CHAPTER 17 DELILAH #2
“What’s it filled with? Cotton balls?”
I roll my eyes and try to bite out a response, but my teeth clench down hard around another shiver.
We should have waited inside while Mark troubleshooted the livestream.
He hasn’t had any luck with getting a steady connection to wire our footage back to the station.
We knew it would be difficult to connect this morning, and I wanted to be a team player while he tried to set it up in the cold. No man left behind, and all that.
Jackson grips my bicep. “Come with me,” he says.
He shouts something to Mark that I can’t hear over the wind and then he’s towing me across the porch, around the corner, back to our little alcove where I impulsively kissed him yesterday.
I immediately flush hot, then cold, then hot again when he drags me in there with him, tucking me up against the wall.
He props his hands over my shoulders, filling up the space in front of me as he uses his body to block out the wind.
Dark blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. A little mark on his nose from his glasses.
All I see is Jackson.
“Mark’s gonna grab us at the thirty-second warning,” he says. He ducks his face down a little bit, closer to mine. I can smell his body wash on his skin. The coffee he had with breakfast. “Okay?”
I nod, my arms curled around myself, still shivering. “Okay.”
“Is this better?”
It’s less exposed to the elements, for sure, but it’s more exposed to my poor decision-making. I watch his face, liquid warmth spilling in my belly at the way we’re standing together.
“It’s better,” I say. My heart picks up. I let myself look at his mouth for one second, two. “How are you feeling?”
He exhales a sharp breath. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “It gets worse the closer we get.”
“Think you’re going to talk about corn sweat again?”
He shifts, the swishy fabric of his jacket brushing up against mine. “I want to say no, but it’s a distinct possibility.”
I know what I should do. I should stand here with Jackson and talk to him about something mundane until Mark taps us for the broadcast. Maybe argue with him a little bit. He seems to like that.
But there’s something about the way Jackson is looking at me.
He’s watchful. Expectant. Like he’s waiting for me to take charge, just like last time.
The temptation of giving in and calling it a distraction plucks at me the longer we stand tucked together in this tiny alcove.
Maybe with one more kiss, I’ll satisfy this craving burning a hole through the center of my chest.
It did help him before.
“I thought we could maybe start with talking about some of the trees and how they’ve evolved in this area to bear the brunt of snowfall,” he says.
“Oak trees, actually, are—” He huffs out a harsh breath, one hand reaching up to anchor against the back of his neck.
Physically stopping himself from one of his rambles.
“Delilah,” he bites out. “I’m a mess.”
I shake my head. “You’re not. You’re fine.”
His thumb catches slightly in my hair. “I need your help,” he whispers.
My heart climbs to my throat. “How?”
“You know how.”
Behind him on the other side of the porch, Mark shouts my name.
“One second,” I yell back, not looking away from Jackson.
I wet my lips. Jackson’s gaze lands heavy against my mouth. “Tell me how you want me to help,” I say. Jackson shifts closer. “I don’t want any misunderstandings. You need to ask me for it, Jackson.”
His sigh is low and slow. “I need you to get me out of my head. I’m freaking out over here.”
I uncross my arms from my chest and press my palms to his rib cage. Feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
“I need you to distract me,” he whispers. His hand slips up my arm and over my shoulder. Around to the top of my spine. He tips my head back. “You still need me to ask for what I want?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I really do.”
I want the words. I want his choice.
He ducks his face down to mine with a low hum, and our noses brush together. Every single part of my body swoops, like I’ve just crested the top of a roller coaster.
“Kiss me, Delilah,” he says. “Make it all go away. Please.”
My hands are fisted in his jacket before the last syllable is even out of his mouth.
He asked so nicely, I tell myself. He needs it.
It’s just a kiss.
The justification doesn’t feel important as I press up on my toes and slot my mouth against his. I stumble into him and then he urges me back, my shoulders pressed against the scratchy wood siding of the lodge, my hair tangled around his gloved fingers.
Last time, I held myself perfectly still, the kiss over before the action caught up with the rest of me.
This time, I am present and aware of everything.
My bottom lip, caught between both of his.
The harsh pant of his breath against the curve of my cheek.
This kiss is not only premeditated, it’s indulgent.
I angle my head to the side and Jackson follows, his gloved thumb tracing a firm line in the space below my ear.
I let myself soften in his grip, arch my back.
Part my lips and breathe out a deep exhale against his.
We’re still so close that when I wet my lips, my tongue touches the corner of his mouth.
He makes a deep, rattling sound that I want to carve into the wall with our names.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
I pull back an inch so I can look up into his face.
I don’t expect to see Mark, hovering over his shoulder.
I try to push Jackson away, but he holds me tight, one hand still curved against the back of my neck and the other at my hip.
“No,” he says, his voice a low rasp. He’s misunderstanding my panic. “Come back.”
“Jackson,” I whisper-hiss. “Let go. We need to—”
Mark clears his throat and Jackson releases me, his face stricken. Mark doesn’t seem surprised to find us tangled in this tiny corner tucked up against the lodge. If anything, he looks grimly resigned.
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “We were just going over our notes—”
Mark ignores me, pushing past Jackson and reaching for the collar of my jacket.
“What are you—” I try to pull away. “Mark! What are you doing?”
Jackson tries to wedge his body between us, but Mark is undeterred. This little space could barely fit two people. Now there are three of us ping-ponging off the walls.
I get a good smack to the top of Mark’s head. “Stop it, you’re going to—”
He finally gets a good grip on my mic and yanks it forcefully from my body. The wire that connected it to the transmission pack at the small of my back tugs loose, and the three of us freeze, staring at it dangling limply between us.
“I was calling you,” Mark accuses, defensive. “I called your name three times.”
Jackson drags his hand over his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers.
Realization is a slow-dawning thing. It rises around me like a tide, licking at my ankles before constricting at my chest. I can’t breathe around it. The enormity of the mistake I’ve just made.
“Your mic was live.” Mark confirms my fears. “The broadcast went through. All of Baltimore just heard you two.”