Page 114 of The Coach

I roll my eyes, pretending to be unbothered, but I know my face is betraying me. “Flattery? Already?”

He grins. That panty-melting, cocky-as-hell grin.

“Just stating facts.” He reaches for my suitcase, effortlessly grabbing it. “Let me get that.”

I let him.

It’s small—him taking my bag, him guiding me toward the car with a light touch on my lower back—but it makes something deep inside me unravel.

When we reach the SUV, he opens the passenger door for me.

Like a full-blown gentleman.

My heart trips.

“You’re really leaning into this whole charming thing, huh?” I tease as I slide inside.

Jackson just smirks, shutting the door before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat beside me.

“Buckle up, Emerald Girl,” he drawls, his voice dripping with something unspoken, something electric. “Although blue looks good on you, too.”

“I thought it was a good change of pace from my usual.”

“You’ll always be Emerald to me.”

As he pulls away from the curb, the city stretching wide before us, I get the feeling that tonight is going to be something else.

And I’m so damn ready.

I watch as Jackson weaves through the city streets, his hands firm on the wheel, the glow of Chicago’s skyline flashing against the windshield.

"Where are we going?" I ask, stealing a glance at him.

He just smirks, eyes on the road. "You'll see."

"But it’s already late. What could possibly be open? Let me guess. A new restaurant?”

He flicks on the turn signal, effortlessly maneuvering through traffic. “No, not a restaurant. But I called in a favor."

I gape at him. "Called in a favor?"

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Coach benefits. As long as we keep our winning record, at least. Which we will.”

Two security guards are already waiting at the doors of the Chicago Art Institute when we pull up. The entire museum is closed to the public at this hour. The streets outside are quiet, only the hum of late-night traffic in the distance.

"Wait…" I shake my head as we step out of the car. "You got us into the Art Institute? At night?"

Jackson just grins, looking so damn cocky in his suit. "Figured you’d like it."

He tosses the keys to his car to the other security guard, while another one lets walks us up the steps, keys rattling.

I stare up at the grand entrance, my heart doing weird, fluttery things.

"I mentioned this once," I whisper.

He looks at me, something softer in his expression now. “Guess I remembered.”

Inside, the museum is silent, except for the faint echo of our footsteps. The lights are dim, the famous paintings illuminated in soft pools of light.

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