Page 9
Chapter Nine
Lily
Hockey Rule #25: Your word is your bond Media Rule #25: Promises are negotiable if the ratings demand it
I leaned back too far in the rickety office chair, and for a split second, gravity betrayed me. The wheels skidded against the warped linoleum, the whole thing nearly toppling over before I caught myself with a sharp jolt. The impact sent a crack echoing through the cramped office, a relic from the Austin Aces’ less-glamorous days, all flickering fluorescents and the faint scent of old coffee baked into the walls.
Mark Malone’s voice droned in my ear, slick and grating, but he paused at the noise. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Too high, too quick. My grip on the phone tightened. “Just—uh, the chair—”
“Are you paying attention, Lily?” Condescension dripped from his tone and raised the hackles on the back of my neck.
I hated the way he said my name. The sound of his oily voice contorting the two simple syllables crawled under my skin and rankled. If he kept it up, I might have to start going by my middle name, and really, did the world need another Harper? “All ears, Mark.”
“You need a plan and it better be good.”
Malone’s voice oozed through my phone like toxic sludge. My fingers found their familiar spot on my wrist, pressing into my pulse point. Count to three. Breathe. Don’t let him smell weakness.
“I’ve got one, I just need another couple of days to pull it together.” I paused, stalling my boss. I needed to divert his attention off the topic of the bye-week episode. I didn’t want to tell him about a potential Viggy show and I didn’t have a good enough hook for an episode about Coach Mack. “Does this mean we’re solid through the playoffs, though?”
He grunted. On some men, the sound might be sexy. On Mark, it sounded like a gorilla with indigestion. “Ratings are a surprise, but we’ve got the green light to move forward.”
The hypocrisy in his tone made my skin crawl. We’d carved out a solid niche, our Tuesday night slot giving the big networks a run for their money. But Malone still talked about Aces Unleashed like we were one bad episode from cancellation.
“That’s great, Mark. Thanks—”
“You owe me.” Like he had from the start, his words carved into my future. “Big time owe me, and don’t you forget it. Producer notes for the bye-week episode on my desk day after tomorrow. Something big. Something that’ll carry us through the dead week into playoffs.”
Instead of diverting him, I’d just painted myself into a tighter corner.
My stomach churned. He loved reminding me how he’d “invented” my position, how I was doing producer work without the title while his name dominated the credits. Mine was buried at the bottom: “Assistant to Producer.” In a tiny font that might as well read “Desperate Sellout.”
I shifted my phone to my other ear, my free hand clenching into a fist against my thigh. I needed that credit. Needed any industry foothold I could get. What I didn’t need was Malone deciding I was expendable. Not when I was so close to escaping his influence. “I’ve got a couple of ideas, actually. For the off-week, I mean.”
He tutted when I took too long to continue, the impatient noise like sandpaper scraping the underside of my arm.
My breath whooshed in and my words rushed out. I clenched my eyes closed and said a prayer he bought it. “A profile episode on Coach Mack. Highlight his coaching style, his relationship with the team, his influences—”
“Didn’t I read somewhere he was fired from his last gig for drug use?”
“Alcohol.” The correction escaped before I could catch it. I cupped my hand around the phone, lowering my voice, my eyes on the open door. Please don’t let a player hear me talking about their beloved coach. “Rumors of alcohol. He did rehab years ago. There hasn’t been a hint of anything since.”
“Guys like that are never 100% clean. Impossible.” His tone dripped false concern. “You digging up dirt on the head coach, Lily? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Bile burned the back of my throat. No ratings bump was worth exploiting Coach’s sobriety. After fighting to rebuild his career, his life, he deserved better than having his battles turned into entertainment. My stomach twisted as Viggy’s face flashed through my mind, his cold dismissal when I’d probed about his injury still raw. The disappointment in his eyes if he knew I was even considering an episode about Mack’s demons...
Since when did Jack Vignier’s opinion matter more than my career?
“That angle’s played out.” I forced steel into my voice. “It was covered extensively when it happened and again when he was hired in Austin.”
“Then you’re going to have to find a unique angle. None of that ‘coaching style’ and ‘relationship with the team’ bullshit, either.” Malone’s elevator chimed in the background. “Save the wholesome crap for when you land your dream job at Hallmark.”
