31. Ozzy #2
It’s not shock, not really. More like confusion.
This is me—but I feel good. Not fake good.
Not ‘put on your armor’ good. Just… pretty.
Not pretty like someone else. Not like I’m performing softness for the sake of fitting in.
My piercings still gleam under the soft light of Niamh’s vanity, the shadows of tattoos still wind down my arms. But the red maxi skirt flows like a memory I’m allowed to keep, and the sweater—oversized and warm—doesn’t bury me. It lets me breathe.
If I squint, I almost look normal. Like a girl on her way to a date, not someone who’s been carved and rebuilt by past hands that didn’t know how to hold anything gently.
My gaze falters. I look away from my reflection before that thought can settle in my chest like a bruise.
“You look hot as fuck!” Niamh calls out behind me.
“Love you!” I yell back over my shoulder as I head down the short hallway, heart thudding a little too fast beneath the soft fabric.
I open the door—and stop short.
Jackson’s standing at the bottom of the porch steps like he was built for this exact moment in time.
He’s decked out in polished cowboy boots polished, dark wash jeans fitted in all the right ways, and a black button-down rolled up at the forearms, showcasing the kind of strength that’s born of dirt and hard work.
And those eyes—bright blue and locked on me, like I’ve just derailed every coherent thought in his brain.
“Hey,” I say, a little breathless, stepping toward him with a nervous smile. “You look really nice, Jackson.”
He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares with his mouth parted. Breathing like I just stole all oxygen from him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales finally, voice low and reverent. “Tink… my god.”
I glance down, heat crawling up my chest. Then, with a teasing grin, I give him a slow spin, letting the skirt billow as I do. “You like it? I almost look normal,” I joke, brushing my fingers over the hem. “Y’know, minus the hair and piercings.”
To drive the point home, I pop out my tongue ring and raise a brow.
He frowns—genuinely distressed—as he steps closer.
“You look breathtaking,” he says, voice rough.
“But don’t think for one second I prefer the conservative version you.
Give me all of it. The ink, the metal, the chaos.
” He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes roaming over me like a man both worshiping and trying to behave.
“You’re you, and that’s the whole damn point.
Because girl…” He blows out a breath while looking me up and down.
“You are perfection.” His hand slides to my waist and he leans in, kissing me like he’s claiming the moment, not the girl.
“You two are disgusting!” Niamh hollers from the porch, her voice bright with laughter.
Jackson pulls away, lips still brushing mine, and chuckles. “Think that means she approves?”
“Better than her throwing a boot at your head,” I murmur, brushing my fingers over his jaw before walking toward the truck.
“I expect her home at a proper hour!” Niamh calls to Jackson, her hands on her hips like she’s auditioning to play my mother. He gives her a mock salute before climbing into the driver’s side. I glance back to see her tossing her bag into her car as she heads off for her bartending shift.
The engine hums beneath us, and the cab smells like cinnamon gum and leather. I grip my seatbelt with one hand and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“So…” I start, trying to keep the anticipation from leaking into my voice. “Where are we going?”
Jackson glances at me, then out at the road. “Holiday festival,” he casually reveals.
I blink. “Holiday… festival?” My brow lifts.
He glances at me sideways, amused. “Come November, the town goes all-in. Main Street gets dressed up—lights, garlands, apple cider stalls. Shops stay open late. There’s music. Hot cocoa. Sometimes a fire pit.”
He pulls into a small side street to park, eyes flicking to my expression. “You hate this idea?” His face dims before I can answer. “Shit—I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t want to take you to the bar again. There ain’t much else to do around here and?—”
“Hey,” I cut Jackson off, reaching over to touch his thigh. His eyes jump to mine. “No. It’s sweet. I mean it.” I hesitate, my hand lingering. “I just… I don’t think the women here like me.”
“So?” he asks, frowning. “Since when do you give a shit if people like you?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Touché.”
But he doesn’t let it go. He watches me quietly, like he already knows what I’m not saying.
And maybe he does. Because the truth is, I do care.
Not for me. Not for validation. But because this place is his home.
