Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  FIFTEEN JACKSON I was barely listening to my father prattling into my ear as I stared out the window of the library into the sunny spring morning outside. My attention was preoccupied with thoughts of Bianca Hardwick. Sweet, sassy, fascinating Bianca, who spoke her mind and worried about her sick mother and knew how to make a man feel like a king with her kiss. No wonder her idiot ex was still sniffing around. In the four days since the benefit, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. Even when I was sleeping. I’d woken up with a stiff cock every morning, tortured by dreams of her sweet mouth, how soft her eyes had looked after she kissed me, how her hand had curled so tightly into my hair. Every night I’d decided to go into her restaurant, only to change my mind on the drive there and turn around and go home. I’d said too much, acted too strangely, even threatened her ex with bodily injury. She must think I’m a lunatic. An unstable, depressed, hotheaded lunatic who’d be better o

  SIXTEEN BIANCA Four days had passed since the benefit, and though I kept hoping Jackson would walk through the front door of my restaurant, he never did. Now I’m as liberated as the next girl, but one thing I will never, ever do is chase after a man. No matter how much of a fascinating puzzle he is. My mama always said the minute you make a move on a man is the minute you lose control, because then he knows he’s got you. “A woman worth her salt should be the hardest thing a man has to work for in his life, because then she’s a prize, not a gift,” she’d told me. “Anything you get for free is worth exactly what you paid for it: nothing.” I wasn’t looking for control in a relationship, but I knew she had a point because I’d thrown myself at Trace like I’d been shot from a cannon, and look where that got me. So I put Jackson Boudreaux out of my mind and focused my energy into taking care of Mama, running the restaurant, and trying to think of ways to make more money. Unfortunately I was co

  SEVENTEEN BIANCA Astonished, I watched Jackson go until finally he disappeared into the night, melting into the darkness like a phantom. I went back into the restaurant in a daze, avoiding Eeny’s and Pepper’s excited questions with an order to get back to work that must have sounded appropriately sharp because they did what I asked, lickety-split. The rest of the night was a fog. I kept seeing Jackson’s face when he told me I was beautiful. I kept going over everything he said. I kept trying not to think about how a million dollars would change my life. And Mama’s. I kept wondering what woman would take him up on his offer. Because one would, I was certain of that. Somehow he’d find a woman who would be more than happy to take his money and give five years of her life in return. Lord, I could think of half a dozen off the top of my head. And then she’d be living in that icebox of a mansion and interacting with that sweet boy Cody and getting to see Jackson every day. Maybe even getting

  EIGHTEEN JACKSON “Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.” “I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping. The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown. I was going to get married. Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife. At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further. I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the

  FRENCH QUARTER BEIGNETS Makes about 3 dozen 1½ cups warm water ½ cup white sugar 1 envelope active dry yeast 2 eggs 1¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup evaporated milk 7 cups all-purpose flour ¼ cup shortening 1 quart vegetable oil 3 cups confectioners’ sugar Preparation Mix water, sugar, and yeast in large bowl and let sit for 10 minutes. In another bowl, beat the eggs, salt, and evaporated milk together. Stir egg mixture into yeast mixture. Add 3 cups of the flour to the egg/yeast mixture. Stir to combine. Add the shortening and mix. Continue to stir while slowly adding the remaining flour until all ingredients are well combined. Place dough on lightly floured surface and knead until smooth. Cover dough with plastic wrap or towel. Let rise at room temperature for 2–3 hours. Preheat oil in a deep fryer to 350 degrees. Roll the dough out to ¼² thickness and cut into 2² squares. Deep fry in batches, flipping constantly, until golden. (If beignets don’t pop up, oil isn’t hot enough.) Drain on paper t

  NINETEEN BIANCA I left the same way I arrived: in a cab, by myself, fraught with anxiety. If my mother knew what I’d just agreed to, she’d slap me silly. She knew I’d gotten the twenty thousand from Jackson for the catering event, but admitting I’d be getting a million for marrying myself off to him so I could try to save her life was another situation altogether. Knowing there would be a nondisclosure in our contract was actually a relief. It meant I had a legal obligation to keep my mouth shut about my real reason for marrying the Beast. Now I just had to figure out what fake reason I was going to try to sell. “He’s so charming I couldn’t help but fall in love with him, Mama!” I muttered sarcastically to myself. The cabbie shot me a strange look in the rearview mirror, but I had more important things to worry about than his opinion. Before I left, Jackson told me that we had to be married and living together by his birthday, which was in just over two weeks. Two weeks. I had to think