Panic clawed up my throat. The connection would drop any second. Think fast, Sutton.
“Or we could cover Viggy.” The words hung in the air like a poison cloud I couldn’t escape. “It’s his last season and I’m pretty sure he’s hiding a significant injury.”
“Now you’re talking.” Malone’s slimy smile carried through the phone. “He’s a ratings draw, right? The captain?”
Oh God. What had I done? My throat closed up as I scrambled to bury my revelation under prettier words, each one ringing hollow. I pressed my fingers to my breastbone, fighting to breathe through the vise around my chest. “We could focus on his determination—show his leadership through adversity. The team’s having their best season in years under his guidance. It’s an incredible story of—”
“Save the warm and fuzzies for Hallmark.” Malone’s voice sliced through the phone, cool and hard. “I want the dirt. Drama. Team captain hiding an injury during a playoff push? That’s not heartwarming, that’s selfish. Putting his legacy ahead of the team’s success. Lying to medical staff, to management—”
“That’s not what’s happening.” The words shot out before I could hold them back. My throat tightened, the crack in my voice betraying me. “He’s playing through pain because the team needs him. It’s the hockey culture. Because—”
“Because his ego won’t let him sit down?” Malone’s laugh scraped my nerves raw. “Because he’d rather tank the team’s shot at the Cup than admit he’s on his last legs? That’s the headline, Lily. That’s what sells . Not some puffed-up fairy tale about leadership .”
“No, you don’t understand—”
“I understand exactly what’ll keep your little show trending.” His voice dropped, low, dangerous, like ice thawing just enough to drown you. “The deception. The cost. The fallout when it all comes crashing down. That’s the story.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. My pulse hammered behind my ribs, my brain scrambling for an angle, any angle that wouldn’t rip Viggy apart.
“You still want to be noticed, don’t you?” Malone added, sly and knowing, the words soft enough to twist like a knife. “Then make him bleed. Make it hurt.”
The line went dead. The sound of my shallow breath loud in the silence of the room.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against my desk. Each breath scraped my throat raw, bile rising as Malone’s words echoed in my head.
Make him bleed.
I’d just made a colossal mistake. Massive. Like a hideous neon sign I couldn’t avoid, the word “idiot” lit up my brain. No, that was too kind a word. I was worse than an idiot.
I was a traitor.
I’d tried to backpedal, to salvage something meaningful from my slip, but I’d only given Malone more ammunition. My stuttered attempt to redirect toward Jack’s strength, his dedication, simply revealed more vulnerabilities for Malone to exploit.
God, what had I done? I’d just handed Jack’s legacy to a man who’d tear it apart for clicks. Who’d turn his pain into entertainment, his dedication into selfishness, his loyalty into ego. Everything Jack had built over seventeen years, wrapped up in a neat package for Malone to destroy.
My chest squeezed until the simple act of breathing hurt. I pressed my fingers against my breastbone, fighting for control. Breathe, Sutton. Just breathe.
Adele’s voice echoed in my head—all optimism and faith I didn’t deserve. “You can still shape the narrative,” she’d say. “Find the balance.”
But what balance existed between Malone’s TMZ hit piece and the truth? He’d made his expectations crystal clear. He wanted scandal. Controversy. Character assassination dressed up as journalism.
My stomach twisted, but the producer in me didn’t flinch. Angles snapped into place. The show had momentum, ratings climbing week by week. If I landed a solid episode—messy or not—built around the Aces’ golden-boy captain, I might crack open doors that slammed shut the day Sydney stabbed me in the back.
The irony burned worse than bile. Three years ago, Sydney had betrayed me, twisted my work into something unrecognizable for her own gain. Now here I sat, about to do the same thing to Jack.
Malone’s words haunted me: Make it hurt. That’s what sells.
He wasn’t wrong. Pain sold. Betrayal got clicks. Trust destroyed for entertainment value—that’s what kept people watching.
I’d sworn I’d never become Sydney. Now I was worse. At least she’d only stolen my work. I was about to destroy someone I respected, someone I—
I squeezed my eyes shut, heart hammering. I couldn’t go there.
Make him bleed. Make it hurt.
Or kiss my comeback goodbye.