These are the people who raised him, know his family, who’ve watched him shoulder more than any one man should.
I want to be seen as someone worthy of him.
“Hey.” His voice is gentler now. He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing the inside of my wrist. “You don’t need their approval. You’ve already got mine.”
I look at him. At those sea-glass eyes, that roughened mouth, and the hand that wraps around mine like it knows how to hold me without breaking me.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Tink,” he says quietly. “Sometimes it’s too hard to even look at you.”
My breath catches. There’s a way he says it—like he’s not just talking about my face, but the whole of me. Like looking at me makes him feel too much.
I lean in, brushing my lips over his. A soft kiss. A slow promise.
He groans—low and wrecked—and his fingers tighten around mine. “Tink,” he murmurs against my mouth. “If you want to do this date, we gotta stop. Right now.”
I giggle into the kiss, then pull away before we set the whole damn truck on fire. He exhales like he’s been holding back an earthquake.
And I open the door.
Because if this is what holiday festivals feel like, I want to see it all.
“Thank you,” I murmur, managing a tight smile as the older woman behind the cider booth shoves the steaming cup into my hands like I’ve just kicked her cat.
She doesn’t even try to hide the scowl—until Jackson turns around. Suddenly her entire face melts into sugary politeness, her spine straightening like someone just turned on the spotlight.
“Jackson Rowe, my lord,” she gushes. “Just look at you.” She all but simpers as she passes him a matching cup and a brown paper sack. “You know my Joanna’s single now.” Her smile sharpens. “I could give her your number, if you’d like.”
Okay. So I’m invisible.
Jackson gives a low, polite chuckle as his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me into his side like a claim he’s not shy about making.
“I appreciate the offer, Ms. Reddner,” he says, his tone friendly but final, “but I think I’m doing just fine in that department.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, soft but pointed. Her eyes narrow at me like I just stole her last chance at a grandbaby.
We leave her behind as we step onto the sidewalk.
The last streaks of daylight have long vanished, and in their place, the town glows like a snow globe scene come to life.
Twinkle lights strung from lampposts, red and green garlands wrapped around railings, and children are running in circles with candy canes and cider, their laughter echoing over the soft holiday music floating from the square.
It’s... beautiful. Cozy in the kind of way I never trusted before.
“Here,” Jackson says, holding out a donut like it’s an offering. “Try this.”
I wrap my fingers around his wrist and lean in to take a bite, sugar brushing the corners of my mouth.
“Mmph,” I moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay. I don’t care if she hates me. That was worth it. This is actual sex on my tongue.”
Jackson laughs, smug and pleased. “Apple spice. Maple frosting. Town favorite.”
“She’s still a bitch,” I mutter around a second bite, “but I forgive her. Only for the donut.”
He grins as we stroll closer to the town square. “She doesn’t hate you. She hates her daughter.”
I glance up at him, raising a brow. “Why?”
“Because we were supposed to get engaged.”
I stop mid-step. Nearly choke on my cider. “You were what? ”
He shrugs like it’s just a weird weather report.
“High school sweetheart situation. Loosely used term. She went off to college in the city. Cheated on me in the first two weeks.” His tone is calm, almost clinical.
“Told me she needed to ‘experience life’ before settling with a rancher in a no-name town. So I told her to go experience all she wanted. I wasn’t waiting. ”
I blink at him, still stunned. “Wow.”
He side-eyes me with a smirk. “Say it.”
“What a cunt. ”
That pulls a loud laugh from him, warm and full-bodied, echoing off the storefronts like something alive. “You’ve got a way with words.”
I grin and take another sip of cider. “You’ve got a way with understating trauma.”
He shrugs. “It was a long-ass time ago. Two decades, give or take. Hell...” He trails off, then glances over. “I just realized—I don’t even know how old you are.”
I snort. “You never asked.”
“Well, I’m asking now. Legal, right?”
“Oh my god.” I roll my eyes.
“No, seriously.” His voice dips, teasing. “How old?”
“How old do I look? ” I throw it back at him with a smirk.
Jackson chokes on his drink and laughs. “Tink, I’m not dumb enough to play that game.”
