“Glad I wasn’t the goalkeeper.” Jamie lifts his sexy arms overhead, and I notice that he’s in our bed. That’s the wooden headboard I chose, and the flannel sheets I bought when winter hit and Jamie began objecting to the cold.

A wave of homesickness hits hard. “I would kill to be there right now.” Can’t believe I fucked up our time together last week. “I’d show you exactly how hot you look.”

Jamie grins, and I practically smack myself in the head when realization strikes. “The beard! Where’d it go?” His face is now perfectly cleanshaven.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Got sick of it. Beards itch.” He lifts a hand to his cheek and slides it slowly down to his chin.

When his little finger drags across his lower lip, I hear myself growl. “Do that again, Canning,” I demand.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Why?”

“Because I need to see it.”

He must hear something desperate in my tone, because he complies without any more lip. He lifts his palm to his cheek again and closes his eyes. I watch him take a deep breath, and on the exhale, he slides his hand down his jaw. When his fingertips reach his mouth, he slants his eyes open just a couple of millimeters. Then he slides two fingertips into his mouth and sucks on them.

“Fuck,” I breathe. I’m jealous of the fingers, the camera and the bed. “Take off your shirt for me.”

For a fractional second I think he’ll protest. We never do this. And we just had the shittiest week ever. But Jamie sits up a little, the camera losing him and showing me the ceiling instead. But then I see his arm sweep past, his T-shirt flying up and away. When the camera tilts again, Jamie’s golden chest is on full display.