* * *
The late afternoon sun sparkled off the dormant string lights in Viggy’s empty bar. Not really his bar—but these days I couldn’t separate the man from the places he touched. Places like this patio where he’d let me see behind his walls. Where I’d started falling for Jack, the man behind the hockey player.
Finding my way here that first time had been chance. Today? Pure masochism. I’d come hoping to see him, even knowing each glimpse of him now felt like a knife to my conscience.
Bright’s backpack occupied the chair beside me, my cat poking his head out with his trademark look of disdain.
The blank laptop screen mocked my attempts at work.
Make him bleed. Make it hurt.
Malone’s words poisoned my every thought, every potential angle. How could I craft something that would satisfy his bloodlust without destroying everything Jack had built?
The door’s bell jangled and my head whipped up, pulse skittering beneath my skin before reality crashed in. Just another customer. Not Jack.
Stop it, woman. I jabbed at the keyboard, forcing the screen to life. I had footage to review. Stories to twist. A reputation to assassinate, all in the name of salvaging my own career.
God, I was pathetic. Sitting here like some lovesick teenager, hoping to see him while simultaneously plotting how to betray him.
The bell chimed again. A quick glance. Still not him.
Focus, Lily. I had to conjure some middle path between Malone’s demands and my conscience. The footage had to satisfy my boss’s hunger for drama while preserving a fragment of Jack’s dignity. Preserve a fragment of hope that he might forgive me someday.
My fingers pressed against my wrist, seeking the calm counting my heartbeats should give and failing. One rain-soaked kiss haunted me. The electric moments when Jack’s careful control cracked, revealing glimpses of the man behind the resolute captain’s facade. The memory carved a wound in my chest.
Now I planned to betray those precious glimpses of vulnerability, package them for public consumption like some vulture picking at carrion.
That or see my career end. Permanently, this time.
My stomach heaved. The weight of his lips on mine, the perfect fit of his body against mine—the memories twisted deeper. I craved more of his trust, yearned to truly know the man beneath the C on his jersey.
And I didn’t deserve even a moment of his consideration.
A bitter laugh scraped my throat raw. After this aired, Jack would never let anyone past his walls again. Especially not the woman who’d turned his private struggles into entertainment.
Make it bleed.
The footage on my laptop blurred as I pulled up clips from the Detroit game. The one I’d skipped, let Adele and a skeleton crew handle without me because I was a top tier coward and refused to travel with the team. Jack’s face filled my screen: each grimace, each subtle shift in his stride damned me further. Without meaning to, I’d stockpiled evidence against him, filing away his vulnerabilities even as my heart broke for his pain and determination.
Maybe that’s exactly what I deserved—to sit here drowning in guilt, jumping at every chime of that bell, praying to both see him and avoid him forever.
The bell on the door jangled again.
Not him.
Thank God.
I didn’t need to be daydreaming about a handsome hockey captain.
After that kiss in my apartment before the road trip, after watching him dominate on the ice despite whatever was going on with his knee, after today’s conversation with Mark Malone—I had every reason to steer clear of the captain.
But here I sat. Lying to myself and hoping to see his long strides eat up the distance between door and table. To see his blue eyes warm when they landed on me. To feel that spark of electricity when he settled into the chair beside mine.
My lips burned with the memory of our kiss. How had one simple kiss destroyed me?
What insanity had possessed me to invite him up to my apartment that night? The place barely had room to breathe. Factor in Jack’s six-foot-plus frame and those broad shoulders? He’d consumed all the oxygen, leaving me lightheaded and reckless.
Reckless .
Whatever madness had made me demand his rain-soaked shirt had morphed into full insanity when I’d sat beside him at my kitchen island, his gorgeous chest right there, all that controlled power and muscly goodness on decadent display.
The bell’s harsh jangle snapped me from my spiral. I jerked upright in the wrought iron chair, every muscle protesting as I dragged my focus back to my notes. Back to the betrayal due by morning. Because seriously? Muscly goodness? Was I fifteen? Cool your jets, Lily.
I’d grown up in Hollywood—ground zero for hot men and beautiful faces. I’d spent years surrounded by men crafted by trainers and stylists and carefully curated PR teams.
But Jack? Pure authenticity radiated from his core. No cultivated image or manufactured appeal in that man. His quiet strength and raw presence commanded attention without trying, made those Hollywood leading men look like schoolboys playing dress-up.
