“Burke, you eaten?”

Jackson glanced up from his computer to see Jake Malone standing in the doorway. Of all the Oxford guys, Jackson knew Jake the least. As Oxford’s travel editor, he was away a fair amount, plus his cushy corner office was at the far end of the hall away from Jackson’s.

Still, he seemed like a good guy. Hell, they all seemed like good guys.

“You eat yet?” Jake repeated when Jackson didn’t reply right away.

When Jackson had first started at Oxford, he’d gotten this question a lot. Knowing that a lunch invitation inevitably followed, he’d started saying yes automatically, whether or not he’d actually eaten.

But today . . .

“Not yet,” he replied.

Jake jerked his head back. “Come on. Cassidy’s buying.”

“Cassidy is not buying,” came Alex Cassidy’s low voice just seconds before the editor in chief appeared in Jackson’s doorway.

Jake shrugged. “Always worth a shot.”

Cassidy glanced at Jackson. “Burke’s coming?”

“Wait!” came a female wail. “Jackson’s going? Why is he going on the one day that I can’t go?”

Penelope Pope came dashing over and looked at Jackson with big sad eyes. “I have a phone date with my mom. She’ll kill me if I cancel. But you have to promise to go to lunch with me tomorrow.”

“Um, okay,” Jackson said.

She pointed at him. “No. Promise.”

He smiled, because Penelope trying to look bossy was in fact adorable. “I promise.”

She gave him a happy smile before slapping Jake on the arm. “Hey, make sure Cole brings me leftovers. He always forgets.”

“I do not always forget,” Cole said from somewhere out of sight.

“It’s like you guys come out of the woodwork,” Jackson muttered.

As if on cue, a thump came from the shared wall between Lincoln’s and Jackson’s offices. “Wait for me!”

“So we’re all going, then,” Jackson said dryly.

Five minutes later, Jackson found himself part of the group going to lunch, rather than the one watching others go to lunch. Since Penelope couldn’t go, it was guys only: himself, Jake, Cole, Lincoln, and Cassidy.

He was surprised to realize how much he’d missed this—how much he’d missed having friends. Most of Jackson’s best friends had been on the team, but he’d had other sets of friends as well: neighbors, college friends . . . even a handful of high school friends. Every last one of them was back in Texas. And while most of them had at least sent a card after the accident, there weren’t exactly daily phone calls coming in. Not with most of them thinking he was the worst sort of philandering asshole.

But these Oxford guys didn’t seem to care about any of that. Hell, apart from Cole and maybe Cassidy, it didn’t even seem to register with them that he was a former pro athlete. For the first time in his life, Jackson was defined by something other than his throwing arm.

He wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that.

When Jackson had accepted the Oxford job, he’d done so in a desperate attempt to escape the life that was unraveling in Houston, but he’d always figured that New York would be temporary—a chance for him to get his legs back under him, get in control of his life, and then return home.

But as he watched the other four guys give each other crap, the way guy friends tended to do, Jackson found that he wanted to be a part of it. Just then Cole glanced over and declared Jackson’s green tie to be the color of a “toxic waste spill.” Jackson smiled, realizing that he was a part of it.

Once outside the office, they all stopped and glanced at Jackson.

He looked around. “What?”

“New guy picks,” Jake said, as though this were obvious.

“I don’t really know what’s around here.”

“Probably because you never leave your office,” Cole said good-naturedly. “Fear not, my stomach knows all the places. What are you feeling? Burger? Thai? Sushi?”

“Not sushi,” Jackson said. “Burger sounds good. Or steak?”

Lincoln clamped his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Dude, just say it. You want beef.” Lincoln lowered his voice and made a flexing motion with his biceps as he said the last word.

“Yes, say beef, Burke,” Jake said. “But not until we can get you in a Stetson. Oh, and chaps. Do people still wear chaps in Texas?”

“And if you take your shirt off, it’ll sell more magazines,” Cole added. “We could maybe get some of that oil they smear on the cover models. Get you all oiled up.”

Jackson shot the group the finger.

Cassidy glanced up from his phone. “All right, I got reservations at Wolfgang’s. Can you ladies walk, or shall we take a cab?”

“Too bad I don’t have my horse. I could have just cowboyed myself over there,” Jackson drawled.

Lincoln snapped and pointed. “That’s the spirit. And let’s walk—I need to burn off the calories of those cupcakes Jo brought in this morning.”

“Considering you scooped the frosting off five of the cupcakes, I’m thinking you’re going to need to do more than walk to keep your girlish figure,” Jake said.

