by S. E. Harmon
He moved closer to me, his voice going low. “Maybe we could talk in private.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His jaw worked for a minute as he stared at me, and I briefly wondered if he would push the issue. I didn’t think that was going to go over so well with my new bodyguard. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
His face was red with frustration and irritation, and I feared for his blood pressure. I was about to offer him a Bayer aspirin when he finally spun on his heel and stalked off toward his house. We watched him go in silence until he wrenched open his back door and whammed it shut.
I turned to Jackson with a scowl. “What part of your services includes beating up my ex?”
“Don’t worry about it.” His jaw looked like it was carved out of granite. “He’s so annoying, it’s on the fucking house.”
“Well, cut it out.”
“I barely did anything.”
“You did enough.”
My comment made him turn to face me, and suddenly I was the focus of that intensely displeased look. “Do you still have feelings for him?”
“Of course not.”
My denial was automatic, but I was pretty sure it was true. When were love and relationships ever so cut and dried? I wanted to say I was completely over Adam, but why had it been so hard to look at him? Hard to see those familiar brown eyes and tousled brown curls? Hard to hear the familiar cadence of his voice?
It wasn’t that I missed him as a lover. I missed him as the man I’d been ready to build a future with. I missed him as my friend. My friend who liked to wear superhero boxers and had a baseball card collection worthy of any real hoarder. My friend who had a special spaghetti sauce that he swore was secret but we both knew was just Prego with some chopped basil thrown in.
I didn’t know if I still had any feelings left for Adam. But I’d loved him once.
That didn’t mean I didn’t want to push him into the ocean, just to see how deep and cold it really was. Where was Marianna’s Trench when you needed it?
“I want to talk about something else,” I finally said.
“He still wants you, you know.”
“That’s not something else,” I said with a groan. “And you can tell this how?”
“Because I have functioning eyeballs.”
I started walking again, a little closer to the surf. “I’ll be eating breakfast if you want to talk about something other than Adam or your eyeballs.”
It only took a moment before he fell in beside me, his longer legs making me hustle a bit more than the casual stroll I’d been enjoying. I glanced at my Fitbit, surprised to see I’d been out here more than an hour.
We’d gone about a quarter of a mile before he said, out of the blue, “I don’t change women like I change socks. I don’t know where that little rumor got started, but it’s not true.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe that you believe it,” I soothed.
He nudged my shoulder with his. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“You want me to lie to you?” We may not have hung out together, but I’d known Jackson a long time. His track record kind of spoke for itself. “Besides, he said you change them like he changes socks. If I remember correctly, that’s only once a week.”
His mouth twitched. He seemed to be wavering between amusement and annoyance for a moment before the latter won out. “I don’t want to talk about this either.”
Fair enough. I could do without going over Jackson’s sexual history. “What do you want to talk about, then? The weather? That’s nice and neutral.”
He groaned. “Are we really at that point?”
“Yes. We are. I’ll start,” I said primly. “I don’t know whether it’s the fresh air or the water, but it seems so peaceful. Time really flies when I’m walking out here.”
He grunted in return, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“I said we should talk about the weather,” I prodded. “We is usually indicative of you plus me.”
He sighed. “It is nice. Balmy and warm. Much better than what we had going on where I grew up.”
He and Julian were originally from Chicago. Jackson had moved to Florida for graduate school and Julian had followed soon after. They’d always planned to go back, as far as I knew. But after their parents had passed, they’d both wanted a fresh start, a chance to get away from all the memories. It was a sentiment I understood all too well.
I shivered, thinking about those cold Chicago winters. I was born and raised in Florida, the place of endless summer. Our biggest nod to cold weather was not wearing sandals in the dead of winter. We also had one season. Hot. And that was how we liked it. If you didn’t mind sweating clean through your clothes, it was a damned fine place to be.
“I don’t know why you would voluntarily live someplace that’s so cold.”
“Because we like seasons, Avery. There’s something to be said for snow.”
“Yes, there is. That it’s miserable.”
He grinned. “Well, there’s that. But there’s also something so surreal about it. Especially when everything is so clean and blanketed with snow, and the air is so sharp and cold that it hurts to breathe it in. And the quiet is unreal.”
Jackson suddenly grabbed my hand, pulling me to a stop, and I gave him a startled look. “What’re you doing?”
“He’s watching.”
“Who? Adam?” I arched my brow. “You’re paranoid.”
“How much do you wanna bet? I saw the kitchen curtains twitch.” He looked down at me, those golden-green eyes sparkling mischievously. “We should at least try to look romantic.”
Would serve him right. I tried to think romantic thoughts. Sweet thoughts. When that didn’t work, I tried to round my eyes and bat my eyelashes like Ariel in The Little Mermaid. A smirk pulled at my lips as I asked, “How am I doing?”
“Awful.” His lips quivered. “And stop trying to make me laugh. Give me your hands.”
His hands felt strange on mine. Larger. Warmer. Rough. I’d never really thought of my hands as small, but against his, they were tiny and feminine. His thumb rubbed across the softer skin of my inner wrist, right under my Alex and Ani bracelet, and I nearly leapt out of my sandals.
