Page 109 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.

Lia stood frozen in the doorway for one horrified second too long. Jackson kept me covered. So she couldn't see the small, satisfied smile tugging at my mouth.

Maybe I'd been a little louder than necessary toward the end.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” she stammered, already backing out. “I thought—”

“The closed door should’ve been your first clue,” Jackson growled.

The door slammed shut.

Silence lasted exactly two seconds before Jackson dropped his forehead against the back of my shoulder with a long-suffering groan.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the nape of my neck.

I turned my head enough to look at him. “Does she always just walk into your room like that?”

“No,” he said immediately. He frowned. “At least not without knocking first. I don't know what the hell she was thinking.”

I had a pretty good idea, but I didn't tell him.

Jackson sighed and brushed his thumb lightly along my hip. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s shower and then get breakfast.”

I followed him into the bathroom. The shower was big enough for two and Jackson made full use of it. He took the loofah and body wash, working the soap slowly over my shoulders, down my back, across my stomach. His hands were big and rough and absurdly gentle at the same time.

When he finished he wrapped a towel around me and nudged me toward the counter while he stayed to wash himself.

I was halfway through brushing my teeth when he stepped out. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it low around his hips. I might have ogled him a little in the mirror. He was, objectively, magnificent.

Without a word he came up behind me, pressing his front lightly against my back while his arms slid around my waist. A second later his chin settled on my shoulder and he rubbed his cheek slowly against mine.

I spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed before glancing at him in the mirror.

“Had to use your toothbrush,” I said. “Couldn’t find a spare.”

“I don’t keep spares,” he murmured lazily against my shoulder. “I don’t bring women here.”

My cat liked that answer. And so did I.

Jackson brushed his teeth while I worked through the knots in my wet hair. A minute later he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a new hairbrush still in its packaging. He tore it open and stepped behind me again.

I caught his eye in the mirror. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got it.”

He plugged in the blow dryer and started carefully brushing through the damp strands while warm air filled the bathroom.

I watched him in the mirror because the sight felt surreal. Jackson Black, 6′5″, broad shoulders still damp, a towel barely hanging on, entirely focused on not snagging my hair. His gray eyes stayed on the brush, patient and strangely gentle.

Something inside my chest shifted painfully.

When he caught me watching, he leaned down and kissed the top of my head without breaking rhythm, then went right back to drying my hair.

Warmth spread slowly through me. Safety. Comfort. Feelings I still didn't entirely know what to do with.

By the time we made it downstairs the house smelled like coffee and bacon. Rick and Jason were arguing over whether bacon should be crispy or “structurally sound.” Rick was losing.

Lia sat at the kitchen island with a mug in both hands. She straightened when she saw us and her gaze settled on me.