“Guess I missed the Fulton pride memo,” I joke, joining the group in what has become my daily uniform of jeans and a sweater. I should go put on Jace’s t-shirt, although I’m not sure I want his family speculating over why I have it.

“Come on.” Jace grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs. “We’ll meet you in the car,” he says to his family over his shoulder.

I don’t look back to see their reactions as we reach the top of the stairs and turn to the left. Jace opens a wooden door and we enter his childhood bedroom.

The room is not very large, and a four-poster bed takes up most of the limited space. A wooden desk and dresser are pushed up against the wall opposite from the bed. A white shelf hanging above the furniture boasts a row of shiny trophies.

Jace walks over to his dresser and opens a drawer, while I study the two framed photos hanging on the wall next to the doorframe. One depicts a high school aged Jace standing with three other guys wearing football gear. The second is Jace, when he looks to be Claire’s age. He’s standing atop the same tractor I rode on yesterday. A younger Mr. Dawson stands next to him, laughing.

I smile at the sweet photo. “You were so cute,” I tell Jace as he walks over to stand next to me. “What happened?” I ask, grinning.

Jace shakes his head. He’s now holding a navy sweatshirt. He tugs the soft fabric down over my head and his scent surrounds me as I guide my arms through the sleeves and tug the oversized material down around my waist. It fits easily over my bulky sweater.

I glance down to see Fulton Football is printed across the front in white block letters.

“Now you look like a local.”

I tug my hair out from underneath the hood and push the blonde locks to one side so I can adjust the bunched fabric. One stray piece falls back in my face, and Jace takes a step closer to brush it behind my ear.

His proximity inundates my senses, and I feel my heart race in response. I forget all about the sweatshirt as I glance up at him. His gray eyes probe mine as we stand inches apart.

Jace fingers one of the strings hanging from the hood of my new sweatshirt. Suddenly, he tugs it. Unprepared, I stumble forward and collide against his hard body.

“I thought you hate it when I run into you,” I whisper.

“It’s grown on me,” Jace admits.

Then he kisses me; a heady, deep kiss that overwhelms every cell of my body. I melt against him and he wraps his arms around me, crushing the layers of soft material between us.

I convinced myself the explosive chemistry of our first kiss was simply an effect of the whiskey coursing through my veins at the time, but I experience the same dizzying rush as his mouth moves against mine.