LOVE ‘EM(23)

“You’re amazing, Dave.” I smile at him the best I can while still huffing and puffing. Compliment him. He needs to know I appreciate his abilities. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a talented opponent.”

Dave offers his hand. “Well, good game, and thanks for the fun. I’m afraid I have to get to work.”

Not even the offer of a side-hug.

This is great. I’ve made zero progress in trying to pull Dave in.

Stupid Jackson. Third wheel.

I gather my things from the far end of the court. Dave’s already gone, and Jack waits near the gate. I start down the court, eyes on Jackson as he bends over to tie his shoe.

That ass. Oh my. The memory of it in my hand only days ago sends a shot of fresh adrenaline to my core. Why couldn’t God send me a man like Jackson who actually wants a relationship? One as well put together, but who enjoys women for more than a screw—

The world suddenly tilts as something jumps into my path. A hard thump on my forehead is followed by a flash of pain through my skull.

I let go of my arm full of crap, roll over, and sit up.

Nice.

Follow my miserable set with failing to pay attention to where I walk. I groan, probing the thumping spot on my head. Wetness meets my fingertips.

Jackson runs over, kneeling next to me. “Oh, my God, Ronnie. What happened?”

Great. Dump a little humiliation on top of my disgrace.

I let out a tired breath. “This stupid net jumped out and tackled me.”

Jack chuckles at my sad joke as he whips off his shirt and presses it against my bleeding wound. “C’mon, let’s get you to an emergency room. I think that might need stitches.”

He pulls me to him, holding me tightly to his naked chest with all that muscle under my cheek. “Yes, my head’s throbbing like a bitch, but keep holding me right here against your chest and all that masculine scent. I’m certain I’ll feel better in a few hours.”

His voice rumbles through my head, vibrating in his chest. “Yeah, okay. Now I know you need to go see a doctor. I’ll hold you anywhere you want after they fix you up.”

I pull back. “Tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

His cocky grin confirms that I did just that.

He pushes his shirt more firmly into place, half of it hanging over my face. “Here, you hold it. I’ll drive. Don’t worry; I’ll let you rub my chest later.”




Jackson stands at the emergency care place and taps the front desk, his tone stern. “I can appreciate that she’s not the only patient, but she’s bleeding. Can we please get her something to stem the flow other than my sweaty shirt?”

I sit in a molded plastic chair, enjoying the entertainment. My head doesn’t hurt too much. It stings like fire, but the headache isn’t terrible. There does seem to be a lot of blood, but I think that’s the norm for a head wound. The girls behind the counter seem determined to keep me in the waiting area as long as possible, probably so they can continue to drool over Jackson’s naked torso. Can’t say that I blame them.

When he turns back to me, the girl he spoke to uses her phone to take a photo of him.

Jack pushes his fingers through his hair, falling into the seat next to mine. His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing each of my knuckles.

He abruptly stands and drags me out of my seat. “Fuck this. I’m taking you to my house.”





SEVEN





Jackson keeps one hand on the wheel and one entwined with mine. “I’ll call Doc. He’ll come out and fix you.”

He’s said some variation of that sentence at least three times since he bundled me into his car.

I flip the visor down and pull his shirt away from my head. “I have no idea what kinds of prices doctors who make house calls charge. I really don’t think it’s that bad. I can probably put a butterfly bandage over it and it’ll be fine.”

“That’s your face. No. You need to have it looked at. What if they need to do some kind of plastic surgery to keep it from scarring?” He squeezes my hand, massaging the back of it with his thumb. “No. Don’t worry about the money. I got it. It’s not a problem.”

“Plastic surgery?” I push the bloody hair out of the way. “No. It’s not that big. And it’s right in the hairline. A scar probably won’t show.”

“Humor me, will you?”

Humor him? It’s my head we’re talking about.

The wound is about an inch long, but it might be bigger. Damn. Freaking plastic surgery? That’s going to cost about a million dollars I’ll never have.

He pulls into the driveway of a modern, multi-level home. My stomach quivers as my gaze moves from the seemingly freshly stained wooden doors of his garage to Jackson, and back again.