by Penny Reid
“Let me know how I can help,” he said, then added quieter, “I’m so proud of you.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose, looking at me and whispering, “They’re gross. I’m jealous.”
“Agree.” I nodded, unable to curb my smile as I watched Sienna with her Jethro. And I knew, with a certainty deep inside—to the center of my very being—that’s what I want.
I wanted someone who supported me like that. Who, no matter what, believed in me. Someone who looked at me like I was magic.
Our little party dispersed around 11:30 PM. Charlotte stayed over at the main house, and Jethro insisted on walking me the short distance to the carriage house. I had to smile at his excessive manners. Did all Southern men behave this way? Or only the bearded, handsome ones?
He paused at the door after doing a quick sweep of the interior. “Now lock up and use the alarm. Folks outside of Green Valley know where you are now. I’d prefer if you stayed at the house with the rest of us—at least until Dave and your other guard get here—but understand if you need your privacy.”
“Thank you. I will lock the doors and turn on the alarm.”
“Okay, then. Good night.” The tall man nodded once, smiling tiredly, then walked toward the big Victorian farmhouse, leaving me standing just inside the door.
But before he was out of earshot, I whisper-shouted after him, “Hey, Jethro.”
“Yep?” He turned.
I took a step past the threshold. “Why don’t you like Jackson?”
The side of his mouth curved upward. “Who says I don’t like Jackson?”
“Sienna.”
“Did she?” He sort of chuckled. “I reckon she thinks I don’t.”
“What did he do?”
“He arrested me.”
My mouth dropped open. “He what?”
“Don’t be mad at him. I deserved it. All twenty times.”
“Whoa!”
“But don’t tell him I said that. The statute of limitations on grand theft auto in Tennessee is fifteen years, I think.”
My eyes widened.
He laughed at my expression—a belly laugh—and sent me a wave. “’Night, Rae.”
“Good night,” I croaked, closing the door and locking it.
Grand theft auto? Twenty arrests? Uffdah! I decided I wouldn’t ask Jackson about it. Scratching the back of my neck, I crossed to the alarm panel and typed in the code, then walked to the kitchen, randomly in the mood for tea.
Also, Sienna had been right, men were weird and complicated.
Just like people.
Just like relationships.
I’d just placed the kettle on the stove and pulled out a tea bag and mug when I heard a light rap on the door. I stiffened. Who could that be?
Turning off the kettle, I walked back to the foyer and eyed the panic button. “Uh. Who is it?” I moved my thumb over the red rectangle.
“It’s Jackson.”
“Oh!” A pulse of excitement raced through me. I immediately disarmed the alarm and bounded back to the door, flipping the lock and opening it. “Hi!”
“Hi.” He was standing farther away than I expected, at least five feet from the house. “I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to stop by and see if you were okay.”
“I am. I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He gave me a short nod, taking a step back. “Actually, I am. Things tonight worked out better than I thought they would, I guess.” He looked confused. Perhaps he didn’t know how to feel about the success of Jethro’s plan. “Anyway. I’ll just be—”
My heart leapt to my throat. I didn’t want him to leave. “You should come in. Come in.” I rushed forward and grabbed his hand, pulling him back toward the carriage house.
He dragged his feet. “No. No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I stopped pulling and looked at him over my shoulder. “Oh. Do you have work tomorrow?”
“No. It’s my day off.”
I turned for the house again. “Then you should—”
“Rae. It’s late.”
“I know, but—”
“Rae,” he ground out, using my hold on his hand to bring us back to a stop. I faced him, my stomach erupting in uncertainty butterflies as I encountered the stern line of his jaw and the glittering, frustrated spark behind his eyes. “We need everyone to believe we’re just friends, right? And if we go inside the house, I don’t think I’m a good enough actor to pull that off.”
My mouth formed an O, and I released him, folding my arms over my chest while I wrestled with a strange combination of disappointment and pleasure at his words. I wanted to spend time with him, talk to him, get to know this mystery of a man so I could understand my feelings better.
But . . . I conceded his point.
We couldn’t seem to be around each other without kissing. Bringing him inside a dark, empty house in the middle of the night was something better left to my fantasies.
For now.
Oh really, inner voice? Now you’re impudent? Now?
He exhaled a short breath, it also sounded frustrated, but his tone was soft as he said, “Hey.”
I placed a tight smile on my face, it was the best I could manage. “Hey.”
Jackson seemed to be considering me, debating what to do next. He didn’t take too long. “Do you want to go for a drive?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Yes, I do. Let me grab a jacket.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.” He shifted his weight to his back foot and hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets.
I wanted to take a picture of him like this, all handsome reluctance and sexy self-control. This man, he just did something to me. I couldn’t explain it.
But maybe if we took this drive and spent some time together talking—just talking—I’d start to figure it out.
Chapter 15
*Raquel*
“I don’t want to be known as a sex symbol. There’s a great stigma that goes with that tag. I want to be a Sam Elliott.”