Get a grip, AJ, it’s just hand holding. I tried to get comfortable with it. I really did. But tactile gestures had never really been my strong suit. We held hands awkwardly for a moment, swinging them between us like our kindergarten teacher had demanded we cross the street together.
“Red rover, red rover, send Jordan over,” I murmured.
He made a sound that was equal parts exasperated and amused. “Is this the best you’ve got?”
No, I thought determinedly. If he could do this for me, I could at least put some effort into it. I squeezed his hand hard. From the sudden surprise on his face, probably too hard. Strongman-competition hard. He pulled back his hand and shook it out, flexing the fingers to and fro. “I don’t think it’s sprained, at least.”
“I’m so sorry! Let me see it.” I reached for his hand to see the damage, but he held it out of my reach, shaking his head. “Jackson.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Let me take a look.”
“No thanks, Ironman.”
I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. “I did say I was sorry.”
“That’s all right. It’s not like I make a living with my hands or anything.”
“Don’t be such a baby. I’m sure you can still type, Mr. Lawyer.” I finally captured his injured hand, and dropped a kiss on his palm. “There. Is that bett—”
I wasn’t prepared for his mouth landing softly on mine, which was the only reason I could think of that my eyes remained wide open. I had plenty of time to push him away, to voice an objection, to do…something. Instead, I stood there, letting his mouth press kisses against mine, his hands cupped around my jaw, holding me right where he wanted me. One kiss from
Jackson, and I was frozen like a fucking cartoon character.
Those clever hands started moving, traversing a path down to my waist. And then lower. When I parted my lips to ask him what part of our cover required his hands gripping my ass, he used that opportunity to slide his tongue in my mouth. And it. Was. Good.
God, his lips were so fucking soft. And he tasted so good, like coffee and mint and something…I didn’t know, something Jackson that I couldn’t get enough of. I moved against him restlessly, trying to communicate without words exactly what I was feeling. Mostly because I didn’t know the words to explain how I was going to actually combust if he stopped. He sucked my tongue in his mouth and something in my stomach lurched drunkenly.
That’s enough for show. Time to pull away, AJ. Yes. That was the right thing to do. My hands decided they couldn’t be bothered to help me resist, and sank into the thick silkiness of his hair. His mouth slanted more fully over mine, finally wrenching a whimper from my throat. It was loud and embarrassing, and finally gave me back the mental capacity to think. Jesus.
I stepped back so fast, I almost stumbled. He leaned forward to help me, and I waved him off. If falling flat on my face helped me to get it the fuck together, then so be it. I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I looked as completely debauched as he did. His hair was thoroughly tousled from my wandering fingers, and his mouth was swollen and wet, his cheeks filled with color.
I was hard-pressed to manage an apology. How do you apologize for nipping at someone’s lips? Sucking on his tongue? Rubbing against him like a cat in heat? Maybe Hallmark had a card for that, right down the sorry-I-mauled-you aisle.
Luckily, Jackson didn’t seem too perturbed. He smiled crookedly. “That ought to do it.”
That ought to do what? My mind was offline again. Only a tiny part of my brain controlling autonomous function kept me from grabbing his shirt front and pulling him down to my level. Mostly so I could maul him again.
The bastard must have slipped me something, I thought, suddenly indignant. He’d slipped some E in my coffee. That had to be the reason I could still feel a tingling sensation in my stomach, a low grasping pull that made my legs a little wobbly. I wanted his mouth back on mine. I wanted his hands back on my ass. I wanted to sink my hands back into his soft hair and I wanted to be pressed up against him again. And here he was, still thinking about…Adam? Had that kiss just been all show for him?
“AJ?” When I looked up at him again, his eyes were worried and soft. “I hope that was okay.”
“Okay?” I bobbled my head like a Hawaiian dashboard tchotchke. Did he not realize I’d nearly scalped him gripping his hair? “Okay” was not exactly the word I would have used, but since my brain’s motherboard had melted like crayons in the sun, it would have to do. I cleared my throat and attempted to say something intelligent for the first time in five minutes. “We should get back. Breakfast is probably ready.”
He nodded his agreement and we began walking the path back up to the house. We didn’t fill the silence with idle chatter, each lost in our own thoughts. At least I was. As far as I knew, he could be wondering if we were going to have pancakes or waffles for breakfast.
Me? I was wondering why I was already craving his touch. Now that he’d had his hands on me. His mouth on me.
I shook my head grimly.
Most disturbing of all? I wanted his hands on me again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Art made creamy scalloped potatoes and pot roast for dinner, using the rest of us as unwilling sous chefs. Jackson and I collaborated on a spinach and berry salad that I thought turned out pretty well, and we’d dumped it in a big, fancy serving bowl to showcase our work. As Art served up the food, I volunteered to carry out the plates.
It had been a long time since we’d gathered for a family dinner and the lack of coordination in our chairs showed it. Some were from the original dining set, but others were from various locations in the house—fold-up chairs, a bench from the front hall, and something I was pretty sure was an ottoman. Bree and Brittany sat in comically low fold-up chairs, elbows propped on the table. Hiding my amusement, I watched them thumbing through their phones frantically, utilizing every last second on social media before Lane would make them put their phones away for dinner.
