A crank twisted in Jasmine’s chest, remembering how low River had been brought by her high school sweetheart–turned–Army soldier bailing, leaving her pregnant and brokenhearted. “I understand why you’re concerned after everything that happened, Riv. I do. That’s not going to happen here.” Jasmine pulled the machine’s lever down to stamp a blank plate. “You know me. My eyes are open. I’m keeping the right distance, just like I always do.”

River regarded her a moment. “Okay, I believe you,” she said simply, the downturned corners of her lips popping up into a smile. “So I guess Christmas came early for you this year, huh? Does sending my brother to stay in your guest room count as my gift?”

Jasmine groaned up at the ceiling. “Okay, there’s a line and we’re totally crossing it into wrongness right now.”

“You crossed the line,” River returned. “I’m just joining you. Pass the salt.”

Jasmine treated River to a light hip check. “You’re the best.”

“I won’t argue with that,” River said, peeking over from beneath her eyelashes. “Just be careful. I’ve already got the scorned-woman market cornered in this friendship.”

They went back to working with methodical efficiency, passing a gym towel back and forth between them when the machinery made them sweat. For once, Jasmine was grateful to have work as a distraction, although it wasn’t blocking her most pressing thoughts. River’s warning clanged in her head along with the pumping metal. She’d only spent one night—and one sweltering morning—with new, grown-up Sarge, but it had been enough to know one thing. He was head and shoulders above the men she typically dated. She would need to keep her own head on straight, keep their relationship limited to physical pleasure.

In some crazy fantasy world, what would happen if either of them wanted more? Answer: nothing. He was too young to settle down with one woman, especially when hordes of them awaited him on the road. No. The next few days would scratch the big old itch incurred by her upcoming milestone birthday. The three-oh hung over her head, making her anxious to prove she could still attract a younger man. Satisfy him. Make him come back for more.

That’s all this was.

Chapter Seven

Sarge tapped the jewelry case against his thigh as he approached River’s house. Did three-year-olds even wear necklaces? The guy at the local jewelry store had seemed positive on that front, but then again, maybe he’d just wanted to make the sale. Guess he’d find out.

The sounds of running feet and squeals of laughter stopped Sarge short halfway up the stoop. He’d never heard those noises coming from inside his childhood home. His parents had both been only children, limiting them to a foursome. Not to mention, his and River’s father had been fairly strict, especially when it came to River, who’d shown a high aptitude for schoolwork at an early age. Most of their evenings had been about studying, Sarge sneaking his guitar down to the basement or into the garage whenever he could manage. The sound of a child’s laughter was really nice. Nice shouldn’t make his stomach sink, though. Should it? It shouldn’t make him feel like an intruder. Or someone who’d been in a coma for four years, only to wake up and find a chunk missing from his life.

He shoved the necklace into the back pocket of his jeans, rubbing his damp palm along the leg on its way back around. His nerves were strung tight, even worse than the night Old News played their first gig in Pasadena. Five people had shown up, and one had been James. To this day, however, he swore playing in front of a handful of people was twice the head wreck as a sold-out stadium full. Now it appeared a three-year-old would rattle him far worse than either situation.

Before he could reach the door, the painted white wood swung open and—

Jasmine stepped out.

It was like he’d been storing a shaken bottle of lust in his stomach all day, and someone had just uncapped it, lusty fizz shooting out in every direction. Christ. In leggings that molded her thighs and a thin sweater that hugged her tits, he was starving for her in an instant. He hadn’t seen her since last night’s couch debacle and had spent a good part of the day cursing her name, but now? Now he just wanted another shot. And he wanted it bad. Common sense continued to intrude, telling him it wasn’t Jasmine’s fault that he’d been consumed by her half his life, but everything below his brain ignored that sentiment, only wanting to get even.

Before Sarge could get a handle on the desire she’d liberated, she spoke in a low voice. “I was going to leave before you got here. Riv just needed someone to keep an eye on Marcy while she cooked. I—”

“Why would you leave?” When Jasmine shivered from the cold, Sarge whipped off his coat with a curse and wrapped it around her shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t keep his hands from lingering on her arms once he’d transferred the coat, couldn’t stop himself from pulling her close. Closer. Their white billows of breath met and danced between them. At once, it felt as though another four years had passed since the last time he’d seen her, rather than a day. Her eyes were flitting around, landing on everything but him, so he grasped her face to hold her still long enough to make eye contact. “Please stay.”

“I told your sister what’s been happening.”

Jesus. He didn’t know if he should be horrified or glad their encounters had been enough of an event for Jasmine that she’d felt the need to share. “Okay. That might make things a little weird, but I’ve lived on a bus with musicians. Weird is my new normal.”

She gave him that lip-pursing smile that tilted her eyes. “An example, please.”

“Our bass player saves his toenails in a coffee can for good luck.”

Jasmine whistled low beneath her breath. “Good one.”

“Yeah? It never upended in your bunk.” It felt so good holding her face and watching her smile gain momentum. He could have stood there the rest of his life and it wouldn’t have gotten old. “Come inside. Don’t leave because of the weird.”

She cast a sidelong look at the house. “Maybe for a little while.”

“That’ll work until I can get a better answer.” Sarge let his thumb trace over her temple, down to her jawline, memorizing the awareness that crept over both of them, breath by breath. The way her stomach went concave against his belt buckle, then shuddered back out. After making sure no one from the house was watching through the window, he dropped both hands and settled them low on her hips, the contact hidden by the sides of his jacket. “You going to let me make you feel good again, Jas?”

Doubt trickled into her expression. “I don’t know yet.”

“Good. I’m kind of enjoying the convincing process.” Sarge coasted a hand over her waistline, flattening it at the small of her back, just above the flare of her ass. “And you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Yeah?” Did he imagine the way she arched and tempted his hand lower? “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He nudged her forehead with his own. “I’m the last person you should be afraid of, baby.”

“You were the baby,” she breathed.

“You’re overthinking again. Remember what happens when you do that?”

She did an inward roll of her lips and let them pop back out, juicer than before. “You make me stop thinking?”

“That’s right.” Fuck it. He was going to kiss her. Right there, in the light, on the pathway to his sister’s house. That mouth was his. He couldn’t stand living in a world where he hadn’t kissed her yet. They were so close he could feel her minty breath ghosting over his lips and he knew it wouldn’t be gentle. She was about to get the kind of kiss that would get her legs up around his waist like a fucking clamp. It was a bad idea right now. Yeah, it really was. But sometimes good things came from the worst ideas, right? “I hope you’re okay with being wet at the dinner table.”