I grabbed my phone, typed my password in, and pulled up the messages.
Hangin’ at a bar downtown. Wish you were here.
I set the phone back down and shook my head.
No, thanks.
I could only imagine what constituted as a good time for a twenty-three-year-old professional football player—shots lined up down the bar, girls dancing everywhere, and music loud enough to make my ears bleed.
That image alone made me feel as old as the beams holding up my historic house.
The further I stepped away from my college days, the less I found myself needing that type of entertainment. A girls’ night out was different, and I still enjoyed getting tipsy with my friends, but I found myself loving fuzzy socks and paperbacks far more than high heels and body shots these days.
Picking up the phone once again, I sent a quick text, hoping it would sever all communication with Travis, the football player.
Sorry, Travis. Stuck at home with my daughter. She’s only thirteen months old, and she has a cold. Snot is everywhere. Maybe next time?
I snickered as I pressed Send.
That should do it.
Dropping the phone on the coffee table, I decided a bit of fresh air was in order, and I headed out the back door to my patio, immediately feeling the humid warm breeze hit my face. I took a deep breath, wrapping my arms around my chest, my eyes darted from one corner of the yard to the next, chasing fireflies.
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
I looked over to see Jackson standing in a similar position on his patio. His gaze was locked on me.
“It is,” I answered.
“Mind if I join you?”
I began to shake my head, but I realized he probably couldn’t see much of me.
“No, I don’t mind.”
I watched the moonlit silhouette of him move closer to me. He opened the gate that separated our two yards and stepped through. A few moments later, he was at my side.
“Hi,” he said, his smile shining through the darkness.
“Hi. Busy week I guess?” I asked, searching for something to say.
He nodded, rocking back on his heels. “How is the football star?”
No *footing around tonight.
Jackson’s eyes sparked with anger, making his motivation on that field days earlier very apparent.
“Why does he bother you so much?” I asked, stepping closer as my own anger began to rise.
“For the same reasons Don Juan, or whatever his name is, bothers me. Neither of them are good enough for you. And they aren’t me.”
His confession caught me completely off guard, and my anger seeped away.
“And you are good enough?” I asked softly.
His intense gaze met mine, sincerity pouring out of his memorizing stare.
“I’d damn well try to be.”
Like a flash, he was on me—his lips, his hands, and his entire presence. My breath hitched in surprise as my body melted into his, molding around him as if I’d been made to do so.
My mouth opened, and his tongue found mine, caressing and moving together like we were long-lost lovers. His fingers twisted into my hair, pulling me closer. I felt every hard inch of his body pressed against mine.
Holy shit, I am kissing Jackson Reid.
I was making out with my asshole neighbor.
My body went rigid with panic. Feeling the shift in my demeanor, Jackson slowed, pressing sweet kisses to my lips and cheek.
“You’re pulling away,” he stated.
“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
His eyebrows rose, but his position didn’t change. His arms remained firmly wrapped around me. “Sure, but don’t pull away from me, Liv.”
“I just need to know, what are we doing, Jackson?” I looked up at him and watched his expression turn mischievous.
“As in right now? Or a couple of minutes ago?”
I playfully slapped his arm, causing him to laugh.
“I mean, in general. This. What is this?” I made a motion that encapsulated the two of us.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
I sighed, slightly stepping back. His playful attitude faltered as his fingers moved up my arms.
“It’s just that I don’t do this well.”
“And what is this?” he asked.
I threw my hands up in frustration. “I don’t know. I thought you would know.”
He laughed. “Then, how do you know you do it so poorly?”
“Because I do. Intimacy and relationships,” I said, nearly shuddering over the words, “I suck at them. I’ve never managed to stay in one longer than a few months.”
“Maybe you’re just dating the wrong guys?”
I looked up at him and smiled. “Maybe.”
“Besides, Liv, so far we’ve only just made out a little on your patio. Lay off the doom and gloom. Aren’t you the therapist? Shouldn’t you be spouting off this ridiculous crap?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. “You know how they say, Never marry a chef if you love to eat?”
“Uh…no. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that.”