Page 109 of And Now, Back to You

“I can’t stand you being cold.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose, I’m—”

“That wasn’t a complaint, Delilah.” His cold nose presses against the back of my neck.

A knot tightens in my belly, even though I don’t really understand what he’s saying. Whatever it is, my body seems to get it well enough.

“Want you to be warm,” Jackson mumbles, his palm easing up and then down my belly. He settles it low, right at the waistband of my ridiculous snow pants, and everything pulls tight. “Want to be the one who makes you coffee,” he adds in a grumble.

I flop backward. Jackson’s hand shifts. “I knew you were mad about the coffee.”

He’s silent for the stretch of two heartbeats. “He didn’t even make it the way you like it.”

“Jackson. It was coffee. I wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to kick the gift horse.” He grumbles some more. “He flirted with you for the better part of a half hour.”

I grin, delighted. “He did not!”

“He did.”

“Jackson, I’m pretty sure he’s, like, sixty-eight years old. We were talking about his wife. His grandkids.”

His shoulders rise and then fall. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do.” I curl back on my side, the thrill of Jackson’s jealousy warming me from the inside out. I settle back into his grip. “You know, I read in a survival pamphlet once that skin-to-skin contact acts like a natural heating blanket.”

Jackson’s pause is long. “Why were you reading a survival pamphlet?”

His hand drifts back up, knuckles brushing beneath my breasts. I don’t know if it’s a conscious choice, but I’m acutely aware of everywhere he’s not touching me. Everywhere I want him to be.

“I like to be prepared for things,” I say, distracted, mentally willing his hand two inches higher.

“Like . . . what? What do you need to survive in Baltimore?”

“Apparently, freezing to death in a hotel room,” I laugh. I wiggle my hips back into the cradle of his and he grunts. “Take off your shirt, Jackson. It might save our lives.”

Jackson snorts. “We’re not in danger of dying in here— Shit. Delilah.”

I toss my sweater across the room, quickly followed by the T-shirt I had on underneath. I keep the snow pants on, because there’s no way that won’t be a logistical nightmare. But the room is freezing in just my pale pink cotton bra, so I quickly duck back beneath the covers, pulling them to my chin.

“Take off your shirt, Jackson,” I order again, my teeth chattering.

He’s frozen behind me, not moving an inch.

“Unless you don’t want to,” I add awkwardly. I try to swallow around the horseshoe of mortification that is lodged at the base of my throat. “In which case it probably would be for the best if we both pretend we’ve fallen into an immediate and deep sleep. A coma, maybe. Because I plan on dying of embarrassment and would like to be left to my own devices for that.”

The bed dips, fabric rustles, and Jackson lets out a bone-deep sigh. A moment later he’s back beneath the covers, his chest pressed firmly against my back.

His bare chest. Against my bare back.

“You know exactly how to push me,” he rumbles. It’s delicious, how he sounds when he’s torn between frustrated, amused, and the dark edge of something else. Something I want to peel away like a candy wrapper. Nibble at until it melts in my mouth.

I hide my grin in my pillow. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” I laugh. “I’m not.” I wiggle my body into his. “I feel warmer already.”