The perpetual frown of his still acted as a wall, but I’d started to understand the man behind it. The weight of responsibility he carried, the pressure of his last season, and whatever injury he was hiding beneath that stoic exterior.
I smoothed my fingers over Bright’s fluffy white head. Seemed I had a type.
A chair scraped against concrete and I jerked my head up. Jack—the man consuming my thoughts—settled into the chair beside mine like I’d conjured him out of thin air.
“Sutton,” he rumbled, the sound hitting me low in my belly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I slammed my laptop closed, hiding my notes. “How’s that for luck?”
His presence rattled me. The warmth in his eyes, the unspoken pull between us, the quiet fear that he might see straight through the polish to everything I kept buried. My pulse jumped. I shoved hair from my face, fingers unsteady.
“You done for the day?”
No. I still had to polish my notes into something that would make Malone salivate. His knee brushed mine under the table. A thousand tiny sparks danced across my skin. “Done enough,” I lied. “You? Big week off before the playoffs with Chicago start, right?”
He nodded, his gaze mapping my face until I squirmed. I had no business talking to him, not when I was about to serve him up to Malone.
“What are your plans for the break?”
“Good question. I’m sure I’ll think of something to occupy my time.”
His husky voice skittered across my skin. Images flashed through my mind—his bare chest in my apartment, his mouth devouring mine, the raw need in his eyes before I’d shoved him away. My spine melted at the memory of his hands on my skin. My body screamed to close the distance while my conscience demanded retreat. “Gotcha.”
“How about you? How are you filling the dead week?”
Did he suspect? Blue eyes pierced straight through my defenses. My heart slammed against my ribs. They must have a special place in Hell for people like me. “Not sure yet. Things are still up in the air.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Silence stretched between us, thick with everything I hadn’t said. I pressed my lips together, mind scrambling for something—anything—to cut through the weight of it. Possibility tangled with guilt, and neither one gave me room to breathe.
This nothing conversation was getting us nowhere, but… emotion perilously close to happiness muted my apprehension and the optimist in me wanted to grab hold of even the smallest moments with him. He’d sat down at my table. He’d asked about me. He was attempting a real conversation.
As if putting the proof to my thoughts, he leaned back in the metal chair, casually sloshing the beer around in his glass. “Been thinking about dipping over to Virginia,” he said, as though he was as reluctant as me to let the conversation end. “Puppy’s uncle has a place; he’s asked me to partner up. A hockey skills training facility that’s got a good reputation. Something I might consider for retirement.”
My mouth popped open. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but not that. Getting information out of him was about as easy as getting blood from a stone. That he’d offered personal details? Revealed a hint of his future plans, something he’d not even shared with the team?
I swallowed, emotion clogging my throat. “What kind of partnership? Would you be a coach?”
He nodded. “We’d need to work out the details, but that’s the idea. It’s either that, become a commentator.” He took a long drag from his beer before adding, “Or disappear entirely.”
“I hope you don’t disappear.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, too quick, too raw. A confession dressed as casual conversation. I swallowed hard, but it was too late. My words hovered between us, delicate and shimmering in the late afternoon air, impossible to take back.
Bright popped up from his spot in his travel pack, stretched his front feet across the closed laptop before bumping against my hand. He put his head down for a scratch and I scooped him up, burying my fingers in the thick white fur at his neck, grounding myself in the warmth of his uncomplicated company.
The silence between us thickened, weighted with something unsaid, something I hadn’t meant to expose. If I looked up now, I’d see it in his eyes—I’d see that he’d heard it. That I’d revealed too much.
The moment felt like a crossroads, a thin wire stretched between two futures. Step forward, explore where this pull between us led, or retreat before the inevitable fall. But did it even matter? The moment I turned my notes over to Malone, whatever future I might have with Jack would be erased.
Explore could mean giving up on my goals, though. Finding another way back into an industry notorious for its closed doors.
It’d taken three years to find this one. To find Malone. My fingers tightened in Bright’s fur.
The idea of walking away, of never seeing where this thing between us could lead, lodged in my chest like a stone. My fingers curled into Bright’s fur, my breath hitching—because leaving Jack behind? I couldn’t even picture it without something in me twisting, unraveling at the edges.
