Chapter 5 #4
“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping in front of me, and the flowers vanished behind his tall body.
He lowered his head to glare into my eyes, and when he found them, his softened.
He smelled as fresh as the flowers in the truck.
“Don’t let yourself off that easy. Really look at them.
” He stepped aside. “What do you see? What do you hear?” He paused for a moment. “Listen.”
I looked at this stranger again. There was something about him that drew me in like a magnet. It defied logic, this pull, this feeling. I didn’t know him, yet I found myself wanting to open up to him and answer the question. I knew if I did, he would listen.
I took a deep breath and looked at the flowers once more.
Suddenly, I was transported back to our land.
Lila was there, her laughter dancing in the breeze as she twirled among the wildflowers.
It was my favorite memory of her, the one I would curl into if I allowed myself.
I remembered it all—the sun on my skin, the buzz of the bees, and the ripple of the river.
“Running barefoot with Lila,” I whispered. A smile that felt awkward grew on my face.
“That’s the magic of flowers,” he said softly, his eyes burning into mine. A rush of heat tickled up my neck. “They’re more than just their colors.”
I knew nothing of attraction, a force that draws some men into sharp focus and renders others to just shadows in the background.
It was a riddle I couldn’t quite decipher, a puzzle I couldn’t find the pieces to.
I had seen attractive men before. But there he was, standing in front of me, not just another face among many, but a man whose presence loomed large, like it was meant to be felt, meant to make an impact.
He was handsome in a way that seemed to demand my attention, that was more than skin deep.
Kindness shone in his dark eyes and in his words, calculated to leave a mark.
This was something I hadn’t expected, something I hadn’t known I was capable of feeling.
And despite myself, I couldn’t look away.
A sudden commotion from the stall beside us broke my trance, and I became aware of my surroundings and of him, observing me.
“This is your truck, isn’t it?” I asked. Years of sun, rain, and wind had left their marks, creating a display of rust and faded paint. And yet, there was an unexpected harmony to it, a perfect backdrop for the flowers in its bed.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, leaning casually against his truck, arms folded once again, legs spread wide. He offered me his hand before pulling it back to wipe it against his pants. He extended it again. “I’m Jackson. But everyone calls me Jack.”
After a beat, I placed my hand into his.
Even before I touched it, I knew his hand would be warm, not only from the heat but also a tenderness that radiated from his very essence.
I knew it would pull on me, as undeniable as gravity.
I knew so many things about this man. And nothing at all. “I’m Leigh.”
He held my hand delicately in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Leigh.”
“Jackson—”
“Jack,” he interrupted, the word slipping from his lips like a sigh in the wind. “Just Jack.”
“You…sell flowers? You?”
He laughed. “Because that’s so hard to believe?”
“No, I…just didn’t expect a man to be selling flowers.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Here,” I said, pushing the money toward him. “This belongs to you.”
Jackson shook his head. “Keep it. You earned it.”
“It’s your money. I can’t take it.”
He stepped forward, his presence filling the space between us. The air felt thick and charged. “I was just leaving. You lightened my load. I owe you.”
I took several steps back. I needed space, from him and from my reaction to him. I had said too much, gotten too close, stayed too long.
“Flowers are meant to be observed up close,” he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “From there is too far.”
He grabbed one of the remaining bouquets and extended it toward me, a gentle yet insistent offer. The gesture stirred a memory—Deacon Ridley, and the way he had dangled butterscotch candy in front of me. “Take these,” Jackson urged, his voice a coaxing whisper that felt all too familiar.
“Why would you give these to me? Why would you give me this money?” Confusion knotted my brow. The gesture felt too intimate, too loaded with meaning.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know me.”
“And that’s an excuse to deny someone kindness?”
“Yes. I’m a stranger.”
“There are no strangers in Camden,” he said, his gaze steady and unwavering.
I swallowed hard. “Maybe I want to be.”
“Be what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
“A stranger.”
“You know…you could just say, ‘Thank you.’’”
“Thank you for what?” I asked, my tone suddenly sharp. I took a step back, creating more distance between us.
“The flowers.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Because that’s what you say when someone does something nice for you,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice.
“I didn’t ask you to give me flowers,” I said, holding up the money. “Or this money.”
Jackson recoiled as if I had struck him. His expression faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing his face as if my words had wounded him. “I told you…you earned it. And everybody likes flowers.” Beneath his words I heard something familiar: “All little girls like candy.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I said, my heart racing as I dropped the money and the flowers onto the truck bed.
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away, each step a retreat from the tangled emotions swirling in the air.