Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
I turn the corner, and there he is. Jaxson is freshly showered and dressed in a polo shirt and blue jeans. He’s carrying a black duffel bag in his left hand. He looks less like a star and more like a soldier returning from a losing battle.
"You need to get your head looked at," I say, my voice sounding thin in the cavernous hallway.
Jaxson stops and stares at me. The cool air of the corridor doesn't seem to reach the heat radiating off his skin. Up close, the damage is more apparent. There’s a blooming bruise along his jawline, and a thin cut near his hairline. His eyes find mine, and for a second, there’s a raw, pulsing vulnerability in his gaze that makes my throat close.
"Are you worried about me?" he rasps, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my chest.
"I'm a nurse. It’s part of my job to worry about anyone who was injured," I reply, stepping closer. The unique spicy smell of him hits me, making my pulse skip a beat.
"Is that all it is?" he asks, though he winces as he shifts his weight.
"Yes," I lie through my teeth, the professional irritation masking a much deeper, more chaotic emotion. I reach out, my fingers hovering just inches from his jaw. As I stare into his eyes, he drops the bag, and it hits the rubber floor with a dull thud, forgotten. He takes a step toward me, closing the distance until I have to tilt my head back to look at him. In the dim light of the corridor, he looks like a statue of focused granite, but I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. It’s a physical hum, a frequency that matches the frantic thrumming in my own veins.
"Well, you don’t have to worry," he breathes deeply. "I’ve taken harder hits than that."
"I’m glad you seem to be okay," I say, and it’s mostly the truth. I’m actually so damned relieved, my knees are actually weak.
Jaxson smiles, a slow, devastating transformation that softens the stern lines of his face. It’s a private smile, one that doesn't belong to the cameras or the fans. It belongs to me. "I think it’s more than that. I think you were really worried about me."
"Well, you’re wrong," I insist a little too loudly. My hand, acting of its own accord, finally makes contact. I brush the hair away from the cut on his forehead. His skin is hot, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I should pull away. I should remember the 'no-athlete' rule, the family loyalty, the years of Coleman-Thorne animosity. But all I can feel is the solid, vibrating reality of him.
Jaxson’s hand comes up, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with a sudden, startling grip. His palm is broad, blunt-fingered, and calloused from years of gripping a goalie stick. He doesn't pull my hand away; he holds it there, pressed against his temple, his pulse jumping against my fingertips. The silence in the hallway becomes a living thing, pressing against my skin like a heavy weight.
"Harper," he says, and my name sounds like a prayer and a confession all at once. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"It’s the head injury," I try to joke as the world closes in on me. I can feel the heat of him through the fabric of my dress, a magnetic pull that I am powerless to resist. My breath catches. The distance between us is a heat-shimmer, a quarter inch of almost that feels like a mile. I want him. Specifically, persistently, inconveniently, I want this man more than anything in this world.
He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against mine. His breath smells of peppermint and adrenaline, and his eyes drop to my mouth. The world outside of this hallway blurs into insignificance. There is only the rhythmic throb of his pulse against my fingers and the terrifying realization that I am about to break every rule I’ve ever made for myself.
I lean in and inhale him, just for a second, like a crazy person. I have zero self-preservation skills. But then my nurse brain wakes up and slaps me upside the head. I pull away an inch and scan his pupils, watching for that glassy, dazed look that tells me he’s about to eat concrete. Nothing. His eyes are clear and bright, laser-focused on my mouth. I make him follow my finger left and right. He doesn’t even blink, the jerk, just stares like he wants to eat me for dinner.
“Are you feeling dizzy?” I try for professional, but my voice sounds breathless and needy. Great. That won’t give anything away.
He grins, slow and wolfish. “Nope. Just very, very focused.”
Freaking hell. I check the rest anyway. No slurred speech. No balance issues. If anything, he’s too steady. There’s a cut above his brow, but it isn’t deep. I brush the hair away and run a thumb under the bruise, trying not to melt from the heat rolling off his skin.