  TWENTY BIANCA The next afternoon, Jackson kept to his usual MO and arrived unannounced at the restaurant. It was five o’clock, an hour before the first reservations, five hours after the meat delivery was supposed to have arrived. The staff was eating their preservice meal together at the long table in the glassed-in private dining room. Meanwhile I was pacing, my new favorite form of exercise. When the door opened and I saw the long shadow fall across the dining room floor, I knew who it was without even turning around. Pepper’s excited squeal only confirmed it. I turned and found Jackson standing inside the door, staring at me. He was wearing faded jeans and his battered motorcycle jacket, with a white cotton shirt molded to his body so his abdomen muscles were on display like an ad for stacked bricks. He was not altogether unfortunate looking. I said, “Oh. Hello.” His brows quirked. He glanced at the gathering in the private dining room, fifteen people staring at us in open curiosit

  TWENTY-ONE BIANCA This time it was me who froze in shock when our lips came together. It took him several long moments of gentle coercion with his tongue before I finally opened my mouth. When I did, it was on a soft groan that he stole when he inhaled. He was so big, and warm, and hard everywhere, except for his mouth, which was like cotton candy. I melted into it. He slid his thumb under my ear, and I shivered. His fingers pressed into my scalp. When he sank his teeth gently into my lower lip, lightning flashed through me. I fisted my hand into the scruff of his neck and pulled him closer. Suck, slide, nip, repeat, feel your pulse in all the hidden places in your body. This kiss was cashmere. It was luxuriant. It was decadent, unhurried, sweetly delicious, like stretching out on warm sand and drinking a mai tai. His scent was in my nose: pine and musk and something earthy and fresh, the way the woods smell after it rains. He made that masculine sound deep in his throat that I found w

  DAVINA’S FAMOUS CREOLE JAMBALAYA Makes 8 servings ½ pound raw bacon, diced ½ pound fresh pork sausage, casings removed ½ pound andouille sausage, sliced 3 tablespoons butter 4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch cubes 1 large yellow onion, diced 1 green bell pepper, diced 3 celery ribs, diced 3 garlic cloves, minced 2 cups long-grain white rice 1 teaspoon dried thyme 2 bay leaves ½ tablespoon chili powder 1½ tablespoons paprika 1 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon celery salt 1 can diced tomatoes 2 cups homemade (or organic) chicken stock 1 cup good-quality red wine 1½ pounds wild-caught raw shrimp, peeled and deveined 8 scallions, chopped fresh parsley Preparation In a large Dutch
oven or high-sided pot, melt butter. Cook bacon and sausages for three to five minutes or until lightly browned, stirring frequently. Season chicken breasts with salt and pepper, add to pot, and cook additional 5 minutes or until browned. Add onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic and cook until

  TWENTY-TWO BIANCA After I hung up with Jackson, it took a solid fifteen minutes of dithering before I worked up the nerve to call my mother. She answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mama. How are you?” The gentle laugh that came over the line was reassuring. “I told you this morning I’m feeling good today, chère. You worry about me too much.” “That’s good.” After listening to the cavernous silence that followed, her mother-bear instincts kicked in. She said sharply, “Bianca? What’s the matter?” I stared at the kitten poster on the wall of my office until it blurred. “Uh . . .” Be brave. You’ve got this. Terrified, I cleared my throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She didn’t even miss a beat. “Who, Jackson Boudreaux?” My jaw hit the desk. When I recovered my wits, I said, “How did you know?” “Sweetheart, I’ve known Eeny for going on fifty years. Did you think she wouldn’t call me when a man barged into your kitchen and announced you were getting married like you’d just won the Pu

  TWENTY-THREE JACKSON Though she only lived a few blocks away from her mother, Bianca was in no shape to walk home. I wouldn’t have let her walk anyway, not when I had a car, but she had a blank, stunned look when she came out of the house that made me think she’d stumble aimlessly around the neighborhood for hours before finally realizing she was lost and lying down in the gutter for a nap. I’ve seen someone hit in the head with a shovel who had more presence of mind than she was displaying. I held the car door open for her. She inserted herself into the seat with the grace of a zombie, all jerking legs and stiff arms, the opposite of the way she normally moved. “I didn’t think having me meet your mother would be so traumatizing for you,” I said once I was seated behind the wheel. Bianca laughed. It was the noise a dog made when you stepped on its tail. “You asked my mother for permission to marry me,” she said. “I did.” She looked at me with eyes so wide the whites showed all around h

