gum or sucking on Jolly Ranchers or from running his mouth. Straight nose, despite breaking it at least once that I know of. Perfectly symmetrical full lips.

His only blemish—or endearment—is a scar that runs through the arch of his eyebrow, which I’ve kissed hundreds of times.

I sleepily gaze at him, my fingers itching to run through his tousled, sandy-blond hair. It’s always this way. My body and heart ignore my mind and crave him.

Bright-green eyes stare back in amusement. “What are you doing, babe?”

I snap my eyelids shut and feign sleep. “Hmmm?”

A low, raspy laugh. “You were gawking.”

Pretending to wake, I yawn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gives me that crooked smile and brushes my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I love you.”

That breaks the trance. I believe he’s sincere—at least when he’s sober. That’s the worst part. He could love, want, and intend to be completely faithful to me—until he’s intoxicated. The Jackson here with me might not be the Jackson I get tomorrow, the next day, or even two months from now.

“Do you?”

The smirk fades. He straightens and rolls his neck, stretching from the uncomfortable position he slept in. “When have I lied to you?”

I sit up and hug my pillow to my chest. “Seriously? Other than the obvious? Every day. Your actions contradict what your eyes and words convey. You look at me as if you love me, and you tell me you love me, then you do some stupid shit to ruin everything. So, which is the lie? Were you punishing me for leaving?”

His shoulders droop. “I wasn’t punishing you. I was protecting you. My life is just fucked up.”

“How is cheating on me—” The pictures, the idea of him with someone else, flood my mind, and my stomach rolls. I scoot toward the end of the bed and shove him aside. “Move.”

I race to the bathroom, nearly tripping over his boots, and drop to my knees, expelling what little I’ve eaten the last day, if anything.

He lifts my hair above my head and rubs my back. “Have you called the doctor?”

His touch gives me goosebumps. Even when sick, he affects me. “Morning sickness. Maybe a bug. I see her in a week,” I manage between bouts of nausea.

He helps me to my feet, putting an arm around me. I feel his rapid breaths brushing my ear, his heart thumping against my shoulder.

“It’s not morning; it’s nine at night. Can you get in sooner?”

I pull out of his grasp. “Please, stop touching me.” The more he does, the weaker my resistance.

In a dramatic gesture, he throws his hands up. “Why? You never had a problem with me touching you before.”

I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. After toweling off, I shoot him a glare. “That was before you touched someone else.”

He rushes toward me, pointing a finger. “There’s not a single photo of me touching anyone!” He slams his fist on the vanity. “Stop saying that.”

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, I twist my hair into a bun. “I’m not doing this with you, Jackson. I’m not dissecting every picture. We never discussed being exclusive, and I don’t want this.”

“The fuck we didn’t,” he says with a tight jaw and balled fists. “And if the words weren’t explicitly stated, they were strongly implied. This has never been casual. I didn’t cheat on you. I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

I tilt my head. “What if the roles were reversed? What if I were pregnant with your baby, and it was Ethan getting drunk, high, and photographed with other women? Would you want that near your child?”

Rarely is Jackson speechless, but he stands before me, lips parted as I exit the bathroom.

On my way out of my room, I snag my hoodie and throw it on. This old building uses radiators and fireplaces; there’s no central air. It takes time for the fireplace to heat the open space, and I don’t like the smell of the radiator.

I chose a prepared meal from the fridge, only to have Jackson snatch it away.

“Sit. I ordered groceries. At least let me take care of you.”

He sets down packages of cheese, fruits, and vegetables on the white granite island, and I perch on a barstool, facing him. In faded denim and a rumpled T-shirt, he moves with quiet efficiency. He’s always loved to cook, and it reminds me of old times.

A mask of grim concentration settles on his face, and he drops the knife on the cutting board, abandoning my favorite cheese.

He places his palms on the island and glowers at me. “That’s not a valid argument. Ethan wouldn’t be in the picture if you were pregnant by me.” He picks up the blade, slaughtering my poor pepper jack with far too much aggression. “I’d murder anyone who came between us,” he says under his breath.

I make a mental note not to discuss other men while Jackson wields a knife.

He places sliced cheese on a plate, and I pop a piece in my mouth.

When I think the conversation is over, he peers up with glassy eyes. “You’d have nothing to worry about. I’d never leave your side. We’d be staying wherever you wanted until I got my trust fund and we bought a house. I’d play out my contract and be done.”

He’s given this some honest thought.

“That’s…a lot to unpack.” I mull everything over while picking at the food. “You’d quit playing?”

“If you wouldn’t travel with me,” he says with certainty. “I won’t leave you to care for an infant alone, and I can’t picture myself only seeing my child a few months out of the year. I’d go nuts.”

Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I can’t help but think—how ironic?

“You’d give up hockey for a baby but won’t give up partying for our relationship? You realize you require one before the other?”

“I gave up partying before the season.”

I scoff. “A dozen photos say differently.”

“Are you ready for me to explain?”

I hesitate. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”