Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

Instinctively I lean over, staring into his brown eyes, observing once again, looking for any change in them.

Any change at all.

Nothing.

Nada.

Hmm. He wasn’t kidding when he said nothing was wrong, but I had to verify it for myself.

“What do you see?” he wants to know, lying still.

“Not much,” I finally allow, not moving from this position, not ready to return to my comfy spot on his bed. “But wait—what’s this?”

I inch forward, pretending to inspect his head. Ears, eyebrows.

Furrowing my own brows to appear troubled.

Hum in my throat.

“What?” Now he sounds concerned.

“It looks like your eyes are dilated and you have a gash on your forehead,” I lie, the little sneak lying there innocently, worry etching his face. “You’ll probably need stitches.”

“What?!” His fingers fly to his forehead, feeling for a wound. He pulls them away to check for blood and finds none.

Looks confused.

Presses his fingertips to his cheeks, temples, forehead, coming up blank.

“You liar, there’s nothing on my face.”

I want to smack him.

“Are you even hurt?!” Is it just me, or has my voice reached a fever pitch?

“Are you actually questioning my sincerity?”

“No, I’m asking if you’re hurt. Did you get injured today, or are you full of shit?”

His massive palm flies to his chest, pressing above his heart. “It pains me that you would question—”

“Oh shut up, Jack.” I shove myself off the bed, gathering up my things, feeling instantaneously guilty for telling him to shut up. The words are SO RUDE and I’m horribly impulsive for letting them fly out of my mouth.

He reaches for me. “Eliza, come on—I was only having a jest. Don’t be cross.”

I swat him away, rolling my eyes. “Having a jest? Don’t be cross. You sound like you’re from the 1800s.”

My pencil drops to the ground in my haste, and I bend to pick it up.

Then drop my notebook.

Ugh!

Jack peers over the side of the bed at me. “Eliza, don’t be mad.”

He leaps up to help pick up my things, our hands fumbling on the ground.

I stand. “Why would you do it?”

“It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that I have no bloody idea what I’m doing on that playing field. I could be killed.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“It’s true!” he argues, following behind me toward the door. “You’ve seen those blokes, they’re massive. I’m tiny compared to some of them—I don’t stand a chance, Eliza. I had to do something.”

“Yeah—you can quit and go away honorably. Not fake a dumb injury.”

Surely everyone on the team now thinks he’s a pussy, but that’s another thing I’m not going to admit out loud.

“Dryden-Jones men do not quit.”

That makes me snort. “Please do not tell me you believe in that toxic bullshit.”

I pad down the stairs.

“I’m British—’course I believe in it. My father never hugged us.”

He sniffs indignantly, and that makes me laugh, sad as it is.

We go to the kitchen, Jack not bothering to limp as he did when I was hauling his lying ass into the house. He is his regular, jovial self with pep in his step, though a tad bashful.

“Are you embarrassed because I witnessed your downfall, or because you suck so bad at playing, or because you kept pretending?”

“Yes.” His head bob is vigorous.

His look? One of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Liza—I shouldn’t have lied. It was wrong and I’m a total wanker. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Not look so cute.

Not smell so good.

Not make me tingle when you touch me.

“I won’t hold it against you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I owe you a favor, and that will be it.”

If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? The song lyrics ring through my head, making me blush, and I can’t look him in the eye.

Instead, I go to the sink, feigning the need to wash my hands. Go to the fridge, pulling out the bowl of strawberries there, then the blueberries.

Pour a little of each into a snack bowl, busying myself.

“Are you avoiding me now?” His low timbre is close to my ear. “Don’t be cross.”

Don’t be cross.

So poetic.

I feel my defenses lowering, adding more fruit to my bowl for him so he can have some, too, still at the sink facing the window.

His hands go to my shoulders. “Won’t you look at me?”

I can’t.

“You can’t? Or won’t?”

Did I say those words out loud? I must have if he’s responding to them, fingers kneading the blades of my shoulders, thumbs digging lightly into my skin.

God it feels like heaven…

My head lolls to one side, giving him better access, my eyes closing even as my fingers clutch the bowl on the counter, as if needing it for support as his hands move over my skin.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because…

I like you too much and now we live together. Anything more would make it weird, wouldn’t it?