We finished the bottle of wine sprawled out on the rug like teenagers at a sleepover, the fire flickering across Jackson’s face. It cast shadows on his jawline, emphasising every sharp edge and every amused glint in his eyes. The nervousness that had once clenched my spine had softened into something looser, warmer. Laughter slipped between us easily now—especially when I wasn’t distracted by the way the light hit his abs.
“You’re not so bad when you’re not blushing and spilling wine everywhere,” Jackson teased, swirling the last of his glass.
I mock-gasped. “Wow. Compliment of the year. Should I put that on my résumé?”
“You definitely should. ‘Can hold a conversation without turning crimson… occasionally.’”
I threw the nearest cushion at his smug face. He caught it effortlessly, laugh