I shrug. “Thirty-two. My birthday was last month.”
He stops walking and turns toward me, frowning. “You had a birthday and didn’t tell anyone so we could celebrate?”
“It was movie night with Morris,” I say simply, wrapping both hands around my cider cup. “I was doing what I wanted to do.”
His expression softens. I can see the shift in his eyes before he even speaks. “He made you watch The Shining , didn’t he?”
“Yup,” I laugh. “Said it was a classic. I spent the whole night waiting for Jack Nicholson to kill everyone.”
Jackson’s smile fades into something more subdued. “You know,” he says quietly, “you have no idea how much you meant to him. I’ve never seen him open up to anyone like he did with you.”
I blink fast, staring up at the twinkling lights strung between trees. My throat feels too tight.
“If we keep going,” I whisper, “I’m going to start sobbing in front of the cider booth.”
He laughs gently, bumping his shoulder against mine. “Alright, alright. No more heavy shit.” A pause. “So… is this how you looked before the tattoos?”
“Oh, god no.” I dig into my purse and pull out my phone. “If I show you these and you laugh, we’re not friends anymore.”
“I would never laugh.” But I can already see the mischievous twitch at the corner of his mouth.
I scroll until I find it—me at eighteen, braces, glasses too big for my face, frizzy curls and a massive smile, holding up a chess trophy like it was the Holy Grail.
He takes one look and cracks up. “Oh my god. You were adorable. Look at your face!”
“I was excited,” I murmur, taking the phone back. “That was after I beat my crush in the finals. Simon Montgomery.”
He leans closer. “Bet he loved that.”
I shrug. “He got his revenge. Fucked my mom. Think they have a kid now. Not really sure.”
Jackson stares. “Jesus.”
“It’s fine. He was legal. And honestly? Not even top ten worst things she did.”
His expression twists with quiet fury, but I move on before it can grow. “Here,” I say, finding another picture. “This was about a month before… everything.”
He takes the phone again, this time slower. The girl staring back is barely recognizable now. Shoulder-length black hair, glasses, rounder face, a full, open smile.
“She looks happy,” he says softly.
“She was. Thought the worst thing that could happen to her was not getting into a residency program.”
A silence stretches. He doesn’t push. Just hands the phone back with care.
Then he clears his throat and asks. “Wanna hear something worse?”
I arch a brow. “Worse than Simon Montgomery and my mom procreating?”
“I had a mullet.”
That breaks me into laughter. “No fucking way.”
“Oh yeah. Wispy strawberry blonde, straight-across bangs, shaved sides.”
“I need a photo.”
“Absolutely not,” he states, sipping his drink.
“Please?” I pout my lip at him.
“Tink, no.”
I’m cackling. “Is that why your hair’s long now? Mullet trauma?”
He tilts his head, smirking. “I have long hair because my hair is fucking gorgeous, thank you very much.”
“You know what? Fair enough. It is.”
The night slips into something slower after that.
We wander through lit-up booths, share mini donuts, and trade stories.
He tells me about Jensen—how he taught him sign language when they were kids so Jensen could talk without needing words.
He doesn’t like fish, wakes up at 2 a.m. every night to grab a snack from a hidden drawer, and thinks no one knows he cries during Forrest Gump.
I tell him I was a trauma nurse. That I took a virtual job when crowds became too much to handle. After everything happened, I only lived in cities because the noise helped drown out the memories.
By the time we get back to his truck, the street is quiet. Lights still blink. But the magic has settled. Everything has become soft, dim and cozy.
He opens my door for me, and I pause. I can tell he wants to ask me something, so I give him a moment.
“Do you miss it?” he asks. “The city?”
I shake my head. “God, no. I was surrounded by millions of people and still completely alone.”
He watches me. “And here?”
“At least here…” I glance up at him, smile curling slow. “I have the ranch.”
He grins, holding the door open wider.
“And you,” I finish.
His breath catches. He helps me in, closes the door and circles the hood to get in the other side.
We don’t speak the whole drive back.
But I don’t stop smiling once.