“Whatever. I’ll get a salad at lunch. Unless, of course, Cassidy’s buying . . .”

“I’m not buying!” Cassidy said, raising his voice just slightly as the group crossed Broadway.

“Come on, man, you’re the boss.”

“Not by choice,” Cassidy muttered. “You think I really want to be the one to try to corral you guys?”

“Ooh, he said corral,” Cole said, elbowing Jackson. “Another cowboy term for you!”

“You guys know that my house was in the ’burbs, right? Not a ranch? I haven’t even seen a horse since I was eight.”

“Well, this is highly disappointing,” Lincoln said. “Did you at least bring your moose heads with you to put on your walls?”

“They’re called hunting trophies,” Jake said.

“How the hell do you know? The only thing you’ve ever hunted is women,” Cassidy said.

“That was the old days,” Jake said, lifting his left hand to flash his wedding band. “Speaking of, when are you popping the question, old man?”

The group stopped at a red light and smirked expectantly at Cassidy. Their editor in chief ran a hand over the back of his neck and looked as unsure of himself as Jackson had ever seen him. “I dunno. It’s just . . .”

“You know she’s gonna say yes, man. You guys are like Romeo and Juliet without all the pesky death stuff,” Cole said.

“And you’ve talked about it, right?” Jake added. “Grace said you and Emma have had The Talk, so it can’t be that much of a surprise.”

“I know all that,” Cassidy grumbled as they started walking again. “It just doesn’t make it any easier. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfect.”

Cole pretended to wipe a tear from his eye, and Cassidy shoved his shoulder before shifting his attention to Jackson. “Speaking of the womenfolk, what’s your situation?”

“Ooh, I know this one,” Lincoln said, turning around and walking backward. “He’s hitting on the younger sister.”

“Whose younger sister?” Cassidy asked.

Jackson gave Lincoln a warning glare, but the other man either didn’t see it or ignored it. Probably the latter.

“His ex-wife’s younger sister.”

“No way!” Jake said.

Way, Jackson thought. Although he hated hearing it said out loud like this. He knew all too well how this looked on paper—like the hotshot asshole had hit his midthirties and decided to upgrade to the younger, hotter model.

Which wasn’t even remotely fair to Mollie. She was young, yes. And hot, definitely. But if anyone even tried to insinuate that she was somehow responsible for the end of his marriage, he’d be showing them exactly how cowboy he could be . . . with his fists.

“Oh, it’s even more complicated than that,” Cole said as he opened the door to the restaurant so the rest of the group could precede him. “Ex-wife made an appearance the other day.”

Jackson winced. “Don’t remind me.”

Cassidy shot him a glance. “Drama?”

“You have no idea,” Jackson replied darkly as they followed the hostess to their table.

Jackson’s mouth watered as he passed a table where a woman was cutting into a juicy rib-eye. “If I’d known this is what your lunches were like, I’d have tagged along weeks ago.”

“They’re not usually,” Jake said as they sat around a round table. “Cassidy’s just trying to butter you up so you’re extra chatty when Cole and Penelope interview you.”

Cassidy only lifted a shoulder as he opened his menu. “That’s basically true.”

Jackson glanced around the table. “So . . . everyone knows about that, huh?”

“Are you kidding?” Cole said. “They’ve been trying to hijack my story.”

“Calm down, princess. Nobody’s trying to hijack your story,” Lincoln said.

“Well, you’re not, because you hate football. But everyone else has given me so much uninvited input, I’m thinking of putting a suggestion box outside my door.”

“Do I even want to know what sort of shit people want to hear about?” Jackson asked, taking a sip of water.

“Um . . .”

Cole glanced around the table at everyone but Jackson.

“Come on, man. If we’re going to do this, I’ll be in a much better mood if I’m prepared.”

“I’m thinking this needs to be a drinking lunch,” Jake muttered. “Cassidy, what do you say we pretend we’re in Mad Men and do a three-martini lunch?”

Their boss shot a quick glance at Jackson. “Yeah. Booze might be good.”

“Oh, come on,” Jackson said, his patience at an end. “Just lay it on me. What is it that everyone wants to know? Why I had my friend’s wife with me in the car the day of the accident? How many of those women I actually slept with? If my bedroom tastes really are as depraved as my sex kittens claim?”

There was a moment of silence before Cole cleared his throat. “Um, yeah. Pretty much all of that.”

Jackson wanted to rub his eyes in defeat. It was nothing he hadn’t seen coming. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for. Hell, that was the entire reason he was doing this. To set the record straight. It just fucking sucked that he’d given so many years to a sport he loved as much as life itself, but all it took was a juicy sex scandal and nobody even remembered that he knew how to play.

