Holy. Crap. Sara swallowed the pool of drool in her mouth. Yeah, she’d been surprised to see the new Jack during Kriss’ amazing transformation. Losing the beard and that mop of hair had turned him from a sulking nerd into a pouting hunk. But she hadn’t been prepared, not nearly prepared, to see his chest. Why had she assumed he’d be doughy and soft? Doughy and soft—he was not. In fact he was buff. His pecs and abs were well-defined ridges and when he’d grabbed that sweater, his biceps had bulged, catching her eye. The boy had muscle. Who knew? She turned away and riffled through the outfits in her hands. Not because they needed riffling but because she didn’t know how to face Jack when he emerged. Her attention had been snared by the sight of him—Jack Maris, for God’s sake—slipping into a pair of tight jeans. His ass had been firm and tight and, when he turned around, with the zipper undone, it had been like a scene from a hot-guy photo shoot. Like the ones she favorited in her browser.