As Jack lifted his glass mug to take a long pull of beer, he made it hard to think about anything except him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. I remembered the feel of his hard chest against my side when he lifted me into his arms instead of letting me trip over Bright. Of his hands on my body, the heat in his blue gaze, the demand of his lips on mine. I cleared my throat, blinked, dug up a better response to his comment. “You’d make a great coach.”
“Hoss is a good guy. Seems to run a good operation.”
I nuzzled against Bright’s face, let his light purr soothe me. “He’s willing to wait until you finish the season?”
He waited until I looked up to respond and nodded, his gaze on me, the thoughtful lines around his eyes deepening. “Yeah.”
I nodded back even as my toes curled into the soles of my shoes.
“What about you?” He waved toward the street. “When the Aces’ season wraps up, that’s it for your show, right? What’s next? Another team?”
“No,” I said, skirting the truth and sharing the future I wanted, but might still be just out of reach. “Not another team. I used to do more ‘people pieces,’ human interest stories. I’m hoping to get back to doing that kind of work. Less competitive intensity, but still really exciting. To me, anyway.”
The memory of my last documentary series—the one about violence against journalists that had earned three Emmy nominations—burned in my chest. God, I’d been so close. Critics had called it “groundbreaking” and “fearlessly authentic.” Major networks had started calling. My agent couldn’t schedule meetings fast enough with producers eager to fund my next big project.
Then Sydney happened. My supposed assistant, my friend, she’d stolen everything—my concept, my contacts, my reputation. Left me radioactive in an industry that ran on relationships and image.
But I wasn’t going to let my past mistakes define me. I’d been too weak, too trusting. Not cutthroat enough. Whatever skillset had allowed her to wreck my career and cement her place in my stead, that’s the skillset I was determined to cultivate now.
Savage, if I had to be. Cutthroat, for sure.
Even if it made my skin crawl. Even if it meant sacrifices.
The string lights flickered on overhead, painting the patio in a soft glow that did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in my bones. Time to go, before I said too much. Before my own walls started to show cracks.
Jack’s eyes tracked my movements as I gathered my things. “Did you walk here again?”
“Yeah.” I tucked Bright into his pack, grateful for the excuse to avoid Viggy’s too-perceptive eyes. “Meant to leave before dark. So much for that plan.”
My hands trembled slightly as I stowed my laptop. Three years of industry exile had taught me to guard my soft spots. To keep my dreams locked safely away where they couldn’t be used against me. But something about Jack made me want to lower my defenses. Made me want to trust again.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I sat, yearning to trust Jack Vignier while I actively betrayed him. My throat closed up at the thought of Malone’s demands, of the episode that would expose Jack’s vulnerabilities to the world. In the initial aftermath of the Sydney drama, I’d sworn to myself I’d never become like her—never sacrifice someone else for my own gain.
But that was before three years of no work, of depending on friends for the roof over my head. Now? Here I stood, doing exactly what I said I’d never do, to a man who could make my heart race with a single look.
Jack stood; swung my laptop bag over his shoulder. He eyed Bright’s pack with the wariness of someone who’d learned to respect my cat’s particular brand of feline fussiness. “I’ll walk you home. But I’m not sure about hauling him around on my back.”
I snorted, grateful for the momentary distraction from my guilt. “He’d yowl loud enough to wake the dead. He’s a bit particular.” I gently eased the cat carrier onto my back, then held my hand out for the laptop case. “I can carry my own stuff.”
“Sure you can. But why would you?”
“It’s just a couple blocks. I don’t need an escort.” But God, I wanted one. The conflicting emotions threatened to tear me apart. I needed to push Jack away, reestablish the professional distance between us. Insulate myself against the derision I would see in his eyes the second the bye-week episode aired.
When he realized I’d chosen my career over him.
“Indulge me, Sutton.” He motioned toward the exit, his voice a low rumble that melted my insides. “After you.”
The bartender called out a goodbye as we left the patio. The night air hit crisp against my skin, a stark contrast to that rainy night when I’d first let myself imagine something real with Jack. Before Malone backed me into a corner. Before I’d chosen to sacrifice Jack’s privacy for career redemption.
I should stop this now. Walk away before I dug myself in deeper. Before the warmth of his presence beside me, his fingers at my lower back, became something I couldn’t live without.
I didn’t.