Sam Elliott
I rushed into the house, snatching up my lightweight jacket from a chair where I’d left it, took a moment to turn on the alarm, and left. As promised, he’d waited right where I’d left him. We didn’t touch as we walked to his truck. He opened the passenger door for me and helped bring all of my maxi dress into the cab before shutting me in.
An intense sense of déjà vu settled over me as I watched him walk around the front. We’d been here before, kinda. Except this time the coat on my shoulders belonged to me and therefore didn’t smell like him.
Darn it. I should’ve left right away and then asked for his jacket once we were on the road.
Also, the last time I’d sat in this spot, waiting for him to take me on a drive, I’d been stunned by the fact that his people called a knit hat a toboggan.
Jackson soon settled in his seat and turned the engine, putting the truck in reverse. Then he paused, his attention focusing on something beyond the windshield. Frowning, he lifted a hand. I followed his line of sight and found Jethro on the porch, a shotgun in his hands. It was pointed at the ground, and his features were relaxed. Sienna’s husband lifted his chin, turned, and walked back in the house.
“Good to know he’s a light sleeper,” Jackson said, his voice tinted with wry amusement.
“Why is that good to know? So you know how much noise you can make when you sneak in my window later?” I asked, then pressed my lips together, hoping my voice had sounded curious instead of hopeful.
He turned to look out the back window of the cab as he backed up. “Well, obviously. But it’s also nice to know he’s looking out for you.”
I lifted the cuffs of my jacket to my mouth to hide my smile. “I’m sleeping in the back bedroom. The windows are quite large.”
“Are they?”
“Yes. Big enough even for someone as tall and broad as you.”
“You should probably measure them, just to make sure.”
“I don’t have a m
easuring tape.”
“Then I should probably come in and measure them with my measuring tape.”
“Yes. I would appreciate that. Then we’ll know for sure.”
“They always say, measure twice, cut once.”
“Who? Who are they?”
“Carpenters.”
This reminded me so much of the night we met, the back and forth, the flirting, the butterflies in my stomach, and how oddly easy it was to just be with him, to talk to him. “I knew it.”
“What? What did you know?”
“Two hardware stores. This town has a wood culture.”
“Yep. Biiiig wood culture.”
I giggled at our banter, sneaking a peek at him. “This is fun. You’re fun.”
“So are you,” he said in that easy way of his.
Feeling dreamy and loose, excited and nervous, just like I always did around Jackson, I crossed my legs and faced him. “Where are we going? Do you still have those keys? Shall we get ice cream?”
“I thought, hot chocolate.”
“That sounds nice. I haven’t had hot chocolate in forever.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out so melancholy, but they did.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you have it?”
“Don’t let anyone in Hollywood fool you with talk of eating bagels. No one eats what they want and stays camera-ready. The life of a lead actress—unless, of course, you are Sienna Diaz or a select few who can get away with it—is a broccoli and cauliflower filled landscape.”
This earned me a smile, but no comment.
I continued, speaking stream of consciousness, “But you know, I don’t mind. It’s part of the job. And eating that way does make me feel good. But sometimes . . .”
“What?”
“Sometimes I get this urge to sneak out, buy a chocolate cake from Fred Meyer—not a frilly chocolate ganache confection of locally sourced, organic, and GMO-free ingredients from a couture patisserie, but a legit, processed sugar and wheat and dairy and trans-fat-full pile of carbs with no redeeming nutritional value—and eat the whole thing.”
“Sneak out? Why would you have to sneak out?”
It was interesting to me that this was the part of my admission he took issue with. “Well, because my chef and nutritionist would be pissed. So would my trainer. And I tremble to think of the judgmental eyebrows Sasha would send my way.”
“Who is Sasha?”
“She’s my PA.”
“Personal assistant,” he filled in.
“Yes. She manages my calendar, appointments, correspondence.”
“Your fan mail and such?”
“No. That’s someone else. I have a social media account manager, and she has a team that works specifically on each platform.”
“How’d you mean?”
“Take Instagram, for instance. They have posts, but then they also have stories, and reels. We post on all three to maximize engagement. It’s important to keep the content fresh and interesting. So we have a strategy meeting every month to . . .” I frowned, inspecting his profile. “Is this boring?”
“No. Not at all.” He glanced over at me, and I saw he was telling the truth. He didn’t find this boring.
“Why isn’t this boring?”
“Because.”
I twisted in the bench seat to face him. This was the second time he’d responded to a question with “because.” The first time he’d done it was on Thursday afternoon, after we’d kissed, when I’d asked him why me leaving Green Valley was for the best.
“You know what I think?” I asked.
“Probably not.”
That made me smile. I placed my arm along the back of the bench seat and bent it at the elbow, resting a cheek on my hand. “I think when I ask a question, and you answer with the word because and nothing else, it means you don’t really want to answer.”
His lips twisted, perhaps hoping to camouflage a smile. “That may be.”
“You are a man of mystery, Jackson James.”