“Girls! It’s time!” Lane’s voice floated from the kitchen, and they groaned.
I put Jackson’s plate and mine as far as possible from my father’s place setting, even though I knew it wouldn’t stop the grilling that was coming. My dad was enamored of Jackson, but you didn’t date a cop’s daughter without getting the business, even if that cop was retired. I shifted our plates another place away from the head of the table. Can’t blame a girl for trying.
The table looked nice, if I did say so myself. I’d thrown myself into setting the table, digging out linen napkins with porcelain ring holders. I’d even dug out the good silverware. Everything sparkled and glittered under the prisms of light thrown off by the chandelier.
I glanced up at the chandelier in fond remembrance. I remembered many a weekend on a step ladder in cutoff shorts with a sullen expression, taking down each of the crystals to clean. That Saturday-killing bitch lived on, looking much like it did on the first day it was installed. Now that I didn’t have to polish every inch of it, I could appreciate its beauty a little more.
I carried out two more plates, setting one carefully before Rick. When I reached Lane on his other side, she looked at me, positively ashen. I gave her a concerned look. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. It’s just that…someone…someone let you cook?”
“Shut it,” I growled. I sat her plate down hard enough to send some sauce splattering. She sent me a glare as she dabbed at the speck of gravy on her wrist. Noticing the way everyone was looking at their plates in alarm, I admitted, “Art did the cooking. I’m merely the delivery girl.”
I pretended not to hear the collective sigh of relief that swept through the room or Jackson’s guffaw as he dropped into his chair. Instead, I zipped off for another plate, disappearing haughtily through the kitchen doors. By the time I returned, Jackson was under the spotlight, being interrogated by my über nosy father. I ignored the woeful glance Jackson sent me as I took my seat on his left side. Mostly because he hadn’t defended my culinary prowess. Enjoy your interrogation!
“So what is it you do, son?” My father was clearly less interested in scalloped potatoes and more interested in shining a bright light in Jackson’s eyes.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Successful?”
“I do well enough.”
“What’s well enough?”
“Well enough that I’m comfortable, but not well enough so that I can quit.”
My dad’s grunt let me know that he wasn’t all that pleased with such an ambiguous answer. Not to mention Jackson’s answer wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t going to rat him out about being a trust fund baby, though. My dad soldiered on, determined to ferret out something. “How long have you guys been seeing one another?”
“Two months,” I said quickly. I figured I’d better cut in before Jackson could float his old couple idea. The corner of his mouth lifted as I nudged his knee with mine, and I knew my instincts had been right.
“Two months?” My dad raised an eyebrow.
“Two months,” I repeated.
“Two months,” Jackson confirmed, poker-faced.
My dad stabbed at his potatoes with his fork. “That’s not very long.”
“That depends on who you ask,” I said smoothly.
“Is that so?”
“It is.” I sent him a sweet smile.
“Well, if you’re asking me, I think it’s not very long.”
“When you’re in a relationship, it doesn’t seem to matter what anyone else thinks.”
I wondered if he would catch my double meaning. It certainly hadn’t mattered to him and Irene what the rest of us thought.
“Mmhm.” From the squinty-e
yed look he gave me, he caught my drift and wasn’t pleased. I knew I was pushing it. Pushing it like an ’82 rambler running on nothing but fumes. He shifted the squinty-eyed stare to Jackson. “So why haven’t we met you by now?”
“Good question,” Lane murmured to my left, and I, already prepared to do something unspeakable, stabbed her thigh under the table with my fork. Gently, of course.
She yelped and glared at me, rubbing her thigh. In the wrong spot. Drama queen. The heavy denim fabric of her jeans had taken the brunt of the poke. “You’re meeting him now,” I said with an innocent smile.
The old man soldiered on. “You have any kids, Jackson?”
“No sir.”
My dad’s eyebrows furrowed. “So you don’t like kids.”
“I love kids.”
“Then why don’t you have any?”
“I haven’t met the right woman,” he said smoothly.
“So my AJ isn’t the right woman?”
“Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s enough grilling, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know it was a crime to ask questions.” He widened big blue eyes that none of us had inherited. “Is it a crime to ask questions, Avery Jane?”
“No, but I think there’s about to be another crime in progress here.”
“I think I have the right to know if I’m going to have any more grandchildren. I bet Jackson’s parents wouldn’t mind knowing the same thing. Do your parents have any grandchildren yet, Jackson?”
“My parents died. A while ago.” Jackson’s smile was a little strained, and I touched his leg under the table. He gave me a grateful look. “But no. No grandchildren.”
My dad looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, son.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Irene’s gaze darted back and forth nervously. She liked peace and harmony at her dining room table, no matter what. “Anyone need more iced tea?”
My father ignored her, firing off another question in Jackson’s direction. “Do you love my daughter?”
He demanded this with the same fervor the police would demand an alibi from a suspect, and Jackson and I both choked a little on our drinks. As I continued to splutter incoherently, Jackson recovered smoothly, saying, “I think it’s a little early for love, to be perfectly honest. But what I do know, I like.”