The streetlamps cast hazy orbs through the evening fog, like spotlights tracking our progress toward my apartment. Any other day, I’d fill this kind of silence with shop talk—upcoming episodes, social media reactions, anything to maintain professional distance. But bringing up Unleashed now would make me an even bigger fraud than Sydney ever was. At least she’d been upfront about her betrayal.
Because I didn’t want to know about Jack Vignier for the show anymore. I wanted to bask in the quiet strength that drew everyone into his orbit. I wanted to trace the lines of his face in the pre-dawn light, to learn the stories behind each scar. To understand what made him the kind of leader who inspired such loyalty in his players. And how he meant to move forward in life now that this chapter was closing.
How he meant to reinvent himself. Because I suspected there would be lessons to learn there, too.
I wanted everything I had no right to ask for.
All too soon we reached my building’s lobby. The familiar space felt charged tonight, electricity crackling between us as our reflections shimmered in the elevator’s metallic doors. I forced myself to turn, to do the right thing while I still could. “I can take the laptop from here.”
He shook his head, slow and deliberate, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Invite me up, Sutton.”
The air thickened, heavy with possibility and promise—and guilt. So much guilt. I swept my tongue across suddenly dry lips. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Invite me up, Sutton.” His voice dropped an octave, vibrating through me like a physical touch. He cupped the side of my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip in a caress that weakened my knees. “I’m past the age for public displays.”
As if on cue, the lobby door opened and two twenty-something guys ambled in. The elevator dinged its arrival and Jack’s hand slid to my wrist, guiding me inside. His fingers burned against my skin, his grip somehow both possessive and reassuring as the guys joined us. They brightened with recognition as they took in Jack’s presence, but his stiff expression shut them down.
The guys turned to face the doors, message received. When we reached my floor, Jack guided me between them and down the hall toward my apartment.
I wrapped my free hand around Bright’s pack straps, desperate for any distraction from Jack’s presence. From the heat of his body, the scent of his skin, the promise in his touch.
Jack Vignier had some balls, gripping my wrist like he had every right to control me. I clenched my thighs against the ache building between them, fumbling with my door code even as my conscience screamed at me to stop this before it was too late.
But maybe it was already too late. Maybe I’d lost this battle the moment he’d looked at me with his intense blue eyes and made me want to be the person worthy of his trust.
Someone I’d already proven I wasn’t.
He followed me inside, a silent hulk of a man, letting go of my wrist only to peel Bright’s pack from my back. He set my cat on the loveseat, unzipped the fastening and freeing my feline, before dropping the laptop case to lean against the side of the loveseat. Without missing a beat, he tugged me one side-step into the stretch of hall between the living room and bedroom, and pushed me against the wall.
Desire pooled low in my belly, a molten heat that spread through my veins like wildfire. Every nerve ending sparked alive, hypersensitive to his proximity, to the promise of his touch.
Surely Hell had a special place for women like me—women who craved what they didn’t deserve. Because God help me, I wanted his hands on my skin. Wanted to map every inch of him, to learn what made him gasp, what made him lose that legendary control. The need clawed at my insides, primal and devastating.
I sucked in a ragged breath and tilted my face up to his, drowning in eyes gone dark with hunger. I wanted—needed—his kiss, even knowing it would destroy me later. When desire turned to disgust. When he looked at me with regret instead of heat. The inevitability of that moment wrapped around my heart like barbed wire, choking me with panic.
A better woman would stop this. Would walk away before crossing lines that couldn’t be forgiven. He would see my actions for what they were—a betrayal.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
Jack caged me against the wall, one forearm braced above my head as he invaded my space. The clean scent of his skin—fresh soap and pure male—made my head spin. He nuzzled against my temple, his slow inhale setting off tremors beneath my skin.
“Love your hair, Sutton.” His low rumble scraped deliciously against my senses. “Smells fucking perfect. Everything about you...”
A shudder rippled through me, my body sparking to life with his voice. He stepped in, and whatever thread I’d been clinging to gave way. I reached for him, arms around his neck, drawn to the solid weight of him like he was the only steady thing left in my world.
I rose onto my toes and let my lips brush the corner of his mouth. “Kiss me, Jack.”
The words lingered in the space between us.
A plea.
A surrender.
The start of something that could either hold me together—or break me wide open.