I grinned despite my exhaustion.
Me: Been awake since 4. On the plane now. Send help.
Jacks: Help in what form? Coffee? Motivational quotes? A time machine to undo your career choice?
Me: All the above.
Jacks: Best I can do is a pictureof your booth. As promised.
An image loaded. It showed the corner booth at Barbacks, empty and waiting, with a handwritten sign taped to the table that read: “RESERVED FOR HOCKEY IDIOTS. VIOLATORS WILL BE GLITTERED.”
I laughed out loud, earning a confused look from Tyler in the seat across the aisle.
Me: Did Benji make that sign?
Jacks: Who else? He wanted to add “Property of Skyler Shaw,” but I convinced him that might attract the wrong kind of attention.
Me: Your restraint is appreciated.
Jacks: Yeah, I’m a saint.
Me: Let’s not get carried away.
Jacks: Have a safe flight. Text me when you land?
Me: Will do.
I shoved my phone into the pocket on the seatin front of me and leaned my head against the window, watching the Tampa skyline slip past in the pre-dawn darkness, never even considering why Jacks was awake and seeing the same majestic sunrise. He had no reason to get up. He was a night owl, a late sleeper, a—
Man awake and texting at five o’clock in the morning.
That meant something, right? Or maybe he couldn’t sleep. He might have an early morning workout (though I knew that would never happen). Or maybe Mark insisted on some ridiculous planning breakfast. Before the sun rose. About a bar that was doing well and didn’t need intensive planning.
Right.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. I could survive that.
The plane groaned as its wheels folded into themselves and we rose toward the clouds. I let my eyes close, trying to catch a few minutes of rest. Instead, my brain did what it had been doing for three days straight: replayed the moment under the oak tree.
The wind.
The curls falling across his forehead.
My hand moving without permission, brushing them back, my fingers grazing his skin—
And then that look: the way his whole body had gone still and the way his eyes had widened, fixingon my face with an intensity that made my chest feel like it was caving in.
I’d panicked.
That was the only word for it.
Full-on, fight-or-flight panic that had sent me scrambling for the main street like I was fleeing a crime scene.
What the hell had I been thinking?
The answer, of course, was that Ihadn’tbeen thinking. That was the problem. Around Jacks, my brain seemed to malfunction, leaving my body to make decisions that my conscious mind couldn’t explain.
Hair in someone’s face was annoying, I told myself.I was helping a friend.
