“Okay.” Sarge stepped back, eyeing the shelves. “Let’s get them all.”

Her laughter turned heads, so she ducked behind his big frame. “You can’t just show up with hundreds of boxes,” she whispered. “Your sister will kill you. And me by association.”

His throat muscles slid up and down. “I wasn’t in Hook for Marcy’s first three Christmases. I have to make up for it somehow, right?”

At once, she couldn’t breathe. Sarge was doing his best to hide the guilt, but it was there in the set of his jaw, the heaviness behind his eyes. It took every molecule of her willpower not to throw herself into his arms and cling. Cling for dear life. Because who could ever top this man? He was everything at once. Good, strong, thoughtful…bad when he needed to be. More, he was harboring pain. Keeping it close so it wouldn’t touch anyone else.

“Sarge. You’ll make up for it without the toys. Just being here now is enough…” Even as she reassured him, an idea occurred. “Actually, hold on.”

Jasmine dodged two children having a sword fight and ducked into an unoccupied aisle, two away from where they’d discovered the dinosaurs. Sarge joined her there a moment later, curiosity painting his expression. “What is it?”

Surprised he hadn’t seen the child-sized guitars yet, Jasmine realized it was due to his total focus on her. His gaze moved over her face, lighting on her cheeks, hair, lips. Tapping into her reserve of strength, Jasmine tore her attention from Sarge, went up on her toes, and unhooked the guitar from its hanging place. “I was thinking you could teach Marcy to play.” Brow furrowed, he took the offered guitar, but didn’t say anything. Jasmine immediately wanted to recall the suggestion. With it, she’d called attention to the four-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. That Sarge would most likely be accepting the new contract. And leaving. “Even when you’re on the road, there are webcams. Skype. People learn to play instruments through the internet all the time now. I just thought—”

“It’s perfect, Jas.” He reached out and cupped a hand over her mouth. “It’s perfect, and no more talking about me leaving. Deal? Nothing else is worth thinking about when I’ve got you standing in front of me.”

When Jasmine felt her legs bump the shelves, she realized his words had literally made her stagger. But she couldn’t respond because his hand covered her mouth. Her body, however, responded quite readily when he crowded closer, pulse whirring, tummy tightening, toes stretching inside her shoes. Some vestige of consciousness had her saying his name, but it came out muffled in his palm.

“I changed my mind,” he murmured. “We’re going to talk right now because who knows when I’ll get another chance. And no matter how this conversation goes, it’s going to end with me kissing the hell out of you in this toy store. You with me?”

No idea what was coming, but positive it would be a major, mother-effing game changer, Jasmine started to shake her head—

“Um. Excuse me… Sarge Purcell from Old News, right?”

As if he’d heard the same question four million times, Sarge nodded without even looking at their intruder. His head tipped forward on an exhale that ruffled her hair, remaining that way for long moments. When he finally straightened, Jasmine saw a different side of Sarge. The rock band front man. His smile was just the right amount of cocky, sprinkled with a hint of self-deprecation. With an apologetic look intended solely for her, he turned to greet the newcomer—and drew up short.

Curious, Jasmine followed his line of sight to find Sarge’s snowballing group of admirers climbing over each other to get a look at them. They moved farther and farther into the store, jamming into every corner with the slightest bit of room, speaking in excited tones. Sarge moved in front of Jasmine, wedging her back against the toy shelf. “Hey, guys.” A flash went off. “Happy holidays. Do you mind—”

“Play something!”

Sarge shifted, reaching back to brush a thumb over her hand. A reassurance. “I don’t have my guitar. But if someone has a pen, I can—”

He broke off when everyone laughed. “You’re holding a guitar,” a man toward the front pointed out. “Come on. It’s Christmas.”

“Right.” Sarge threw her a glance over his shoulder as everyone started to clap, slow at first, then picking up speed. Jasmine expected him to make another excuse or play the crowd something quick, but what he said next completely took her off guard. “I’ll play something if my…friend here agrees to sing with me.”

“Sarge. No,” Jasmine whispered against his back, heaviness crowding in her throat. “They’re not asking to hear me sing.”

“They’ll change their minds once you start,” he returned, with total conviction. “You’re one of the best singers I’ve ever heard, Jas.”

Drawing air grew almost impossible. How had this trip to the mall turned into a tour of her insecurities? “I haven’t sung in so long. I’m not sure I even can anymore.”

Sarge held up a finger to the onlookers and faced her. When one large hand started to reach for her hip, but dropped on the trip over, she realized what an effort he made not to touch her while others were looking. A restriction she’d placed on him.

“Sarge.”

“Hey.” The importance behind that single word held her in thrall. “I started playing my guitar because of you, Jasmine. That day you sang in the blue dress? I had to make music after that because you made it sound so good. Made it look like a necessity.”

The floor disappeared beneath her feet, leaving her hovering over nothing. “You never told me that.”

A twinkle replaced the seriousness in his gaze. “Maybe I was waiting for us to be standing in a mall toy store full of strangers.” His eyebrows dipped, head tilting in the most persuasive manner she’d ever witnessed. “Sing with me.”

She studied the anxious group beyond his shoulder, wondering if she’d lost her damn mind. Any other Friday, she would still be working in the factory. Getting ready for a nowhere date or making plans to do happy hour at the Third Shift. How had she gotten here? “Okay,” she breathed before she could stop to question to decision.

One corner of Sarge’s mouth lifted, his pride drawing her forward so they could face their makeshift audience side by side. Much like the day she’d sung at the Feast of San Gennaro, her stomach pinched with tightening knots…but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was anticipation. And when Sarge strummed the first few chords of “Joyful, Joyful,” she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

Jasmine threw the car into park a couple blocks from the Third Shift, her vision beginning to blur with mirthful tears.

“Did you see the disappointment on that woman’s face when I wasn’t Jon Bon Jovi?” Sarge’s imitation of the crestfallen woman sent Jasmine back into a fit of laughter. “She actually wanted me dead. She already purchased a Sarge Purcell voodoo doll and covered it in pins.”

“You can’t really blame her,” Jasmine said, wiping her eyes. “We were only a few minutes from Bon Jovi’s house. He probably draws a crowd when he goes out.”

He lunged across the console to tickle her ribs. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side. Some singing partner you turned out to be.”

“I’m sorry!” she squealed.

“Sorry about what?”

Jasmine twisted, trying to get away from his torturous fingers and failing. “I’m going solo. Sorry you had to find out this way.”

Sarge’s gaze narrowed. “Oh, baby. Now you’re going to get it.” His big hands planted on her denim-clad thighs, squeezing the most ticklish spot on her body. Jasmine shot up with a yelp, legs shooting apart to dislodge his hand to no avail. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact second his touch went from playful to downright sexual, but instead of tickling, Sarge began massaging the insides of her thighs. Pushed close to kiss a path over her ear.