by Violet Duke
All Jackson really remembered was that: 1) the guy had disappeared real quick, and 2) the one and only thing that had kept him from going postal and primitive-like on the suit-wearing dick were the firm reassurances Leila had whispered in his ear through the haze of red cloaking his vision, “I was two seconds from kneeing that guy in the nuts, Jackson. I don’t want to spend time with anyone but you; I don’t want anyone’s hands on me but yours. I really like what you and I have going on right now.”
She’d even had a name for it, this thing between them.
“A perfect, and perfectly chaste friends-with-snuggle-benefits relationship.”
Or cuddle buddies for short.
As far as labels go, she’d hit that one right on the money. It was perfect. Definitely the cuddling and snuggling part, even the chaste part. Not that he didn’t fantasize about the woman ten different kinds of naked on a regular basis. Of course he did. Hell, a cold shower had nothing on the overactive brain of a man who was remotely near the woman of his dreams.
But honestly, sex just didn’t work its way into the time they spent together. Every night they hung out, the hours seemed to just fly by. They’d simply watch TV, or argue about sports, or talk about random things until she fell asleep on him mid-sentence.
Still, he couldn’t get enough of her.
All in all, it was a pretty great evolution of their friendship.
The only downside to this new development, however, was apparently—if the rumors were to be taken at face value—he turned into an ornery bear at work whenever Leila went out of town.
He was still gathering more data regarding these wild accusations.
Okay, admittedly, her trips, even the short ones to neighboring states for NFL training camp, weren’t his favorite thing. But who could blame him? He was about as evolved as the next guy when it came to the reality of her being a full state away from him with dozens of professional athletes sleeping a whole heck of a lot closer to her than he was.
What’s worse, that magical thing that happened whenever he and Leila hung out—where the hours would fly by—seemed to work in the opposite direction whenever she wasn’t there. His nights were inexplicably at least three times longer whenever she was out of town.
That said, no one could deny that Jackson was Leila’s biggest supporter. Through her time out at the camps, she was doing some top tier reporting for the network and quickly climbing the Internet charts as one of the more noteworthy NFL female reporters. In fact, the first time a big name sports writer had started referencing her interviews in his articles, Jackson had printed out the ones he knew were her favorites and had them framed.
“In Reno, Outlaws defensive coordinator Nick Torres told reporter Leila Hart that they’d acquired a middle linebacker and nose tackle from free agency to shore up the middle of their defense, when she boldly asked how they were planning on bringing up their averages against the run.”
“Utah fans now have one more reason to love their Miners quarterback A. J. Kauffman, after reporter Leila Hart highlighted his preference of RB by committee approach, based on his belief that there was no one star that could outshine the talent and depth of the collective group of running backs on his team, each with their own specific strengths.”
It had been more a work keepsake for her than a planned gift, per se—hell, even the women he expressly “didn’t date” generally expected flowers and poetry. But not Leila. She’d lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw the frame waiting for her on her desk and launched herself into his arms as if he’d lassoed the moon for her.
He was getting addicted to it. All of it.
He was getting addicted to her.
Which was probably why he was currently trying not to throttle their studio assistant for not telling him sooner that there was new tension between Leila and the main anchor, Dick. Important freaking news that someone, somewhere should’ve told him, damn it. Dick was immature and had a mile-wide mean streak. And while Jackson respected that Leila hadn’t ratted out a colleague, this new side of him—the one that was hopelessly addicted to her—wanted to beat the arrogant little prick for messing with Leila.
Apparently, it had started two whole freaking weeks ago, when Leila had officially shut down the Gridiron Locks and Picks Weekly site. By the end of the day, the DBC Sports Network execs had issued a public statement defending Leila, stating that after going through all her reports, they’d discovered absolutely no wrongdoing had occurred. And following the meetings she’d suggested with the Hawks, the Outlaws, and the Miners, each team’s GM had similarly issued statements in defense of Leila.
By the next day, the DBC Sports Network’s customer service email system had become overloaded with requests for Leila to continue to do her locks and picks, only this time, on air.
And as of yesterday, Leila had become the most popular on-screen talent their network had, with more than triple the social media following of every anchor at the network combined.
As a result, Dick had been behaving badly to her ever since—talking down to her, stealing credit for her investigative work, and constantly hogging the bigger stories that Leila should’ve been allowed to reveal on air.
Hell no. Not on Jackson’s watch.
As far as Jackson was concerned, the mysterious loss of communication between the network and Leila and her camera crew the very morning that the Hawks had picked up one of the all-star tight ends in the league was an act of fate.
That he’d just happened to know about in advance.
What could he say? Sometimes, fate needed a little nudge.
“H’lo?” Leila answered her cell on the first ring, sounding frantic.
“Everything going okay there, sunshine?”
“Jackson! I can see Skip right now. What should I do? I just saw two news vans pulling into the parking lot. Should I bum rush him and sit on him until our comms get fixed? Oh! Or can you run down and ask Dick for the questions he wants to ask so we can break the story first?”
