“One week.” She blinks once, twice. “What?” Screw it. Caving to my need to touch her, I brush her lips with the pad of my thumb. “One week, Holls. Think about everything you need to—work it all out in your head and figure out if you want more from me than just tonight’s hookup. If you do, next weekend . . . next weekend, I’ve got a three-day stretch with nothing but me, my couch and TV in sight, and I’d rather spend that time with you. We’ll go somewhere.” “Go somewhere?” She laughs at that, the sound feminine and light. “Jackson, we can’t just . . . we can’t just leave the state.” Wanting to
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