Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “My lips are sealed.”

  I smiled for the first time in days as I headed off to the bathroom to wash away a week’s worth of neglect. I stopped when I heard my cell phone ring from the kitchen counter. I didn’t recognize the number when I picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Hardwick, it’s Michael Roth.”

  He was the attorney I’d hired to review my contract with Jackson. “How can I help you, Mr. Roth?”

  “I received a copy of the trust documents from Mr. Boudreaux’s attorney.”

  “Oh. Yes, um, well Mr. Boudreaux and I . . . the contract you reviewed . . .” I sighed. “Mr. Boudreaux doesn’t want to move forward with the marriage, so the contract is void at this point.”

  The attorney’s pause was so loaded I imagined the phone gained weight in my hand. He said, “But the trust isn’t.”

  I yawned, scratching my head. “Hmm?”

  “Miss Hardwick, did you seek legal counsel before signing the trust documents?”

  Oh dear. There was an accusation in his tone. I wasn’t in the state of mind to deal with a peeved attorney. “Well . . . no,” I admitted sheepishly. “The whole thing was a little rushed—”

  “The trust isn’t linked in any way to the marriage contract,” he interrupted impatiently.

  I rubbed my eyes with my fist, starting to get irritated with the conversation. “Mr. Roth, you’ll have to speak English. I haven’t had my coffee yet. What’re you saying?”

  Amusement warmed his voice. “I’m saying Mr. Boudreaux gifted you a million dollars.”

  I frowned. This didn’t make any sense. Maybe I was understanding him wrong. “No, that can’t be right. The trust is part of the marriage contract. The two go together. Without a marriage, there’s no money.”

  Mr. Roth started to speak slowly and patiently, as you would to a child or someone mentally impaired. “There is no mention of establishing a trust in the marriage contract, Miss Hardwick. As far as the contract is concerned, the trust doesn’t exist. There was only a stipulation that a payment in the amount of one million dollars would be conferred to you upon your marriage, but it never specifically spelled out how that payment would be made. This trust I’ve just reviewed”—I heard the sound of rustling paper in the background—“is ironclad. It’s irrevocable. You are the sole trustee. No one else has access to the money. That million dollars is yours, married or not.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Roth. Respectfully, you’re talking out of your behind. I know you graduated from college, because I saw the framed degree on the wall behind your desk, but you’ve got this all wrong. Jackson Boudreaux would never make such a stupid mistake.”

  After a while Mr. Roth said, “I agree. He wouldn’t. It was intentional.”

  My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  “Of course if you don’t believe me, I advise you to get another opinion.” He sniffed, his ego dinged by my disbelief. “But any attorney will tell you the same thing. Congratulations, Miss Hardwick. You’re a millionaire.”

  I breathed, “I’m . . . whaaa . . .”

  Mr. Roth kept talking, his voice a distant drone in my ear, but I heard nothing else he said. I stood in the kitchen, blank with shock, until the house phone rang and jolted me back into reality. I disconnected the call with Mr. Holt, who was still talking, and picked up the phone on the wall.

  “Hardwick residence,” I said, completely disoriented.

  Mr. Holt had to be wrong. He had to be. Why on earth would Jackson do a thing like that?

  “Bianca,” said Trace.

  His mouth turned my name into a sneer. I stiffened, going from disoriented to teed off in two seconds flat. “You’ve got some nerve calling this house!” I said, hackles rising.

  He chuckled. It was an ugly sound, full of malice. “What, I can’t call to pay my respects?”

  We both knew he wasn’t calling to pay his respects. He had other business on his mind, which I had no intention of listening to.

  “I’m only going to tell you this one more time, Trace. Stay away from me.”

  “Or what?” he snarled. “You’ll have Jackson Boudreaux buy up the whole block instead of just the one building?”

