“Fuck,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s too late for all of this, Mad.”

“Why?”

Because I think I might be falling for your sister. “That part of my life is done,” he said quietly.

“What if it doesn’t have to be?”

“What?”

Her eyes dropped to his shoulder. “You may not be able to play, but you can still be a part of that world. You’d be a fantastic coach.”

Jackson froze. How had she known? How, of all the people in his life, could it be his ex-wife who was able to zero in on his deepest, most gut-wrenching desire? He hadn’t told a soul about the possibility of going back to the Redhawks as a coach. Not his parents. Not his former teammates. He’d even gone around his agent.

He hadn’t told Mollie. He couldn’t tell Mollie. He couldn’t possibly tell the woman he’d practically begged to give him a chance that he checked his personal email account twenty times a day in hopes that his old coach would give him the green light. That he lived in fear he’d never set foot on a field again—and was hoping against hope that he would.

But Madison…Madison knew.

And suddenly he was desperate to talk to someone about it. Anyone.

Even her.

“I’m trying to be,” he said gruffly.

Her nose wrinkled. “Trying to be what?”

“A coach.”

Her lips parted in surprise before a wide smile spread across her face. A genuine smile.

“I’m so glad, Jackson. Truly. For the Redhawks? I bet Jerry is dying to have you.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Wants me to get my image cleaned up. Seems he’s worried that my shitty rep means the guys won’t listen to me.”

Her smile disappeared. “So if you don’t get this, it’s because of me.”

“You and your lies,” he said. “Pretty much.”

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry.”

“You could fix it, you know,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You could go to the press. Tell them you lied.” She looked away, and he laughed. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“Jackson—”

“Don’t worry about it, Mad. I’ve got my own plan for damage control.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly before she resumed a placid smile. “How?”

“I’m going to tell my side of the story.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m doing a tell-all interview.”

She snorted. “You’ve always had a firm policy against talking to the press.”

“Something you counted on when you spread your toxic lies, huh?”

For the first time since entering his office she lost her smooth control and her eyes went a little wide in panic. “This is ridiculous. Too much time has passed. You’ll just look like you’re shoveling pathetic excuses. Nobody will believe you.”

She was spitting her sentences out rapid-fire, and he gave her a soothing smile he knew would piss her off. “If nobody will believe me, why are you so worried?”

Madison didn’t respond. Her scarlet nails were tapping against the arm of the chair, and he knew her well enough to be aware that her mind was racing.

“What if there was another way?” she asked.

“Another way for what?”

“For you to get the coaching job.”

“There’s not,” he said flatly. “The NFL won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole so long as I’m public enemy number one.”

She stood and picked up her purse. “Don’t give that interview just yet. Promise me.”

“I’m not promising you shit.”

“Two days.” She held up a couple of fingers. “I need two days.”

“For what?”

Instead of answering she spun on her heel and went to the door, turning back once she was in the doorway. “I’m not done with you, Jackson. And like it or not, you’re not done with me either.”

Madison was gone before he could reply, leaving only the faint scent of her favorite Jimmy Choo perfume behind.

“You’re wrong,” Jackson said, even though nobody was around to hear him. Because somehow he felt it was important to say it out loud.

But even after speaking the words, Jackson couldn’t ignore the gnawing worry that Madison was about to make his life a hell of a lot more complicated.

Chapter 22

Mollie wasn’t much of a cook, but she did have one pretty kick-ass specialty: grilled cheese.

She made a killer grilled cheese sandwich. She knew the secret. See, people thought it was all about the cheese, but that actually wasn’t true. Any kind of cheese was delicious when it was all gooey and melty.

No, the difference between an average grilled cheese sandwich and an exceptional one was the bread.

Mollie was partial to sourdough. Nothing beat a grilled cheese sandwich with freshly baked sourdough and perfectly melted Swiss.

Lucky for her, New York City wasn’t short on bakeries, and it had taken only a couple of minutes of googling before she’d found a bakery that had sourdough bread within walking distance of their apartment. Add in a stop for some cheese, a bottle of wine for her, beer for Jackson, and she was in business—the business of making dinner for Jackson Burke.

She was singing along with a Dixie Chicks oldie, sipping a glass of wine and spreading the perfectly softened butter onto the bread, when she heard the front door open.