Page 73 of The Coach

I push that thought down.

He disappears into the open-concept kitchen, pulling open a sleek cabinet.

“Tea?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “Or do you want something else?”

I raise a brow. “You drink tea?”

He smirks. “I own tea. I drink whiskey.”

I laugh. “Tea’s fine.”

A few minutes later, I’m curled up on the massive sectional, a mug of peppermint tea warming my hands as Jackson settles onto the other end, his own mug barely touched.

There’s a pause, like he’s debating something, then?—

“Hey…what if we watched a movie?”

I blink. “A movie?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t even know what kind of movies you like. I mean, I remember everything from that weekend but I don’t really know much about you.”

Something in my chest tightens.

I don’t really know much about you.

He says it like it’s something that needs to be fixed.

Like he actually wants to.

I shift on the couch, my heart doing weird little flips.

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Pick one.”

Jackson scrolls through the movies, pausing for half a second before clicking on one.

"Good Will Hunting?" I ask, glancing over at him.

He shrugs, leaning back into the couch. "Classic. Plus, I don’t know—feels like something you'd like."

I smirk. "Oh? You think you know my taste in movies now?"

He lifts a brow. "Not yet. But I'm working on it."

Something about the way he says it—casual but pointed—makes my stomach do that stupid fluttering thing.

I sip my tea, trying not to overthink it.

At first, we sit like normal people.

Separate. Comfortable.

But somewhere between the Southie bar fights and Robin Williams’ first monologue, Jackson shifts.

His arm stretches along the back of the couch.

Then, it’s not on the couch anymore.

It’s around me.

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