  “What the heck are you talking about?” I hated myself for taking the bait but needed to know what he meant. Suddenly anything to do with Jackson was of paramount importance, even if it came from Trace’s fanged mouth.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

  When I didn’t answer, he shouted, “My restaurant? The building it was going to open in suddenly getting bought up even though it wasn’t on the market? The new owner canceling my lease?”

  The hairs on my arms rose in gooseflesh. My heart started to thump. Not daring to believe it, I said slowly, “Jackson bought the building where you were going to open your restaurant, and then canceled your lease?”

  Trace’s laugh was hard and a little scary. “You’re a shitty actress, bumble bee,” he said bitterly. “Don’t think for a minute I don’t know who asked him to do it.”

  For a moment I went totally blank. My mind was as snowy as a polar bear’s backside.

  Then a hysterical laugh broke from my chest.

  Jackson bought the building where Trace was going to open his restaurant and canceled the lease! Filled with glee, I cackled madly again, stamping my foot on the floor.

  Eeny came in from the parlor and looked at me like she was wondering if I needed to take a nice, long vacation in a place with barred windows and padded walls.

  She wasn’t the only one affected by it. Trace flipped his lid. He roared, “You’re fucking stupid!”

  I hooted, positively giddy. “And you’re proof!”

  Apoplectic, he sputtered, “You need me! You told me you’d always love me! ‘I will always love you’—those were your exact goddamn words!”

  Then it was like something inside me was just done with him, dusted off its hands, and turned tail without another look back.

  I said calmly, “I’m not Whitney Houston, you silly goose. I need you like the word knife needs the letter k. The only thing you ever gave me was dick and a headache.”

  I hung up.

  Eeny and I looked at each other.

  “Who on earth was that?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Snake oil salesman. I told him to find the nearest tall building and go stand out on a ledge.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, leaning in to look closer. “You okay, boo?”

  I stared at her as several things became clear all at once, like a light switch had been flipped on inside my brain and a thousand bulbs glowed white-hot, illuminating what had been standing there in the dark all along, waiting for me to open my eyes.

  I was a damn fool. A stubborn, blind, hopeless fool.

  The worst part was, it was myself I was fooling.

  With wonder in my voice, I said, “Eeny. Jackson Boudreaux asked my mama for permission to marry me when he didn’t have to. He gave me a seven-carat Tiffany diamond ring when I said I wanted a simple gold band. He gave me a million dollars in cash, for nothing. And bought an entire building so a man who’d hurt me couldn’t hurt me again. And told me his deepest, darkest secrets—things he’d never told anyone before.”

  Eeny blinked at me, unimpressed. “What’s your point?”

  I inhaled a slow breath. My nerves tingled almost painfully, like they’d been frozen for years but were finally coming alive.

  I whispered, “I think Jackson Boudreaux is in love with me.”

  Eeny made a face like I was the world’s biggest moron. “Of course he’s in love with you, dummy! A blind man could see that! Stars above, don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

  When I just gaped at her silently, she threw her hands in the air. “How I’m supposed to deal with this kind of ignorance I surely don’t know! Heavens to Betsy, Bianca, sometimes you can be awful dense!”

  My throat raw with emotion, I said, “I thought love was supposed to be weak kn
ees and butterflies in your stomach and a terrible longing that could never be quenched.”

  Eeny shook her head, chuckled, came over and embraced me. “No, child,” she said gently, patting my back. “That’s romance. Romance is built on doubt. Love is solid. Constant. If you’re not careful, you might mistake it for bein’ boring because it’s so reliable. Love is warm and deep and comfortable, just right, so you float in it peacefully without ever being scalded or frozen, like a perfect, relaxing bubble bath.

  “But it’s also fierce and strong and demands all the best parts of you, the parts that are giving and honest and true. Love makes you a better person. It makes you want to be a better person. You know it’s love when you feel comfortable just as you are, when you feel seen and understood, when you know you could tell all your darkest truths and they’d be accepted without judgement.”

