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Walking to the door, I answer the knock with my phone still in hand. Jackson is on the other side, chest rising and falling, one shirt collar slightly off, as if he’d moved fast and tried to right himself.
“Got your text.” A little out of breath. “Ready to go?”
I press my lips together, trapping the laugh before it escapes. I have absolutely no right—not after the clammy-handed, text-deleting disaster that just happened in my own kitchen.
“Sure, it’s at the rec center. Give me a second.”
He follows me back into the house as his phone chimes once. Then again amidst his rapid typing.
“Sorry.” His thumbs still. “New client referral.”
Glancing over my shoulder at him, I jest, “Keeping busy in your unemployed state?”
“Jordan and James have decided I’m their personal lawyer-for-hire.” He shakes his head, but the annoyance doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Apparently, having ‘a lawyer guy’ is very important to their brand.”
“So you’re really doing it, staying in Cascadia?”
“Yes.” No pause or qualifier. “I’ve started putting down roots. I’m not going anywhere.”
I smile, looking up at him. Instead of deflecting—which is my first instinct, my constant instinct—I don’t.
“Good.” I hold his gaze. “I’m glad you’re staying.”
He goes still for a moment before walking toward me, tucking my hair back from my face with two fingers, his thumb settling against my cheekbone.
“Yeah?” His voice drops.
“I mean—” My mouth pulls into a smile despite myself. “You’re a decent tenant. Hate to have to break in someone new.”
He laughs softly, leans in, and kisses my forehead. Slow and deliberate, like he means it. As if he is in no hurry at all.
“Don’t worry, Sugar.” His forehead grazes mine briefly. “I’m not letting anyone share a wall with you but me.”
I open my mouth to reply, but his hand finds mine, fingers closing around my own, pulling me toward the door.
“Ready to go support local youth endeavors?”
The rec center smells like gym floor wax and popcorn. Pre-teens in sports jerseys move in packs while someone gets their face painted near the entrance. A dunk tank in the corner has already claimed at least one coach. Jackson doesn’t let go of my hand through any of it.
I spot Mack first, brows furrowed, arms waving empathically. Her eyes scan the room with a look I have never seen, not even in an emergency room.
“Hey—” I step toward her, releasing Jackson’s hand to grab her shoulders. “What happened?”
“The dance.” She exhales, leaning some of her weight against me. “The one I’ve been working on with the girls for weeks. We can’t perform it.”
“Why not?”
She turns her phone. A singer was on the news and the headline didn’t need reading—there she was, clearly several drinks past the point of good decisions, the subtitles bleeping every other word.
“The parents will actually kill me,” Mack said. “Like, bury me behind the rec center if I let their girls perform that.”
I’m still looking at the phone when Jackson reaches over and takes it. He holds it to his ear, listening, one finger asking for a second. Handing it back, he pulls up something on his own phone and shows Mack the screen.
“Same tempo. About 128 BPM. The choreography wouldn’t need much adjusting.” He looks at her. “Do you know it?”
Mack stares at him. “Jackson. Phoenix is my best friend. How could I not know—”
“What?” I say, angling for a view of the screen.