“Calm down, sweetheart. Don’t worry about Dick. You don’t need to use any of his questions. Just step back and think about it the way you used to do your locks and picks. Think about the stats, look at all the moving pieces. If you’re worried, you can keep me on speakerphone. That way, if you feel like you need a second, I’ll distract Skip with my hilarious wit.”
Leila chuckled into the phone line.
“Honey, you’ve got this. I believe in you. You’re going to do great. Now go get us that exclusive.”
“Good morning. Breaking news here from the Hawks training grounds. We’ve just received word that the Hawks have signed prized tight end Brock Trufant. And we’re here with you live with Coach Harding.
“Coach, does the addition of Trufant to your lineup mean that you’ll be transitioning to a more pass-heavy offense, now that your new starting tight end has a very different style of play from your former tight end, who was particularly known for his run blocking and pass protection?”
At Skip’s surprised look, she shrugged and casually tapped her earpiece dangling over her shoulder instead of in her ear to let him know that she was off comm. Any questions he may have gotten from the network for this interview hadn’t made their way into her hands.
A small smile peeked out at the corner of Skip’s mouth, before he looked right into the camera for a brief, head-shaking moment.
Jackson chuckled, knowing that Skip was looking straight at him through the camera. No doubt because Skip was well aware that Jackson sometimes changed the fate of things that happened at the network. For the greater good.
“Only you’d ask me a ballsy question like that, Hart.”
She chuckled. “I take that as a compliment, Coach. I’ve been trained well.”
This time, it was Leila looking straight at him through the camera, Jackson was certain of it.
Skip let loose a rusty little laugh. And Jackson was pretty sure that wobble in the feed was the cameraman doing a double take over the ra
re sound.
“Okay, bottom line, we just re-signed our running back as well, whose strength is the run over the pass. So we’ll be trying out both offensive strategies as we head into pre-season, meaning—before you ask, because I know you will—our newly drafted quarterback might not have the ease-in we normally allow during training camp. That’s all you’re getting out of me, Hart.”
For a training camp interview, from Skip Harding, that was plenty. And judging from her wide smile, Leila damn well knew it.
“Well, there you have it. Reporting to you live from the Hawks’ training camp in Flagstaff, I’m Leila Hart, and apparently, that’s all I’m getting out of him. Back to you, Dick.”
The cameraman made sure to catch Skip barking out another amused laugh before cutting out to commercial.
Jackson grinned; he was so freaking proud of her.
Chapter 19
At exactly seven p.m. on the dot, Jackson rang Leila’s doorbell.
While he’d had every intention of taking her out to the best restaurant in the city to celebrate her epic interview, Leila had insisted over and over again that all she wanted was a quiet night at home to unwind. So he’d spent the last hour picking up a few of the movies he knew she’d been wanting to see, along with her favorite take-out dishes from the Italian restaurant from which they’d yet to eat a bad meal.
The door swung open and the scent of strawberries and sunshine filled the air just before she hurled herself into his arms.
He loved when she did that.
And per usual, his standard survival attire for movie night at her place—the thickest jeans possible—was unsuccessful at preventing the instant, noticeable effect the feel of her in his arms was having on the fit of said jeans.
Not that he let that detail keep him from hugging the hell out of her. Over the past few weeks, he’d had a lot of training in the complex art of hugging with a hard-on.
After he dropped the movies and food off on the counter, he lifted her back into his arms. “Amazing interview, sweetheart. They’ve been replaying it all day.” Brushing a kiss on her cheek, he chuckled. “They’re dubbing it ‘The Softer Side of Coach Skip.’ Classic. He’s been sending me scathing texts of blame all day long.”
Instead of joining in the laughter, however, Leila’s expression turned muted. Utterly serious. Concerned, he gently sat her down on a barstool. “What’s wrong? Everything okay?”
She stared up at him in wonder for another long moment before replying, “I just…can’t believe you did that for me today.”
“What do you mean? You’re the one who saved the day during that crazy communication brown-out we had.” He smiled as he mentally replayed it all again. Some of his best meddling work to date. “You freaking knocked it out of the park. Seriously. I never had a doubt in my mind that you would.”
She began to say something, but then stopped.
Soon, emotions he couldn’t quite put a finger on were swirling over her features.
Sliding his hands into her hair, he asked again, “What’s the matter, sunshine? I thought you’d be happy.”
“Leila,” she supplied quietly. She looked up at him with a riptide of emotions spinning away in her eyes as she requested softly, “Call me Leila.”
He hesitated.
He’d only come prepared to hide his hard-on all night, not his heart.
“Please.”
Gazing deep into those catlike eyes, he murmured, “Leila,” and instantly wrapped his arms around her waist when she shivered in response. He dropped his forehead down onto hers. “What’s going on in that busy brain of yours?”
“The same thing I’ve been thinking about all day.” She leaned back and tangled her gaze with his. “You. I’ve been thinking about you. How just plain incredible you are. How no one’s ever supported me the way that you do. How you seem to believe in me more than I believe in myself.”
