Forty-One
ISHOULDN’T HAVE ENTERED THE RECEPTION TENT WITHOUT MENTALLY clocking where every person of interest is. I shouldn’t have forsaken focus, occupied with delusions of friendship I can’t write into crisp checks. I shouldn’t have forgotten I’m here to steal a future, not relive a past long ripped from my fingers.
If I hadn’t been smiling when I walked in from the lawn, still reveling in my silly victory, I wouldn’t have let my father get the drop on me.
“Where do you keep sneaking off to?”
I whirl, finding him standing behind me, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
My mind blanks. Every cover story and contingency and backup—gone. Scrambling, I will my thoughts to focus. Tom was supposed to be my cover. But with our change of plans necessitating a public breakup, I can’t lean on him. There’s only so much waffling Dash will buy, even from a teenage daughter.
The problem is, he shouldn’t have even noticed my disappearances. The fact that he has, that he’s even paying attention, is unnerving.
I open my mouth, praying something coherent comes out.
Instead, I feel a hand on my elbow. “Sorry, sir. It’s my fault.”
Jackson’s voice comes from my right. He deftly places my arm on his, as if we’re together. I would correct him, but between Dash and Jackson, one is an annoyance, the other a catastrophe. I close my mouth and smile like a lovestruck girl.
It works. Dash looks from Jackson to me, his expression smugger by the second.
“What did I tell you?” he says, gloating. “A father always knows his daughter.”
The irony is so beautiful, I’m half tempted to tell him exactly how much he doesn’t know about his daughter. I don’t, of course. I just lean into Jackson. “You were right,” I say, knowing my sarcasm is lost on him.
“Just keep it respectable, please,” Dash says. “My guests saw you with another boy not an hour ago.”
I bite my teeth hard, a grimace hidden in my smile.
“Of course,” Jackson promises.
Unsurprisingly and infuriatingly, Jackson’s word satisfies my father. It’s not like he needs to hear his daughter speak on the subject of her own body.
When he’s gone, I round on Jackson. “Why did you do that?” I demand, furious with him for the crime of being nice to me after I was awful to him at dinner. Why didn’t he take this chance to hurt me back? To tell my dad exactly what he knows I’m doing?
Why is he always good?
Jackson runs a hand through his hair, leaving it roguishly mussed in heart-sickening contrast with his tuxedo. “I’m sorry he thinks we’re back together,” he says, sounding defeated. “It was the only explanation I could come up with on the spot. We can just tell him things didn’t work out.”
I shake my head. I don’t love that I’m now fake-dating my ex, but I can deal with it, especially because it saved me, the heist, everything. “No, why did you help me?” I ask, meeting his eyes.
His face softens. “I’ll always help you.” He says it simply, as if he’s surprised I even have to ask.
Why did you cheat on me? Why isn’t this Jackson the real Jackson?
He goes on, sincerity painfully splayed across his features. “Even if…” He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. “Even if you’re doing what you said you would do tonight. I don’t like it. I think it’s dangerous. I worry about you. But these weeks without you have taught me that if you need help—ever—I’ll be there.”
I can’t lift my gaze from his. His words hurt worse than any accusations he’s thrown at me tonight. I crumble, remembering the night I told him I wanted to steal something back from Dash. He tried to convince me not to. Now, months later, heartbreak sharp between us, he’s supporting me anyway.
“Stop being nice to me,” I say. Pleading, weak, vulnerable.
Jackson’s lips lift in the start of a smile, the one I traced with my fingertips once. “Sorry,” he says, unapologetic. “I think I’m just going to be more nice.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “So mature.”
He looks delightfully caught off guard by my giggle. It makes his smile grow, boyishly exuberant. “Dance with me,” he says.
His invitation tears me into pieces I don’t know how I’ll ever put back together. I want to be in his arms. I want to forget what he did to me. I want to keep him far away.
“We made a bargain, did we not?” he reminds me. “I’m collecting my one dance, hard-earned by listening to foreign-market speculation and ‘unfair’ taxes on the rich for an hour in the groomsmen suite.”
When he holds his hand out to me, I stare at it, knowing everything his touch promises.
I stop resisting. Threading my fingers through his, I let myself want this, just a little bit.
“One song,” I say, not sure if I’m reminding him or me.