Page 95 of The Coach

His heavy arm is slung over my waist, his chest rising and falling steadily behind me. His breath fans against my neck, warm and slow.

I freeze.

This is dangerous.

Because for a few seconds, it feels so good. Too good.

Like something that isn’t just circumstantial.

Like something thatcouldbe real.

I swallow, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to untangle myself before he wakes up and I do something stupid—like actually let myself enjoy this.

But then he shifts, groaning softly, stretching.

And his voice, still rough with sleep, shatters me.

“Mmm.” His fingers flex slightly where they rest against my stomach. “Shit. You’re warm.”

My pulse spikes. “Uh—yeah. I mean. That’s probably just my pregnancy hormones?”

Jackson lets out a low chuckle, his lips brushing my shoulder. “Whatever you say, Reese’s Pieces.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

This istoo much.

I need to get up.

A little while later, I’m standing in the kitchen, watching Jackson make breakfast—on aTuesday, mind you—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You set up my security system, bought my groceries, and now you’re making me breakfast?” I tease, sipping my coffee. “Are you trying to wife me up?”

Jackson smirks, flipping a pancake onto a plate. “That depends.”

I narrow my eyes. “On what?”

He gives me a slow, lazy look. “Would you say yes?”

My stomach does a full somersault.

But I keep my cool, arching a brow. “You’re awfully cocky for a guy who slept on my couch last night.”

He grins. “Correction. Istartedon the couch. I ended up in your bed. That’s calledwinning.”

“Winning?” I gasp dramatically. “We cuddled. That’s all. You didn’t score any points.”

Jackson leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “That so?”

“That’s so. And don’t get all cocky about it.”

“Well I definitely advanced the ball into enemy territory.”

I refuse to acknowledge how much an actualfootballanalogy makes me shiver.

After breakfast, we both get ready for the day.

Jackson throws on a hoodie and jeans, looking way too good for a guy who just woke up. I try not to stare, try to ignore how easy this feels—like a weirdly domestic morning I secretly loved.

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