Page 32 of Pucked In Vegas

Jackson stands there, all bare chest and low-slung sweatpants, looking like he just stepped out of my most inconvenient fantasy. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges like he's fresh from the shower.

A lazy, dangerous smile spreads across his face when he sees me.

"You came," he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

He leans against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like he was expecting me.

I force my eyes to stay on his face, not the sculpted planes of his chest or the defined V disappearing into his waistband.

"Relax. I'm just here to sign the papers."

His smile widens, dimples appearing like they're designed specifically to wreck my fragile composure.

"Is that what you think I invited you up for?"

I turn to face him, chin up. "You texted me. You said we needed to talk."

"We do," he says, grinning. "I just didn’t say which part of you I’d be talking to."

I cross my arms, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. "Try the one with a brain. Not the one that wore a wedding dress."

He steps forward slowly, like a lion stalking prey. His abs tighten, each sculpted ridge flexing with restrained power, the kind that promises rough hands and filthy intentions.

"Right. Because she’s long gone now, isn’t she?" he says gruffly.

"That girl had tequila for blood and bad decisions for breakfast."

He tilts his head, like he’s studying me. "And yet here you are."

"Here I am," I snap, "trying to undo one of those bad decisions. Starting with the part where you stop talking like we’re still tangled in that chapel bathroom."

He steps back, gesturing me inside. The room is plush, scattered with papers and takeout containers. All the signs of someone living out of a suitcase but doing it in style. The lights are dimmed, creating a smooth atmosphere that feels way too… intimate for the heat suddenly rushing through my body.

The door closes behind me. Jackson takes a slow step forward, and I take an instinctive step back.

"So… you work for the NHL Draft now?" he asks, pacing in front of me, calm and sharp all at once. "Bit odd, don't you think? Planning events for the sport you say you hate?"

"It’s a job."

He doesn’t stop moving. Just paces a slow circle, pulling the air around me tighter, making it harder and harder to breathe.

"No. It’s not just a job. You knew exactly what that event was."

"Of course I did. I took it anyway."

"Why?" he demands. "BecauseDaddyasked?"

I flinch.Shit.

He knows who my father is.Howdoes he know who my father is?

"Don’t call him that."

"But that’s who you are, right?" he says, circling back. "Big Mike’s daughter. The one who claims to hate everything aboutthe game, and yet you’re front and center at the biggest hockey event of the year. Why?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"It matters to me." He steps in close, so close I feel his breath against the side of my neck. His fingers trail lightly along my arm, not quite touching, just close enough to make my skin prickle. "Because I need to know what the hell I married."

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