  TWENTY-FOUR BIANCA I chose a corner bedroom that had windows on two walls and a built-in bookcase on a third that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The room was about the same size as my entire house. “If you need to change the temperature, close the drapes, or turn the lights on and off, everything is operated from this screen.” Jackson made spokesmodel hands at a square touch screen on the wall by the door. “And if you’re not near the door, you can just speak your command aloud and Alexa will execute it.” “Who’s Alexa?” I asked, worried someone was about to burst out from under the bed. He pointed to a small black cylinder lurking on the bedside table. “It’s a voice assistant. It can also read your audiobooks, check the weather, and let you buy things online just by using your voice. The whole house is wired.” Rayford wasn’t kidding about Jackson’s technology obsession. I looked at the black cylinder with trepidation. “Will it watch me sleep?” Jackson chuckled. “No. But the

  TWENTY-FIVE BIANCA At the airport we drove directly out to the jet waiting on the tarmac. While Rayford unloaded the luggage, we went through “security,” which consisted of a cheerful woman in a sweater vest and a badge glancing at our IDs. We were seated on the plane in less time than it usually takes to find parking for a commercial flight. This being rich business was certainly convenient. Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?” Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.” “Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.” “Wait until you go to the bathroom.” I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.” “No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled,

  TWENTY-SIX BIANCA Picture a castle—the biggest and most elaborate castle you’ve seen in a movie. But not a forbidding, fortress-type castle with dungeons and moats and weird smells. Something elegant and romantic. Something with crenellated towers and cascading fountains and flocks of doves soaring through misty vales. Or any castle from any fairy tale where a princess waits for Prince Charming to ride up on his trusty white steed. Then triple the size, add in a herd of white-tailed deer prancing across a lush wilderness backdrop, a glittering lake filled with colored fountains and peacefully drifting swans, and an enormous orange moon cresting over the horizon in the distance, bathing everything in a warm amber glow, and you’ll have a small glimpse of the magic, majesty, and soul-piercing beauty of the place called Moonstar Ranch. I exhaled an awed breath that contained a lot of vowels. Then, panicked, I gripped Jackson’s arm. “Okay,” I said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I’ve respec

  TWENTY-SEVEN JACKSON My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot. Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake. “You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.” I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual. Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss m

  CREOLE OKRA GUMBO Makes 6 servings 4 tablespoons butter kosher salt 1 tablespoon cayenne pepper 1½ pounds boneless chicken thighs, skin removed, cut into pieces 4 ounces tasso ham, cut into 1² cubes 3 cloves garlic, minced 2 teaspoons thyme, minced 1 bay leaf 1 yellow onion, minced 1 red bell pepper, minced 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, minced 6 large fresh tomatoes, skin, core, and seeds removed 2 tablespoons tomato paste 6 cups chicken stock 1 pound okra, trimmed, sliced ½ inch thick 6 cups cooked white rice Preparation Melt butter in Dutch oven. Season chicken with salt and cayenne on both sides, cook for 10 minutes or until browned. Add tasso and garlic, cook for 5 minutes. Add thyme, bay leaf, onion, and bell pepper. Cook until browned, 5–10 minutes. Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened. Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour. Melt remaining butter in

  TWENTY-EIGHT BIANCA When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left. A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk. Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband. Husband. My nerves went all catawampus. “Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well. My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color fl

  TWENTY-NINE BIANCA While Brig and I enjoyed a friendly chat about nothing of importance, Jackson spent the meal staring morosely down at his plate and guzzling goblet after bloody goblet of wine. I’d never seen him so miserable, which was saying something. His parents were seated at opposite ends of the long dining table. Jackson
and I sat across from each other, separated by a forest of food platters, wine carafes, and fruit bowls. The candelabra flickered and dripped wax. The servants stood vigilant guard against the walls. It was like something straight out of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation. Not once did Jackson meet my eyes. “So you two met at your restaurant?” Brig said as a footman or whatever he was called leaned over me with a platter of fish. It oozed a creamy yellow sauce that had a disturbing resemblance to phlegm. I politely declined. “Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig lo

  THIRTY BIANCA A few minutes passed before Jackson spoke again, minutes in which my heart ached and I fought back tears, thinking how it must have been for him all those years growing up, and ever since. How lonely he must’ve been. I thought now I understood why he was the way he was, so surly and standoffish, but I hadn’t heard the rest of his story. “Her name was Cricket.” That’s all he got out before he had to take another swallow of booze. He sank onto the sofa and stared blankly at the coffee table, his face white, his hands trembling, like a man suffering from shell shock. “Cricket Montgomery. The most beautiful girl in Kentucky, by anyone’s standards. We were in grade school together before I went away, so I’d known her for years. Known of her, I should say. Like everyone else, she adored my brother but never paid much attention to me, but a few years after I came back I ran into her at the public library in Louisville. I used to go there all the time to read and escape all the a