  Eeny pulled away and gently smoothed a hand over my hair. “Love isn’t butterflies, boo. It isn’t weak knees. It’s a pride of lions. It’s a pack of wolves. It’s ‘I’ve got your back even if it costs me my own life,’ because unlike romance that fizzles at the first sign of trouble, love will fight to the death. When it’s love, you’ll go to war to avenge even the slightest offense. And you’ll be justified.

  “Because of all the marvelous and terrible things we can experience in this life, love is the only one that will last beyond it.”

  A car with a bad muffler rumbled by on the street outside. I heard the distant hum of a jet plane flying somewhere far overhead. And deep, deep down inside my soul, a calm voice said yes.

  “Oh God,” I blurted, my eyes going wide. “I love him, Eeny! I love Jackson Boudreaux!”

  Eeny sighed deeply, tilted back her head, and beseeched the ceiling. “Honestly, Jesus, how can you burden me with such stupidity?”

  “I have to call him, I’ve got to call him right now, oh Lord what is the matter with me, I’m an A-plus idiot,” I babbled, scrabbling wildly at the phone on the wall like it might launch itself into outer space to escape my insane clutches.

  I punched in the number with frantic stabbing motions. I waited breathlessly for the line to connect, but his cell phone went straight to voice mail. Panicked, I called the house.

  Rayford picked up with a smooth, “Good evening, Boudreaux residence.”

  I began to holler incoherently. “Rayford it’s Bianca I need to speak with Jackson please put him on the phone!”

  Rayford paused before answering. “Mr. Boudreaux is . . . occupied at the moment,” he said in a strange, ominous tone. “May I take a message?”

  My heart pounded so hard I was out of breath. “Occupied? No, Rayford, you don’t understand, it’s very important that I speak with him—”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” he said briskly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Rayford had never been remote like this with me before. He was acting like we’d never even met. This smelled to high heaven.

  Something was seriously wrong.

  “Rayford,” I said, controlling the hysteria in my voice as best I could, “what’s going on?”

  Another pause, like he was considering whether or not to answer, then he made a little embarrassed cough. “Mr. Boudreaux has a guest. I’ll be happy to tell him you called, however. Have a nice evening.”

  The phone went dead in my hand. I stared at it in amazement. Then, with a shock like I’d stuck my finger into a power outlet, I knew.

  Eeny said, “Well?”

  Cold with horror, I said, “What day is it, Eeny?”

  She frowned at me. “It’s Tuesday.”

  “No, the date!” I shouted, flailing my hands. “What’s the date?”

  “The sixteenth. Why?”

  The sixteenth. Dear Lord. Today is Jackson’s birthday.

  He had to get married by his birthday or lose his inheritance. He couldn’t come to the phone because he was occupied with a “guest.”

  I dropped the phone and left it dangling from its cord as I tore down the hall to the bedroom to get a pair of shoes, screaming at Eeny over my shoulder to call me a taxi and put it on super emergency rush.

  I had to go stop a wedding.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  JACKSON

  Rayford quietly hung up the library phone. I didn’t look up from the paperwork I’d been perusing when I asked, “Who was that?”

  “Telemarketer,” he said. “Annual fund-raising for the local police.”

  Now I did look up, surprised. “I wonder why the chief didn’t call me himself? He knows I don’t like to talk to telemarketers.” I thought for a moment. “Didn’t they just have the police fund-raiser a few months ago?”

  Rayford’s expression was bland. “You write so many checks for fund-raisers, sir, I can never remember which one’s which.” From the corner of my desk he picked up my crystal decanter, tilted it over my empty glass, and smiled. “Refill?”

  I sighed heavily. I knew I’d been drinking too much lately, but it was the only thing getting me through the nights. “Yes. Thanks.”

  He poured me a generous measure, then turned to the young woman in a navy pantsuit and sensible shoes seated across the desk from me. “Miss Taylor, would you care for a drop?”

  Her mouth pinched. Which was a feat, because her mouth was already so small it looked like a tiny puckered butthole. Her choice of brown lipstick was an unfortunate one that only added to the effect. Every time I looked at her, I had to bite the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh.