“Okay, here’s a preview. Angie was in the car with me because hers was in the shop and she wanted to show her husband—my teammate—the sonogram of their twins. I’ve never even met a single one of the women who came forward claiming hands-on knowledge of my dick, and as far as my bedroom tastes, the only person familiar with those while I was married was my wife. Got it?”

Nobody responded for several moments until Lincoln started doing a dramatic slow clap, breaking the tension.

Jake punched his shoulder. “Good on you, man. Both for the moral high ground and for telling us all to basically shove it.”

Jackson glanced around the table, expecting to see cynical skepticism and finding nothing but acceptance. They believed him. He looked down at his water glass, hoping none of them would realize what their simple faith in him meant.

A cute blond waitress came to take their order. True to Lincoln’s word, he ordered a salad. True to Jake’s word, he ordered a martini as well as a filet. Jackson went for whisky and Coke—he figured he’d earned it—and a bone-in rib-eye.

“You know, Burke,” Cassidy said as he handed his menu to the server after ordering a steak sandwich and a glass of wine, “you can back out of the interview at any time.”

“The hell he can!” Cole said.

Cassidy shot him a warning glance before turning back to Jackson. “I’m serious. Cole and Penelope are going to be all up in your personal life for this. If you’re not ready—”

“I’m ready.”

Cassidy frowned. “You’re sure? Because the thing with the ex and the sister—”

Jackson felt a flash of rage. “Hold on. There will be no questions about Mollie during the interview.” He glanced at Cole. “Are we clear on that?”

Cole’s eyes were apologetic. “I need to ask about Madison. The breakup of America’s sweethearts is a pretty big part of the story.”

“Fine. I’ll talk about Madison. I’ll talk about the women. But one mention of Mollie Carrington and that’s the end of the conversation. Got it?”

Cole nodded. “Got it.”

“Whew,” Lincoln said, pulling at his shirt. “Getting a little heated in here.”

Jake leaned forward with a friendly smile. “So . . . do we get to ask about Mollie off the record?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Jackson muttered.

“Come on, dude, spill. Not for the sake of selling magazines, but because you look fucking ready to explode. What the hell is going on with you?”

Jackson glanced around the table. “Do you guys always pry this much into each other’s love life?”

“Yes,” Cassidy said. Cole and Jake nodded in agreement.

Lincoln lifted his hands. “This is why I have no love life. Too messy.”

“Correction. That is why you have lots of love lives,” Jake said.

“Guilty.” Lincoln said it with his usual quick smile, but Jackson noted there was a forced quality to his voice. As though his role as womanizer was one big act—an act he was tiring of.

“Okay, Burke, just one more question and then we’ll change the subject,” Cole said.

Jackson glared. “Why the hell would I agree to that?”

Cole’s smile turned into a confused look. “Because we’re your friends, dude. And if you don’t talk about it, you’re going to get even more pissy than you already are.”

Jackson opened his mouth to tell the other man to go to hell, but one word latched onto his brain and wouldn’t let go.

Friends.

They wanted to be his friends.

Hell, maybe they already were his friends, even though he hadn’t done a damn thing to earn entry into their little circle.

“Fine, okay, one question,” he muttered. “Also, before I forget . . . Mollie wants to do, like, a party type of thing. To meet all you guys.”

There was a moment of silence. “Holy shit,” Jake said. “I haven’t been this excited since I got invited to an eighth-grade party when I was in sixth grade.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t count if it was your sister,” Cassidy stage-whispered.

“Wait, if we say yes to the party, do we still get to ask our question?” Lincoln asked suspiciously.

Jackson rolled his eyes as the drinks were delivered. “Yes.”

His phone buzzed just as the men began arguing about what the one question should be, and he shifted his weight to pull it out of his pocket.

“Okay, we’ve got it,” Lincoln said, as they all turned their attention back to Jackson.

But Jackson’s attention was still riveted on his phone.

It was an email from Jerry. He’d gotten the job.

Holy hell.

Jackson scanned the email, picking out the key details even with Jerry’s trademark lack of punctuation. The job offer was for offensive coordinator. Effective immediately.

Jackson fought the urge to bellow in victory, which was just as well, because the next sentence in Jerry’s email all but took his breath away.

Sorry I was hard on you, son. That pretty wife of yours stopped by, explained how everything was. Told me that it wasn’t true, and that you’re still the man I thought you were.

Jackson closed his eyes in misery.

He had what he wanted. He had his life back. His old life. Almost.

And he had his ex-wife to thank for it.