Page 68 of Reach Around

The second I step into the backyard, the cold slaps me in the face like a jealous ex.

But then I see him.

Brogan’s standing next to the fire pit, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, baseball cap turned backwards, face lit by the flickering flames like he’s the damn cover model ofLumberjack Lustor something.

He turns, spots me—and his grin hits me straight in the ovaries. And in my panties

I don’t even bother pretending I’m going to play it cool.

“JoJo,” he says, but I barely hear it before I’m moving—running, really—straight at him.

He drops his drink just in time for me to launch myself at his chest, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck like I’m his own personal koala. He laughs, grabs me tight, and spins me in a circle, nearly knocking both of us into the snow.

“God, I missed you,” he says, voice muffled in my hair, hands everywhere. “You trying to kill me with cuteness or just marking your territory?”

I nuzzle his neck, grinning like an idiot. “Both. But mostly the second one.” He squeezes tighter, just enough to make me squeal, and I blurt, “If you drop me in the snow, I’m not putting out until spring.” It comes out loud and shameless, but he just laughs, and for a second, everything is easy again.

He kisses me stupid, his mouth hungry and smiling at the same time.

“I’d say ‘hey,’ but that doesn’t seem to cover it,” I say, breathless.

He grins, tugging me even closer. “Glad to be home, JoJo.” His tone is low and easy like we didn’t spend the last three days sexting like our cell plans were sponsored by Pornhub.

“Welcome home,” I breathe, wrapping my arms tighter around him.

“Fire’s warm.” He nods toward it, but his eyes are all over me. “You look cold.”

I finally slide down his body until I’m on my feet again. “I’m not cold.”

“Liar.” He shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it over my shoulders like he’s been doing it his whole life.

Which… he has.

But it’s different now. It’s become everything.

I slide my arms into it, swallowing the warmth and his scent all at once. “Thanks.”

His voice drops. “Anytime.”

I bury my nose in the collar for a second, breathing him in. If you could bottle this scent, I’d never need therapy again. We stand there for a minute, just watching the flames crackle, like we’re not both buzzing with every unsaid thing.

Then his fingers brush mine, slow and sure, and he doesn’t let go. “I missed you.”

“You were gone for five days.”

“That’s basically a year in hockey time.”

I laugh, but there’s a lump in my throat. Because I missed him, too. More than I should. More than I thought possible.

“I brought cocoa,” he adds. “The real stuff. None of that watery mix shit.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Are you trying to seduce me with premium hot beverages?”

He lifts a brow. “Is it working?”

“Disturbingly well.”

We take our mugs and settle into the Adirondack chairs by the fire, legs stretched out toward the flames. His is laced with whiskey. Mine is laced with… Brogan. And it’s stronger than any liquor.

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