Ortake me home.
OrI’ve been thinking about your hands all day.
So instead I whisper, “You’re… surprisingly gentle for a scary man.”
Jack’s gaze holds mine. “I’m not scary.”
I snort. “Jack, you look like you could glare a burglar into repentance.”
He leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Good.”
The word sends a hot ripple down my spine.
I swallow, trying to breathe. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what?”
“Me being… all flustered.”
His voice is low, rough. “Maybe.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him. “You’re impossible.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth again. “So are you.” The way he says it—like I’m not a nuisance, but a temptation—makes my knees feel weak.
I try to fill the silence with something safe. “So… do you always use small-town dances as part of your job?” I ask.
Jack’s expression shifts, serious. “No.”
“Then why?—”
His jaw works like he’s fighting himself. “Because you’re tense. Because you’re trying to pretend you’re not scared. And because I needed you within reach.”
My heart thumps.
“And,” he adds, quieter, “because you asked if I’d be everywhere.”
I blink. “I did.”
“I am,” he says simply.
Heat blooms in my chest—comforting and dangerous at the same time.
We keep moving, and somehow the world narrows to the space between our bodies. His hand at my waist. My fingers in his. The brush of his jeans against my bare thigh when we step too close.
I look away, trying to calm myself, and spot Wyatt in the distance, watching us with an expression that saysI hate this but I also kind of approve.
I roll my eyes at him over Jack’s shoulder.
Wyatt just lifts his cup in a silent toast.
Traitor.
Jack notices my distraction. “What?”
“My brother is being… my brother,” I mutter.
Jack’s mouth twitches. “He trusts me.”
