Page 51 of Pucked In Vegas

"Jackson, it was a one night thing!" I rasp, hating that I'm not even sure if I mean the words. "We went out, got drunk… had fun and danced. Had way,waytoo much to drink and did what everyone does in Vegas."

He gives me a look. "Exactly. It was fun. Whenever we're together it's fun… so why do you keep running?"

I go to open my mouth, but he presses a single finger against my lips, sealing my voice shut. I hate that my body responds so instantly to him, like it knows something my brain refuses to acknowledge.

"And I want the truth this time."

A long, heavy sigh leaves my chest, dragging with it all my carefully constructed defenses.

I take a moment to stare into his eyes. Those gorgeous, stunning eyes that drew me in that evening by the pool. Eyes that somehow saw past my ice queen façade when I was sitting alone, nursing a drink and pretending I wasn't hiding from another hockey event or drowning my sorrows from being a complete failure.

"Because I know who you are now," I whisper, hating how breathless I sound.

"You've always known who I was."

"No, I knewJax. The stranger from the pool. The mystery man who made me laugh and forget the world for one night. The man who didn't ask about my job, about my father or my connections or—" I cut myself off, realizing I'm revealing too much.

"I'm still that same person, Cassie."

"Are you?" I challenge. "Because the Jackson Holt I see out there, surrounded by reporters and agents and every other hockey player's dreams of championship glory… that's not the man who I convinced to marry me for fun in a Vegas chapel."

"You're wrong. Just because I play hockey doesn't mean I'm not a good guy." His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Tell me you don't want this, Cass. Tell me that, and I promise I'll submit those fucking forms and leave you alone."

The words stick in my throat.

Because he's right.

I do want this. Want him. Want the way he looks at me like I'm the most fascinating woman he's ever met, not just a convenient hockey connection.

But wanting something and being able to have it are two very different things.

"See. You can't say it. Because you're fooling yourself. But I'm not giving up on you, Cassie," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Never."

"Jackson, we—"

"You'll see. Just wait. I'll show you, sweetheart. I'll show you just how good we can be if you can just let go of the past."

His fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I feel myself melting toward him. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to break free and leap straight into his hands.

"You're making this impossible," I whisper, my voice betraying me with its tremor.

"Good." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I fight the urge to take it between my teeth. "Some things should be impossible to ignore."

I close my eyes, trying to center myself, but that only makes it worse.

My body sways toward him of its own accord, like he's gravity and I'm helpless against the pull. I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him so badly I can taste it.

But if I do, I know I'll be lost.

I press my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my fingers. It matches my own, this frantic rhythm of want and fear and possibility.

Then, just as I'm about to close the distance between us, or possibly combust from the tension, the door flies open.

"Sorry, sorry!" An intern with wide eyes and an armload of gaffer tape stumbles backward. "Didn't mean to—are you two—"

I spring away from Jackson like he's on fire, my face burning with embarrassment.

"No! We were just—the lighting in here is—I was checking the—"

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