Page 119 of The Coach

I really hate that my whole body is screaming for him.

"Get it all out. Consider this therapy. But we both know that’s not true. Because even if you hate me? That means you’re far from indifferent. And I’ll take it."

"Yeah? Well?—"

"Ivy."

Jackson growls, cutting me off. The sound is low. Deep. Possessive. Different than any noise I’ve heard from him before.

"I’m not going to sit here and let you insult me like this—call me a liar—when I thought about you every fucking day this summer. How’s that? Feel better?"

I wipe a tear away. "How do I know?"

He exhales sharply, his jaw tight. "Sometimes, Ivy, you have to look someone in the eye and just know if you can trust them. Do you believe me? Do you believe that I lost your number, then even went back to Riverbend to look for you in town, but couldn’t find you. Or don’t you? Because if you think I’m lying about that? If you think I don’t really want you, then what the fuck are we doing here, Ivy? Playing pretend? Because I’m not.”

His words hit me.

Like a punch to the gut, like a crack in my carefully constructed walls.

I force myself to open my mouth.

“You drove down to Riverbend to look for me? You looked in my old apartment?”

“Yeah. I did. I even asked some bartender about you. No one knew you though. And you weren’t listed at any school.”

“You stalked the schools in Riverbend?”

“Yes, of course. All I knew was that there you were a teacher named Ivy. But there was no ‘Ivy.’”

“That’s because Ivy is a nickname. My fully name is Yvette. Yvette Bennett.”

His eyes widen, his lips parting slightly. Then, after a beat, he huffs out a quiet, almost breathless laugh. “Yvette Bennett,” he repeats, like he’s testing it, letting it settle in his mouth. Then his gaze flickers back to mine, something dark and unreadable in his expression. “Nowthat’sgot a hell of a ring to it.”

The truth—the real, terrifying truth—is that I want to believe him. Need to.

But if I say it out loud, if I admit that I do trust him...then what? Then this isn’t just a mess of tension and bad timing. Then it’s real. And real means risk.

Jackson’s breathing is heavy, his jaw tight, his blue eyes locked onto mine.

Waiting.

And suddenly, it’s too much.

Too much thinking. Too much feeling.

So I do the only thing that makes sense—I grab him.

Fisting the lapels of his navy-blue suit jacket, I yank him toward me, crashing my mouth against his. It’s desperate, messy, borderline reckless. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Maybe we both have.

I barely have time to breathe before he responds by hauling me into his lap, his strong hands guiding me exactly where he wants me.

His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, sliding under my dress, his fingers digging into my skin like he’s starving for me.

The windows fog with our breath. His vehicle is huge but it feels too small, too hot, too charged with everything I want from him.

His mouth crashes onto mine—deep, messy, all-consuming.

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