CHAPTER 16 JACKSON
JACKSON
“Wind is picking up now,” Delilah says quietly, a fresh mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands.
She’s looking out the window and I’m pretending not to look at her, trying to study my open laptop instead.
But my eyes keep drifting back. The tangle of hair pushed over her shoulder.
The way her teeth bite down against her bottom lip in thought.
I know what her mouth tastes like now.
She kissed me and every voice in my head went silent. Like someone had yanked a cord from the wall.
I clear my throat and shift my legs, my knee bumping against hers beneath the table. The top of it is currently littered with a collection of notes and half-eaten baked goods. The window we settled next to is almost completely obscured by white.
“Snow is coming in heavier too,” I add, digging one fist into my eye. I swear, when I go to sleep tonight, I’m going to be dreaming in barometers and cherry ChapStick.
If I can sleep with Delilah curled up in the space next to me.
Delilah turns from the window. “We’re in the thick of it.”
Yeah. We sure as fuck are.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Send us a picture, Adeline says in our family group chat. We want to see the snow.
Penelope follows it up with a series of snowflake emojis.
I can feel Delilah’s eyes on me while I fumble with the camera app, her amusement growing as I try to get an angle out the window that doesn’t include her or the glare from the giant chandelier in the lobby behind us. She holds out her hand and I wordlessly hand it over.
She snaps a few pictures of the view—limited though it might be—her tongue at the corner of her mouth. Then she flips the camera around and takes a picture of the two of us. Her, smiling so wide her eyes are almost shut. Me, looking like I’ve just been hit in the head by a falling piano.
It’s embarrassing how much a little kiss has me rattled.
She hands the phone back to me and drops one elbow on the table. “You want to talk about it?”
I drag my hand over my mouth, considering.
Normal Jackson would want to discuss it at length, laying out repercussions and all the possible avenues in which something like impulsive kisses in hidden alcoves could potentially ruin our professional working relationship.
But that version of myself feels like it’s shoved in a closet somewhere, and I’m not exactly eager to let him out.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. Maybe Winter Storm Jackson can handle things like spur-of-the-moment kisses without thinking too much about it. Maybe Winter Storm Jackson can be fun.
Delilah’s mouth quirks up. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly thinking.”
“Neither was I. I was talking about corn sweat.”
Her smile tugs a little wider. “Still. I shouldn’t have done it. And I owe you an apology for—”
“You don’t,” I interrupt, slowly closing my laptop screen.
Delilah’s head tips to the side.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I clarify. “You figured out a way to knock me out of my own head. I’m grateful, Delilah.”
I’m also flustered, slightly smitten, and probably fucked, but I plan to keep that to myself.
She watches me from the other side of the table, looking for the lie. “All right.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
I nod. “Yeah, great.”
She stands, brushing her hands against the front of her skirt. “I’m going to get another scone.”
I survey the table. “We have seven scones.”
“Technically, we have three and a half scones, if you add all the pieces together. And not one of them is blueberry. So I’m going to get one of those.” She collects some of the empty plates and used napkins. “Do you want more tea?”
“No, I’m fi—”
“I’m gonna get you some more tea.”
She twirls off to the other side of the lobby where Lottie operates a small café and bakery.
I watch as she walks right up to the counter, waving to the young attendant behind the desk reading a book.
He immediately sets it to the side to talk to her, a furious blush working up and over his cheeks as he nods with enthusiasm.
I turn back in my seat, sending off the pictures of the snow to my sisters and staring at the selfie of me and Delilah. She’s beaming at the camera. I’m looking right at her.
I darken my phone with a tap of my thumb and flip it upside down on the table.
Delilah and I make a good team. I am also begrudgingly attracted to her. I’m not interested in denying either of those things.
If I tried, I’m fairly certain she’d call me on my bullshit. I don’t know what that means for the both of us, but I’m trying something new. I’m open to the possibilities instead of trying to map out my options.
“Is that Delilah Stewart?”
I glance up. An older man is standing at the edge of our table.
Faded Levi’s, tan boots, a well-loved leather cap clutched between weathered hands.
He could be either sixty or two hundred and six.
It’s hard to tell. The lodge has mostly been deserted whenever we’ve been in the common spaces, and this is the first time I’ve seen someone who isn’t a hotel employee.