“What are you talking about? You launched a crazy successful pick-and-lock football site that became one of the most popular ones in the country. You turned your back on a life that wasn’t yours and followed your heart—earned an MBA and then made your own path. Why wouldn’t you believe in yourself?”
“Because the first, I did as L. J. Hart, and the second was just me being the notoriously troublemaking daughter of a Utah congressman. But out there with a mike in hand as just me, just Leila Hart? I’ve never believed in her the way you do.”
“Honey, first of all, you’re not ‘just’ Leila Hart—you’re Leila freaking Hart. And second of all, I have every reason to believe in her. I’ve always believed in her, always will.”
Exhaling again slowly, she peered up at him. “You have it, you know.”
He blinked. “Have what, sweetheart?”
“My trust. All of it.”
A huge boulder-size emotion filled his chest, sending his heart up to his throat. “Leila—”
Her breathing hitched. “I love it when you call me by my name.”
He did too. Holy shit, did he ever.
“Will you…” She broke off and looked down, a blush tinging her cheeks.
Brushing the back of his knuckles against the soft, heated skin, he asked gently, “Will I what?”
“Will you spend the night? And…have breakfast tomorrow morning here with me?”
He felt the air punch out of his lungs as every male cell in his body immediately roared to the forefront, demanding he say yes.
But he didn’t. Shaking his head, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I don’t want us to have sex like this, Leila. Not after you finally trust me fully. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have one without the other.”
After he finished his impassioned speech, she simply nodded. “Good, because I wasn’t offering sex.”
Despite the hard-on that just grew another inch at hearing her sweet voice say the word “sex,” he chuckled at her “so there” response.
Then the seriousness was back in her expression when she asked, “When you and I first met, you told me that the only thing you can offer a woman is sex—do you still believe that?”
Dammit, he wanted to believe otherwise. More than he ever had in his life. But it was only a matter of time. The secrets of his life would catch up to him, and she’d end up getting hurt.
Christ, he’d never survive that.
With that heart-wrenching thought shredding his insides into ribbons, he answered truthfully, “Yes. Yes, that’s still what I believe.”
“You’re wrong.”
Her tone was so fierce, nearly angry, he jerked back in surprise.
Pure fire was sparking in her eyes. And she was jabbing a tiny little index finger in his sternum as she repeated the two words. “You’re wrong. You, Jackson Gray, have so much more to offer a woman. If you weren’t such a sweet, tunnel-visioned ass, you’d realize it.”
Jesus, she was so damn adorable.
“And I don’t care how long it takes, Jackson. But I will prove it to you.”
Uh-oh, wait a minute. This sounded like one of those times when he’d clicked on the wrong box on the Internet by accident. This wasn’t the handheld toolset with the free laser level. No…he was pretty sure he’d just subscribed to a very long auto-renew supply of blue balls.
Backspace, backspace. Esc, Esc.
“I don’t care how much you beg for it. How much you seduce me and how hard I’ll seduce you in return. Until you can admit that you have way more to offer a woman than just sex, we’re not having any.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard that sound video arcade games made when Pac-Man dies.
“That said…” Her hands slid up his chest and circled behind his neck. “I don’t see why we can’t do other things almost as fun as sex.”
Jackson didn’t bother attempting to reply. He was certain gibberish would be the only thing he was capable of uttering at the moment.
And the cute little smiling vixen knew it.
When he felt her fiddle with hi
s belt buckle, however, his power of speech returned. “No, honey. If we start there, the fun will be over way too fast.”
“Not how I intend to play,” she promised teasingly.
Good. Lord. He shook his head hard to stay focused. Cupping her face gently, he grounded himself once again by taking her lips in a deep, thorough kiss.
“You negotiate dirty,” she murmured against his lips when they finally came up for air. “I approve.”
He chuckled. And then hissed a harsh breath back in when he felt her hand slide over the fly of his jeans. Honestly, even if he were wearing a titanium superman jockstrap under the denim, he was pretty sure her touch still would’ve had the same scorching effect. “Jesus, Leila.”
Her fingers flexed in response. “Seriously, you have no idea what it does to me to hear you say my name.” She squeezed her hand around him again, and pressed a soft kiss against his sternum.
Then the woman really began playing hardball.
“Will you admit that you have more to offer women than just sex?” she asked, her eyes now sparking with a lethal combination of stubbornness and sultry intent.
Dammit, when had she managed to unbuckle his belt?
“Jackson?” she queried.
Shit, what was the question again?
As if she could hear his thoughts, she smiled, and repeated, “Will you admit that you have more to offer women—me, specifically, by the by—than just sex?”
Her hand made quick work of his zipper then, before slipping past his boxer briefs to stroke him skin-on-skin.
“Yes or no, Jackson?”
For crying out loud, she didn’t truly expect him to be able to answer, did she? His mind struggled to redirect enough blood back up north to think coherently. He probably would’ve been successful this time, too…had Leila not chosen that very moment to start and stop another mind-wrecking handjob.
And it was the most blissfully perfect, firm, velvet soft stroke from base to tip, too.
Ruthless woman.
“I’m not trying to trick an answer out of you, Jackson.”