His mouth dropped open, and he quickly turned his head to look at me, like he thought my statement was preposterous. It was super adorable. “Me? Mysterious? I’m an open book.”
“Then read me a page. Tell me about yourself. But first tell me why you don’t find my descriptions of social media management boring.”
“Okay, fine.” He cleared his throat, adjusting in his seat and shifting the placement of his hands on the steering wheel. “I do not find your descriptions of social media management boring for a few reasons. First, I’m interested in the subject. I’d never thought much about how social media might be something to manage. The sheriff’s department has social media pages and accounts, but we don’t really manage them, not like how you’re describing. We don’t worry about engagement; they’re used as a tool to broadcast information. But I’ve been thinking, it might be good to actually manage them, the way you’re talking about.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s about building relationships, isn’t it? That’s what you’re doing with your pages. And relationships need good communication. How can folks know we’re doing a good job, thinking about their safety and welfare, if we’re only posting updates about road closures and bear sightings? Sometimes, I think, when you’re communicating and want to present an accurate account of yourself, you have to brag a little.”
His point was a good one. “Otherwise, how will they know what you’ve done and how much you care?”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm.” I mock-squinted at him. “Okay, what are the other reasons for not thinking I’m boring?”
“You could never be boring.”
“I don’t know. Just wait until I tell you about how we edit our TikTok videos. Spoiler alert, we follow a template.”
He chuckled, ending the short laugh by biting his lip and sending my gaze right there. I wonder if we’ll get a kraken sighting tonight.
“No, that’s one of my reasons,” he said.
“Huh?”
“You could never be boring, that’s reason number two why I don’t find your descriptions of social media management boring. Reason three is, I like your voice.”
“Oh. I see.” I cleared my throat self-consciously, and that pulled another small smile out of him. “Well, I guess—”
“And reason four is because I like hearing you talk about different facets of your work. You’re very . . .”
“Titillating?”
His eyes cut to mine and then away. “I was going to say knowledgeable. Competent.”
“Wait. When have we discussed my work prior to now?”
Jackson seemed to grow very still.
“Jackson?”
“We haven’t. But you give interviews. I’ve seen some.”
This, unsurprisingly, thrilled me. Without thinking too much about it, I poked his arm. “You’ve been watching my interviews?”
He said nothing, just smiled his enigmatic smile. I seemed to recall debating the nature of his smile the first time we met and deciding it wasn’t enigmatic at all but rather shy. I decided now that it was both. And I decided I loved it.
A slow-spreading warmth unfurled in my stomach as I continued staring at his handsome profile—the not-quite straight line of his nose, how the curve of his bottom lip was fuller than the top, the strength of his cleft chin, the angles of his jaw and cheekbone, temple and forehead—thinking I could spend my evenings like this and never tire of it.
Content, silence fell between us with a certain decisiveness. We were done talking.
For now.
The smell of warm, delicious Jackson woke me up. Lifting my head, I peered down at the body I lay completely atop and had to blink to make sure I wasn’t still asleep. Then I pinched myself just to make doubly sure.
But no. I was still here, and he was still here, his features bathed in pale, dwindling starlight and early dawn light.
We’d driven around for a
while, engaging in bursts of comfortable conversation followed by periods of comfortable silence. Sometimes we’d flirted. But mostly we’d asked each other questions and volunteered bits and pieces of who we were.
I’d told him why I’d wanted to become an actress—I loved inhabiting the life of someone who wasn’t me, and making people believe fictional stories were real.
He’d told me why he’d become a deputy sheriff—he felt he didn’t have a lot of innate talents except for being patient with both people and process. According to him, law enforcement was all about patience with people and process.
“You don’t think you have a lot of innate talents?” I’d wrinkled my nose at this. “How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. I know what I am, and I know what I lack.”
I’d stared at him, chagrined. Nothing about his statements had struck me as self-pitying, nor had he said the words in order to fish for compliments. Jackson had been all matter-of-fact, that-is-that. But this view of himself irritated me since it was clear he believed what he’d said.
Jackson had then changed the subject before I could push the issue, asking me which of my film roles had been my favorite experience so far.
Starlight Express was the clear answer—I’d enjoyed being involved with the editing—and he’d told me some of his more humorous anecdotes about being in law enforcement, like the time he’d been called to a nudist colony to deal with a petty theft incident. Gross spoiler alert: the woman had placed the money in her no-no hole.
“How did you—I mean, how did you figure it out?” I’d asked, repelled and enraptured.
“We knew it was her. It couldn’t have been anyone else. And there were only so many places she could’ve put it. So through a process of elimination—” He’d shrugged.
“Oh snap! Please tell me that pun was intended.”
He’d thrown his head back and laughed so hard, I thought we were going to have to pull over.
We didn’t. He’d kept driving.
But when the subject had turned to our families, I’d deflected artfully, turning the conversation back to him. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t pushed. It was at this point that I realized how much I appreciated this about Jackson, he never seemed to push me.
