Broad Shoulders (The Perfect Man #3)

2. Alana

2

ALANA

T his isn’t something I do. Ever. I don’t go home with men from the bar, no matter how charming their smile or how good they look in a fitted t-shirt. My rule has served me well for years—keep things professional, keep the boundaries clear.

So what the hell makes Jackson King different? I wish I had a better answer than the obvious truth: he’s the most physically perfect man I’ve ever laid eyes on. His broad shoulders, strong jaw, and those dark eyes that lock onto mine like I’m the only woman on the island—fuck. My body responds to him in ways my brain can’t override. Sure, he’s got a nice personality too. He’s sweet, and the protectiveness he showed tonight should have annoyed me but instead just cranked up the heat.

So here I am. In his hotel room. Pinned up against the wall as he kisses me, our tongues sliding together, his hands digging into my hair. When he pulls out of our kiss, we’re both breathing heavy.

I press my hands against his chest, creating just enough space between us to speak. “I need you to understand something.”

“What’s that?” he asks, his voice rough with desire.

“This can’t be complicated.” I hold his gaze, making sure he understands. “If we’re doing this, it’s just for fun. No strings attached.”

He studies me. “Does that mean we’re only doing this one time? Because I’ve got three more nights on the island.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You already want to make more plans? We haven’t even gotten our clothes off yet.”

“Just putting it out there.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “I have a feeling one night’s not going to be enough.”

“As long as we’re clear what this is.”

“We’re clear.”

I tug at the hem of his shirt, and he yanks it over his head in one swift motion.

Holy shit. His torso is a masterpiece. I run my hands across his firm chest and up to those impossibly broad shoulders, the heat of him scorching my palms.

Jackson grabs my waist and lifts me without warning or effort. I wrap my legs around him, feeling the hard press of him between my thighs.

He carries me to the bed with slow strides, his eyes burning into mine. When he drops me onto the mattress and covers my body with his, I laugh—a raw, hungry sound.

His weight pins me down. When his mouth claims mine again, I arch against him, desperate to feel him inside me.

Four days later, Jackson is gone and I’m left reminding myself that no-strings sex means I’m not supposed to miss the weight of his body against mine. And yet in the nights that follow, my bed feels too large, too empty. I toss and turn all night, and I wake up feeling the worst kind of longing.

I tell myself it’s just the aftereffect of a really good fling. That the memories of his hands on my skin will fade. And as the days progress, I do start to feel normal again.

But something has shifted inside me. Permanently.

Fast forward six weeks to an ordinary Tuesday at the bar. I’m pouring a pint, chatting with a couple locals, when the room suddenly tilts. My grip on the tap falters. That's when the realization hits me with brutal clarity. My period is late.

And I’m never late.

In that moment, I know I’m pregnant. The test I take that night confirms my instinct. The doctor visit later that week makes it official with blood work and an estimated due date. But the reality takes time to sink in. Having a baby was never part of my plan. It just wasn't for me.

But apparently fate had different ideas.

As I begin to wrap my head around becoming a mother, I search for a way to contact Jackson. Part of our no-strings-attached agreement meant no exchanged numbers, no way to reach each other when he left the island. A thorough internet search yields nothing useful. My only option is to email the fan relations department through the Stallions website, explaining that I recently met Jackson and that it's urgent I speak with him.

An automated reply arrives within minutes, promising someone will be in touch soon. But no response comes. Weeks later, I send a second message. Still nothing.

I don't know if they've dismissed my emails as the desperate attempts of a fan or if they've forwarded them to Jackson and he's choosing silence. Either way, I'm forced to accept the truth: I'm doing this alone. Or nearly alone. When I tell my mom about the pregnancy, she bursts into happy tears, pulling me into a hug. She’ll help me raise the little one, she tells me, squeezing me tight. I don’t need to worry about anything, she says.

And so life continues. I go to doctor appointments. I take vitamins. I watch, with equal parts anxiety and awe, as my belly starts to grow. As the months pass, I grow bigger and bigger, my belly drawing amused comments from patrons at the bar about how many babies I have in there.

There’s just one, but he’s a big boy. With especially wide shoulders, according to the scans.

By the time my due date comes, I’m more than ready to be done with being pregnant. And so when my contractions finally start, my eagerness to get through labor far outweighs whatever nerves I have about the process. I breathe through the pain as my mom drives me to the hospital. In the delivery room, I grip the rails of the bed and grit my teeth as my labor progresses. At last, it’s time to push.

After an hour of agonizing pushing, I give birth to a healthy ten-pound baby boy.

I name him Kai, after my grandfather. At first, all scrunched up and wrinkly, he looks like a tiny old man. Despite the fact that I’ve never yearned for a baby, never daydreamed of this moment, I’m fiercely and completely in love with him. He’s my son, and I’m going to give him the best life I possibly can.

In the hazy, exhausting days that follow, I make one final attempt to reach Jackson. But, like the previous times, it goes unanswered. I accept it as the universe's answer: this is how our story is meant to unfold. Though it stings to know Kai won't know his father, I promise myself that my son's life will be full and complete, lacking nothing that truly matters.