Page 67 of One Wild Chance

He’s laughing now, and I smack his arm. “Okay, stop. He’s never even asked me out.”

Jaxon bites back a smile. “Too chicken?”

“No, because we’re just friends! And don’t say men and women can’t be friends,” I add quickly. “Don’t Harry my Sally.”

His brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

My eyes widen. “Hello?! It’s from When Harry Met Sally.”

“Oh, it is?”

“Yes.” I turn toward him. Apparently, Jaxon’s not a Nora Ephron fan.

“What if I agree with Harry?” he asks. “I’m not sure they can be friends.”

I scoff. “Men and women can absolutely be friends. Look at Blaine and me.”

He laughs, incredulous. “Sure. Whatever, Wildflower. Keep being delusional.”

I settle my hands on my hips. “They can. Look at us. We’re friends.” I gesture between us.

He gives an amused flick of his brow. “Are we?”

“Of course.” Then I clarify, “Friendly coworkers.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing as friends.”

“It’s closer to friends than enemies,” I note.

He smirks. “Still not the same.”

“Fine.” I wave my hand in the air. “We’re friends.”

I turn toward the center of the barn because I need somewhere to look that’s not at this infuriatingly gorgeous man. A normal person says “yes, friends” and moves on without trying to ignite a dumpster-fire argument over the difference between two closely related things. But Jaxon enjoys poking the hornet’s nest, using his smile on me in ways that stir up inappropriate feelings.

I step away from Jaxon, changing the subject entirely. “Why don’t we start taking pictures?” I pull my phone from my pocket and point it toward Jaxon to see if there’s enough natural light.

“I thought you were going to be in these pictures.”

“We need to test the lighting first,” I say, adjusting my phone. “Move over there.”

He walks to the middle where there’s more natural light, then gives the camera a look that’s good for staring down hockey opponents and probably serial killers too.

“Hmm.” I crinkle my nose. “Your face is a little intense.”

He blinks, then makes the same expression. “Is this better?”

I squint my eyes. It doesn’t help. “That face would work well if you were auditioning for Jack the Ripper.”

His lips tighten. “I was a hockey player. I had to look mean.”

“How about less mean?” He doesn’t move. “Like, a lot less.”

The breeze tousles his hair across his forehead. “Wait a second.” I cross to Jaxon and brush a stray wisp back into place. But when our eyes meet, my stomach drops. He’s staring at me—and not in a way that says stop. More like, do it more.

For a moment neither one of us moves, except for my heart, which takes off in a wild gallop inside my chest. As much as I’d like to see what Jaxon’s stubble feels like under my fingers, the rough scrape of his jawline, that’s a boundary I can’t cross. Not when his eyes are saying what I think they’re saying, and I know exactly how my body would react.

“Where’s the smile you give to all your female fans?” I say, because teasing feels easier than the truth right now.