Crazy for Your Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 5)

“Tell me something I don’t know about your mom,” I say, more because the silence is breaking my heart than because I think I really need to know more. When it comes to knowing about each other’s families, I definitely have the advantage here.

“She didn’t want me to be a firefighter.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what I expected, but that wasn’t it.

“She didn’t try to talk me out of it. Mom is nothing if not supportive of our goals and dreams, but she told me that it terrified her and that if she could choose, I’d join the family business or do something—anything—less dangerous.”

“Was that hard? To pursue a spot with the department when you knew she wished you wouldn’t?”

He takes a long pull from his beer before shaking his head. “No. I knew she’d support me no matter what, and I always wanted to do something good too much to let her worries stop me.” His chest shakes with silent laughter and he rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous childhood fantasies.”

“You do, Carter. You’re quite literally a hero every day.”

“Don’t call me that, okay?”

His voice is so low that I can barely hear the request, but something about the intensity behind his words sends a chill through me. I want to push—to ask him why that label bothers him so much. But I also want to wash away the pain I see on his face. It’ll wait. Another time I’ll get him to let me in and understand that wound. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe we both carry old hurts we will never share with anyone. “Okay. I promise.”

Carter

I love watching Teagan enjoy a meal.

It’s nothing new. I’ve done it a thousand times at the bar, at Sunday brunch, at Ethan’s . . . but something about the way she closes her eyes and moans around a bite of something I cooked makes this even better. I find myself wishing I could feed her again and again, wishing we had more time to prepare for this wedding. I’m not worried about our ability to pull it off, but I want an excuse to come over here and cook for her, flirt with her. I want to watch those cheeks flush while I tease her and impress her with my rudimentary culinary skills. As it stands, tonight is the only one like this we’ll get. Tomorrow, everyone comes to town, and I’ll have to share her with her family. And then Monday, we’re back to friends.

I push all thoughts of Monday from my mind and focus on her now.

We’ve opened our second bomber, and her cheeks are flushed, her posture relaxed. I’m glad I didn’t warn her I was coming over. She answered the door in cotton shorts that don’t cover much more than her panties did Sunday morning. Her wide-neck sweatshirt falls off one shoulder, and I can’t keep my eyes off her exposed cherry-red bra strap. One little strap has my imagination running wild, landing over and over again on her in bed in nothing but a red bra and panties.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, pushing her plate away. She leans back in her chair and puts a hand on her stomach in a time-honored gesture of satisfaction.

“Like what?”

She sighs. “I’m not sure. You seem . . . maybe regretful? What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, Carter? Are you worried I’m going to become one of your stalker fangirls and chain you in my basement now that I know you can cook?”

“Well, I wasn’t, but now I am,” I say, and she laughs. “I was thinking that tomorrow’s the big day. Are you worried about this?”

“Not . . . really.”

“That wasn’t very convincing.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to Saanvi’s wedding, and this changes things. I won’t be able to let my guard down because I’ll be worried about slipping up.”

I want to ask why she’s so determined this is necessary, but that would mean asking about Rich, and I promised I wouldn’t. “I think we’ll be fine.”

She rolls her shoulders back, and determination steels her jaw. “Okay, what else do you need to know?”

“I’m not sure.” In some ways I already know her so well, but in other ways I feel like I know nothing. Mostly, I want an excuse to stay—to listen to her laugh and look into her eyes instead of getting in bed and resigning myself to the nightmares that await me. “What’s your favorite color?”

She laughs. “I haven’t been asked that question since I was eight. I don’t think I have one. What’s yours?”

My gaze lands on her bra strap. “Red.” As of sixty minutes ago, but it still counts.

“I guess I like red too. Definitely not pink.” She shudders.

“Why not?”

“It’s the color of my childhood bedroom. Mom had pink everything in there. The furniture, the bedding, the rug, the walls. It reminded me of the medicine she’d give us when we had a stomach bug.” She shrugs. “A little pink is okay, but it’s definitely not my favorite. Saanvi still loves it, though. And it suits her. She’s even girlier than I am. What else?”