“Uh.” I glance over my shoulder at Delilah, still chatting away with the charmed café attendant. “Yeah. That’s her.”
He lets out a deep, rattling breath.
“Is there something you need?” I ask, my voice sharp. I shift sideways, angling my body between him and Delilah.
“Oh, no. No, I don’t need anything. I just—” He sighs as he gazes across the room, twisting his hat in his fists. “I’m a—I’m a big fan of Ms. Stewart’s work.”
My hesitation eases. I recognize that look on his face. It’s the same dopey look I have in the picture Delilah took five minutes ago. He’s another member of the Delilah Stewart fan club.
I grin, my shoulders relaxing. “Oh yeah?”
He nods. “Saw that segment she did on the Trash Wheel coupl’a weeks ago. She’s pretty funny.” He clears his throat and looks down at me. He clocks my smile and immediately scowls. “What are you laughing about?”
“I’m not laughing.” I tilt my head in the direction of the café. “You should go say hi.”
As confident as Delilah is, I don’t think she gets to see enough of this part.
How much people love her for everything she already is.
I’ve seen the spiderweb cracks that splinter across Delilah’s expression when she faces one of the roadblocks Keith tosses up.
How badly she wants to be taken seriously.
She says she doesn’t want to be a joke, but I don’t think she understands that to the viewers, she’s never been one.
“You should tell her about the Trash Wheel,” I encourage.
My temporary tablemate immediately starts shaking his head. “No.”
“You could tell her you think she’s funny.”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Why are you over here?”
He blinks, confused. “I don’t think I know.”
“All right.” This time I do laugh. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”
He nods. “Good. That’s good.” He doesn’t move a muscle.
I raise my eyebrows. “What should I say?”
“What?” he barks, jumping slightly.
“What should I say?” I repeat slowly.
“Oh, ah—” He runs his hand over his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, still staring in the general direction of the café.
He’s probably the same height as Delilah.
Maybe an inch or two taller. “You could tell her Dustin says hello and, uh, thank you,” he stammers.
“Tell her thank you for keeping me company on my trips away from home.”
With that, he spins on his booted heel and marches off, his shoulders hunched to his ears. Delilah appears with a new tray of snacks approximately twelve seconds later.
“Who was that?” she asks.
I take in the cinnamon bun, pound cake, and three chocolate chip cookies on her tray. “I thought you said you were getting a blueberry scone.”
“I did.” She points to a baked good at the top-left corner. “But then Tom recommended this other stuff, and I had to try it.”
She starts pushing dishes around the table, making room. “Who was your friend?” she asks again.
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder. Dustin is nowhere to be found. “That was a fan of yours.”
Her face immediately tumbles into a beaming smile. “Really?”
I nod, struck dumb a little bit by the crinkle in her nose and the way her eyes almost completely shut every time she smiles like that. “Yeah. His name is Dustin. He wanted to thank you for keeping him company on his trips away from home.”
“That’s so nice.” She finishes transferring her bounty to the table, then quickly sweeps the remnants of our first round onto the tray. “I like that I keep him company. Like a little pocket-sized Delilah, whenever he needs it.”
I take the cinnamon bun she offers. “Have people always loved you?”
She laughs. “I think you know very well that I’m not universally loved, Jackson.” She collapses back into her chair. “Present company included.”
“I thought we moved past this.”
Her face softens. “Yeah, I know.” She reaches for her scone, then changes her mind and plucks the corner off my cinnamon bun instead. “I’m just teasing you.”
“You’re just—” I nudge the plate closer to her. “Sometimes you feel like a caricature. Something sugary sweet someone whipped up.”
She loses her smile. “Is this your way of telling me we haven’t moved past it?”
“No, no. Listen. I’m—I’m trying to—that didn’t come out the way I meant it.” I reach for her hand and grab it, needing her to understand. To believe me. “You know I struggle when it’s important.”
Her face turns back to mine, hesitant but open. “This is important?”
“It is.” I flip my hand so our palms are pressed together, the length of her thumb lined up against the length of mine. Her nails are painted a pale lavender. The color of the sky in the middle of the summer, right before the sun melts into the horizon. “This is important, Delilah.”
“Okay.” She shifts in her seat. “Keep going, then. I can be patient.”