Page 73 of The Love Playbook

Jackson blows out a breath and looks down at the floor. “Hmm. I could run to the store and get some. I’d be back in about half an hour.”

“We can do it!” Piper volunteers far too enthusiastically for my taste. She gives Ellie a meaningful look.

“Oh! Right.” Ellie nods emphatically. “Yes. We’ll go get the Icy Hot. You stay here with Autumn.”

Huffing, I roll my eyes and cross my arms. They’re so transparent. But jerking my arms across my body like that pulls on my aching neck, and I wince.

Ellie and Piper are too caught up in gathering their things to notice, but Jackson’s paying attention. He gives me a look that’s part censure, part satisfaction that he’s right and he knows I know it. “Mmhmm. See? You need more than just a thawing ice pack.”

He plucks the ice pack in question from my hands and strides away, disappearing into the kitchen, and returning a moment later empty-handed.

“We’ll be back soon!” chirps Ellie as they head out, abandoning me to Jackson’s tender care.

Drawing in a careful breath, I let my arms relax and watch him. Why is he here?

He takes a seat on the other end of the couch, lowering himself gingerly onto the cushion so as not to jostle the furniture at all. For as tall and broad as he is, he moves with an astonishing amount of grace.

Athletes have that kind of reputation, I suppose, but I’ve met enough of the football team to know that not all of them have achieved that yet. Some are lumbering giants. Often kinder and sweeter than their outward demeanor would suggest—Simon, Ellie’s boyfriend, is one of those. Some of the underclassmen are still in that overgrown puppy phase where their bodies have grown and changed so much in such a short time that they haven’t quite mastered control of them yet, so they’re all long limbs and poor spatial awareness.

Of course Jackson’s outgrown that phase already. I’d think the new guys would have to do that pretty quickly if they wanted any time on the field.

“I don’t need Icy Hot,” I say after too much time has passed and the silence has grown uncomfortable. I don’t normally mind silence with Jackson. But things are complicated now.

Which, again, has me wondering …Why is he here?

He snorts.

“I don’t,” I repeat quietly but firmly. “I have an oil I use for muscle soreness. It works just fine. I even made some for Simon once when he messed up his knee. He said it helped.”

Jackson stares at me evenly for a moment. “Where is it?”

I gesture toward the hall. “In my room. In the drawer organizer thing you got me for my oils. Middle drawer in a brown bottle marked ‘Muscle Rub.’”

With a nod, Jackson rises and strides away, moving through my home like he owns the place. Of course, he’s been here enough times to know the layout and where most things are. And hedidorganize my whole room, after all.

Still. For some reason that irks me.

That and his high-handed insistence that he’d take me to the ER over my objections. I don’t like being bossed around or treated like a weakling who needs looking after.

But Jackson seems determined to look after me right now whether I want him to or not.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” he grumbles as he returns, holding the little bottle between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle shake.

I arch an eyebrow. “Would you have listened if I had?”

He pauses and presses his lips together. “No, probably not.” Unscrewing the cap, he pulls out the dropper, sets the bottle on the coffee table before squeezing the oil into his hand and setting the cap back on the bottle. He rubs his hands together and jerks his head to indicate he wants me to shift forward.

When I don’t immediately comply, he narrows his eyes at me. “Seriously, Autumn? You’re not going to let me do this one very small thing for you? I’ve had my hands all over your body, but I can’t rub some oil into your neck to help you feel better?”

The special emphasis he puts onall overhas my cheeks heating, and why am I suddenly the one blushing while Jackson is calm and cool as can be? What is going on here?

But I relent and scoot forward, even though moving isn’t my favorite thing right now.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low and soothing. “But this’ll help, I promise.”

“I can do it myself, you know,” I feel the need to say, but it doesn’t come out as confidently as I’d prefer.

Jackson chuckles, his breath disturbing the baby hairs that have come free from my messy bun. Then his hands are on my neck, warm and soothing, the sensation soimmediatethat it steals my breath.

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