Mariah

My phone lights up just as I’m toeing off my sneakers, one heel catching on the rug and nearly taking me out.

Jackson.

I smile before I even answer, because apparently I’ve reached that stage of liking someone where their name alone can shift my entire mood.

“Hey, quarterback,” I say, flopping back onto my bed.

There’s a pause on the other end, then a breathy laugh. “You always do that.”

“And you always answer,” I counter. “So I’m not seeing the ...