“You looking forward to tonight?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I am,” she said slowly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good…date.” She let the word slide off her tongue as though it were a euphemism for sex. The little devil on her shoulder wanted to bait him, to poke at the sexual tension that seemed to ebb and flow between them, but which neither would give in to.

His hand slammed on the counter. “You’re not seriously thinking of sleeping with Mathis,” he said incredulously.

“Well, why not? You said he’s a good guy. And news flash—we modern city women don’t adhere to any strict fifth-date rule.”

“Fine! Fuck his brains out, for all I care,” Jackson exploded.

“You’re shouting,” she said.

“I’m not—” He blew out a breath. “Damn it. Also, I keep white wine in the fridge because sometimes I use it in cooking. As far as that particular brand…I guess it’s just what I’m used to buying. That’s all.”

He held her gaze, and Mollie swallowed hard.

“You make martinis and cook with white wine? Maybe I’m going on a date with the wrong guy,” she said, trying to keep her voice teasing.

His eyes narrowed.

Ask me out, you damn fool. But she knew why he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

And even if he did, she’d have to say no. He belonged to Madison. Always had. Always would. Just because he was finally noticing that Mollie had female parts didn’t mean he was looking for forever, and Mollie…well, Mollie was looking for forever.

She let out a slow breath. “I’ll take a glass of that wine now.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer before nodding.

“So, what are your plans for this evening?” she asked.

He poured the wine and handed it to her. “Hanging out. Watching a game.”

She gave him a scolding glance. “You’re acting like an old man.”

He tilted his beer bottle back. “I am an old man.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“Says the twenty-eight-year-old.”

Mollie tilted her head. “That really gets to you, huh? The age difference?”

Jackson was saved from answering by his cell. He frowned when he glanced at the screen, giving her a wary look.

Mollie raised her hands. “If it’s Madison, I had nothing to do with it.”

Instead of responding, Jackson answered the call, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Hey,” he grunted.

Whoever was on the other end talked for a moment.

Jackson took a sip of his beer, then lowered the bottle to the counter with an angry clank. “Fuck, dude. Don’t do this.”

Mollie tensed. That didn’t sound good.

Jackson’s eyes narrowed as he listened. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. I swear to God— Okay. Fine, I’ll tell her. But don’t think for one second— Hello? Damn it!”

Jackson ended the call and braced both hands on the counter, his expression furious.

“Who was that?”

He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Lincoln.”

“Oh. Oh. He’s not coming?” Mollie asked, torn between relief and disappointment.

“Something apparently came up.”

Relief. “No worries. We can reschedule for some other time.”

Jackson stood up, a finger creeping under the collar of his shirt in the way she’d learned was becoming a habit. “He…he suggested we don’t let the reservation go to waste.”

“We?”

“You and me.”

“Yeah, I got that, but why would Lincoln think that you and I should spend a Friday evening together?”

“Got me.”

Mollie took a sip of wine and studied his scowl. He obviously wasn’t jumping all over Lincoln’s suggestion that they use the reservation. The man looked ready to vomit at the thought.

Okay, then. No biggie. She could call Kim or one of the other girls, but when it came to weekend activities, her friends were definitely in the shots-of-tequila category, and Mollie wasn’t sure she had that kind of energy.

Mollie slid off the stool, taking another sip of wine. “Well, roomie, looks like you’re going to have some company for that game tonight. I don’t suppose I could talk you into mixing a Gilmore Girls rerun into the mix?”

He frowned. “You’re staying in?”

“Yup. Just as soon as I change.” She took one last sip of wine before pointing at him. “While I’m gone, how about you figure out how to impress me with those white-wine cooking skills?”

Jackson said nothing as she made her way back toward her bedroom, and Mollie couldn’t help but wonder if the old Jackson—the charming one—was really, truly gone. He’d always been a little gruff, a Texas cowboy through and through. But he’d also been able to laugh. Tease. Smile. Now, though, it seemed as if that Jackson was dead. Or, at the very least, on a long-ass vacation. The man left behind was an empty shell. Her chest ached for the man he was and the man he’d become.

Mollie had just shut the door to her bedroom and was about to undertake the contortionist performance known as trying to reach a back zipper all on your own when Jackson knocked at the door.

She opened it to find him standing there, her red Chanel clutch in his big hand. She smiled when she realized he was holding it the way a man would hold a football.