Chapter 1

It wasn’t that Jackson Burke was a cowboy.

Not really.

Sure, he’d been born and raised in Texas, but he’d lived most of his life in the suburbs of Houston.

The only time he’d seen a horse was at summer camp.

And sure, he liked his jeans and his boots, but he’d adjusted to the daily suits.

Mostly.

So maybe Jackson was more cowboy than he thought, because man, did he hate New York City.

He hated that his new penthouse apartment, with all its shiny appliances and stunning skyline, didn’t have a backyard.

Hated that you couldn’t do something as simple as go out to buy a tube of toothpaste without having to share the sidewalk with a hundred other people.

The beer was overpriced, the food was overpriced, and there were always a dozen sushi places within a half-block radius—but it was damn near impossible to find decent barbecue.

He hated the subway. Hated the cabs. He even hated the fancy car service that he could easily afford, because it reminded him that he had nowhere to go.

Hated his new job and everything that it represented.

Basically, Jackson hated that he was in New York instead of Texas, but most of all—more than the expensive beer and the substandard barbecue—he hated why he was in New York instead of Texas.

Hated that he was no longer Jackson Burke, quarterback of the Texas Redhawks.

He was no longer quarterback of anything.

Which would be great—no, not great, it would never be great—but it would be tolerable if everyone would quit acting like he was just a stroke of luck away from a comeback.

Of course, they hadn’t seen the X-rays.

They hadn’t had to listen to doctor after doctor string the words never and football into the same sentence.

Still, there were two things that Manhattan delivered just as well as Texas: whiskey and women.

Tonight, like most other nights lately, both were on the agenda, but unlike other nights, the women part of the equation wasn’t going to end with them naked between his sheets.

There were some women who weren’t meant for fucking. Your ex-wife’s little sister was one of them.

And though he wasn’t going to get all sappy and emotional about it, Mollie Carrington was perhaps the one positive thing about his move to New York City. The spunky kid was the one person who’d never seemed to care about his jersey.

Which was a good thing. Because he’d never be wearing one again.

—

“Joining us for dinner, sir?” The hostess at the upscale Italian restaurant gave him a polite, if slightly generic smile.

“I am, but I’m early,” Jackson replied, forcing a return smile. He’d been doing a lot of that in the past eight months—forcing smiles. Forcing everything.

“Not a problem. Feel free to grab a seat in the bar while you wait.”

That was the plan, sweetheart, Jackson thought as he forced another smile and made his way into the dimly lit bar.

It’s not that he was dreading seeing his sister-in-law. No, ex–sister-in-law. Of all the women in his life, Mollie was easily the least complicated. It was just that Mollie made him think of Madison, and Madison was, well, very complicated.

Still, Mollie was a good kid. Granted, he didn’t see her much. She’d been twenty when he and Madison had gotten married at twenty-eight, and completely immersed in her college life at Fordham.

Then she’d opted to stay in New York, coming to Houston only for holidays and the occasional weekend getaway.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen her. A year ago, at least.

Jackson was a little surprised to realize he’d missed her. Odd, considering that their friendship had more or less been born out of obligation on his part: Right after he and Madison had gotten married, he’d been so damn desperate to be the perfect husband, and by extension, the perfect brother-in-law.

Mollie had gone to Australia for a year abroad and had been terrified at being so far from home. Since Madison didn’t “do” email, Jackson had done his best to give Mollie a sense of home by corresponding with her via the Internet while she was halfway across the world, and somehow they’d never stopped, even when she’d gotten back to New York.

Not like they’d been writing long love letters that he’d spritzed with his cologne or any bullshit like that, just emails here, quick texts there. She reached out whenever she had boyfriend problems, and he’d just been grateful to have someone in his life willing to talk about something other than football.

Mollie was a friend…one of his best friends, perhaps, but her email invitation to catch up over drinks now that he was in New York had caught him by surprise.

To say that the end of his and Madison’s marriage had been stormy would be a massive understatement.

He hadn’t heard from Mollie since the divorce was finalized.

Until now.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” the bartender asked.

“Manhattan, Knob Creek bourbon if you have it, with Carpano Antica if you have that,” Jackson said.

“Of course, sir.” The middle-aged bartender didn’t even bat an eye at the precise order.

Now this was one thing New York did better than Texas—cocktails. Perfectly cold, perfectly mixed, perfectly classic cocktails.

The bartender fluttered down a white, monogrammed cocktail napkin in front of Jackson as he stirred the drink, before straining it into a chilled glass.

Perfect. Utter fucking perfection.

And what shit it was that Jackson’s life had turned into this—the highlight of his day was a well-made cocktail.

Jackson took a sip of his drink as he surveyed the room with a bored eye. It was early on a Wednesday evening, which meant that most of the clientele were the after-work business crowd: men in perfectly tailored suits, women in classy pencil skirts with perfectly coiffed hair.

Houston had this too—a thriving business scene—but it was different.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just that the way people responded to him was different here. Not so long ago, he could walk into a room—any room—and be swarmed with fans wanting autographs or selfies or just to touch him.

People occasionally recognized him in New York, but more often than not, he blended into the suit-wearing, Monday-through-Friday crowd as though he were one of them.

Because he was one of them.

Or at least he was trying damn hard to be.

Jackson slid a finger under the collar of his shirt, tugging it outward just slightly in an effort to ease the choking sensation it gave him. The tailor had assured him that the shirt was a perfect fit, but it still felt tight.

Trying to distract himself from the fact that he was wearing a boring blue suit just like most of the other men in the bar, he let his attention shift to the women.

It was one of the few benefits of his divorce—the ability to look at other women without feeling guilty.

Hell, in the early years of his marriage he hadn’t even wanted to look at other women. Madison had been…everything.

Even toward the end, he’d stayed faithful.

And not a damn person believed him.

Jackson took a sip of his drink and let his eyes scan the room. There were the two cocktail waitresses in their tight black dresses. Hot, but young. Far too young. There was the group of classy, designer-clad women near the window, nursing their white wines.

Then there were the businesswomen on their cellphones, the gussied-up women on dates, and the elderly woman who’d just ordered her second martini….

Bored.

He was bored. Jackson’s fingers crept to his collar once more. Sweet Jesus, was the thing actually getting tighter?

He went for another sip of his drink only to freeze when he saw a pair of very nice legs out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head subtly to get a better look, and all traces of boredom vanished.