Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Ridley
Jacks is sleeping on the couch in my living room. His arm is tucked under the throw pillow, and the throw blanket is pulled up to his chin. With his lips slightly parted, he looks young, as if he's in his early twenties, despite the heavy five o'clock shadow covering his jaw and full upper lip. He's wearing the same T-shirt as last night—the black one—but his jeans and leather jacket are strewn across the coffee table.
I cross my arms and bite my lip. There's no way he'd be naked, but I don't know if I can handle seeing him in his boxers. More so because of the embarrassment swirling in my gut. I feel like we've been too intimate. Memories from last night are fragments that don't fit together: Jacks tying my hair back, Blakely acting like a jerk, Caden crying into his old-fashioned, me arriving at the bar and dreading the night. It doesn't help that I can't remember the order of these events. And whenever I try to create a timeline, a sharp pain radiates through my skull. The water and painkillers Jacks left on my nightstand have yet to kick in.
Just as I'm about to nudge Jacks, he stirs. The last thing I need is him waking up and seeing me stare at him. Before I can migrate to the kitchen, he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly to adapt to the light filtering through the windows. There's a small crease between his thick eyebrows when he looks at me. His lips part.
"You didn't leave," I say before he can speak. My voice is colder than I intend. Shame washes over me within seconds. Feeling uncomfortable, I rub the back of my neck and add, "I just woke up."
Jacks rubs the sleep from his eyes and props himself up on one elbow. "No. You were in a state, Ridley. Everyone was scared you'd do something irreversible or were going to die from alcohol poisoning. That's why I stayed overnight. I'm sorry if I, uh, overstepped. It's not professional, but I... I couldn't leave you. You asked me not to."
His tousled hair is lax across his forehead, giving him the allure of boyish charm. I grind my teeth. "Way to sugar-coat it. Am I really that volatile?"
I suppress the emotions clawing at my heat. He stayed for me. And I... the back of my nose burns. I cough, ridding myself of the lump caught in my throat. Now is not the time for Jacks to sound like a man written by a woman. Not when I'm feeling vulnerable.
He snorts. "You should know me better by now. Sugar-coating shit has never worked in the past." As Jacks sits up, the blanket falls from his shoulders, pooling around his waist. His shirt has ridden up, revealing a smooth sliver of his light-brown skin. I avert my gaze. "And you're not volatile, Ridley. You're entitled to feel the way you do. Just like we're entitled to care about you."
His softer tone confirms the worst. I groan and drop my face into my hands, turning away and trudging to the kitchen. To distract myself from the emotions, I make a pot of coffee. "Fuck. What did I tell you last night?"
Jacks follows me into the kitchen, in his boxers and T-shirt. He stops at the island, resting his forearms against the granite. There's a hesitant note in his voice. "Ridley..."