  “No,” she said, like she was offended by the question. “I don’t drink.”

  Rayford and I shared a glace. My heavy sigh came again.

  “Call me if you need anything else, sir,” said Rayford. He nodded at Taylor, then excused himself, leaving the library doors open behind him.

  Miss Taylor didn’t waste a moment getting back to the subject at hand. “Section four D could be problematic. I think it’s too vague.”

  My head pounded. We’d been reviewing the paperwork for almost two hours, and every time I thought we were close to finishing, she found something else she deemed problematic.

  The crick in my neck was problematic. The cramp in my lower back was problematic. The raw ache in the place in my chest where my heart was supposed to be beating was also problematic, but I wasn’t thinking about that.

  It makes no sense to dwell on things that are out of your control.

  I took another big swig of bourbon instead.

  “Four D,” I repeated, flipping through the document. “Right.” I stared at the page. Legal terms swam up into my vision. I poured more booze down my throat.

  How is she? What’s she doing right now? Is she thinking about me?

  Fuck. Who was I kidding? No amount of bourbon or denial could stop me from thinking about Bianca. I knew I’d be thinking of her for the rest of my life, which was part of the reason I was so depressed.

  “Excuse me?”

  I snapped my head up. Taylor was staring at me like I’d farted in church.

  “What?” I asked apprehensively.

  “You made an odd sound. Like you were trying to say something.”

  Oh, no, Taylor. That’s only the sound of rampant despair. Please ignore me, I’m just over here dying. “Thinking out loud,” I said with a straight face. “Sorry.”

  She looked like she had an itch somewhere indelicate that she really needed to scratch. She folded her hands over the contract in her lap and glared at me. “Mr. Boudreaux,” she said, her pinched lips barely moving, “would you like to take a break?”

  I almost groaned in relief. “Yes. I need to stretch my legs. Back in ten.” I was already on my feet and headed toward the door.

  “I’ll be right here,” she said, adding to my misery.

  I had to get out of the house before I started throwing things.

  Ignoring Rayford’s startled glance when I passed him in the kitchen, I burst through the French doors and out into the cool evening air. Then I stood
on the lawn in the backyard with my hands on my knees, gulping in deep breaths, wondering how long it would take before the taste of Bianca’s skin would fade from my memory.

  It had been six days since the funeral, and I was dying by degrees without her.

  But the nights were the worst. The dreams, dear God. Torture. Every little moment I spent in her presence had somehow seared itself into my subconscious, so when I fell asleep I was treated to a Technicolor replay of everything she’d ever said to me, every look, every smile, every touch. They were nightmares of a sort. Especially the dreams about our time together at Moonstar Ranch.

  Even in my dreams I could taste her.

  “Fucking hell,” I muttered. I straightened and ran a hand over my face. My beard, which grew like weeds, was almost as thick as it had been the night I met her. It was a scratchy mess, not unlike my brain.

  I spent a few minutes just breathing, letting the fresh air clear my head. Then I wandered down to the lower lawn where the tent had been set up for the Wounded Warrior benefit, leaned against the rough bark of an ancient willow, and stared out at the lake. It glittered like a thousand stars under the light of the rising moon.

  Being with Bianca had changed me in ways I didn’t know I could change. They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but that was a big, steaming pile of bullshit. It was infinitely worse for me now. I thought I’d loved Cricket, but that was nothing compared to the fire Bianca stoked in my heart.

  I loved her so much it burned. It scorched and glowed white-hot in all the dark places inside me, like I’d swallowed the sun.

  But this was reality now. Loneliness and longing and arms that ached to hold someone who was no longer there. Who would never be there.

  Who would never love me.

  My eyes stung. I realized when I swiped my fingers over my cheeks that they were wet. I laughed—a hoarse, ugly sound—and turned away from the lake. I couldn’t stand to look at it suddenly. It made me sick. The moonlight reflected off its surface was too romantic, and I was in no mood for romance.