Chapter 28 Jackson
Jackson
“Mmmm, this coffee is the best!” Charleigh trills from Jackson’s kitchen table, her legs tucked beneath her.
She’s wearing one of his old SMU T-shirts and a pair of his sweats.
Bedhead and all, she still looks resplendent in the morning sunlight that gushes through the windows—casement windows that are original to the bungalow and that Jackson painstakingly stripped and repainted a deep gray, all by himself, thank you very much.
“Seriously, this isn’t some Folgers BS. How do you even make this?” Last night’s makeup is smudged around her eyes; she clutches the mug as if holding on to a life raft.
“I am fancy with my coffee. Like I am with everything,” Jackson says, then winks at her. “I get the beans at this natural grocery store in Dallas and grind them myself before each brew. Glad you approve.”
“Approve?” Charleigh guffaws. “You’re never getting rid of me! Been here a thousand times but forget each time how adorable this place is.”
Jackson eyes the clock on the stove: It’s nine. It’s at least a twenty-minute drive out to Ethan’s; he better be getting rid of her ASAP. But, of course, he can’t tell her that.
“Speaking of which,” he says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated, playful way. “I do have a ten-o’clock appointment.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Charleigh bats her hand through the air. “I heard you grousing about that last night. With whom again?”
Annoyance grips his throat. As always, she’s being territorial.
“The Johnsons,” he lies. “They want me to consult with them about their dining room. But they probably won’t ever even follow through.”
He’s picked that particular family because they’re ancient. Because Charleigh doesn’t have any direct communication with them, so the chances of her busting him are nil.
“Fine,” she says. “Wanna hang out tonight, though? I’m still mad at Alexander, so it’d be good if I have other plans.”
“For real?” Jackson’s voice practically squeaks. “Leave that good man alone. And no, I’m not on his side, like I told you last night, over and over, but you need to let this one go.”
Last night, their one drink turned into two bottles of wine, Charleigh sloppy on his couch, monologuing about the Swifts, about Nellie.
Jackson squirmed. He pretty much tells Charleigh everything—what he had for breakfast, how he’s avoiding his mother’s phone calls, what he had for lunch, if he kissed a guy in Dallas—so not being able to tell her, make that gush to her, about his heartthrob, Ethan, is excruciating.
Excruciating because he can’t tell his person anything about it, and excruciating because he knows she’d mangle him for it.
After a certain point, when the pinot noir turned his mind to jelly, he considered testing the waters, perhaps mentioning how attractive Ethan is, gauging her response, but…he couldn’t bring himself to blurt out the words, fearing that she’d be able to see the real reason behind them.
Just go out there today and see if there really is any there, there first, he told himself last night.
“Okay, whatever,” Charleigh says now. “I’ll forgive him for being nice to the enemy, but—”
“You know I’m on Team Charleigh here, and Team Nellie, for that matter, and that Swift woman is off-putting—”
Charleigh snorts, nearly spitting out her coffee.
“But don’t torture your pretty husband over it, okay? He honestly just wants you to be above it all. So be above it all!” Jackson himself has had three mugs of coffee to saw through his hangover, so he’s aware that is voice is too loud, bouncing off the walls.
“O-kaaay! You better take me home now. You’re starting to sound like him.” Charleigh rolls her makeup-smudged eyes, but a teasing grin inches across her face.
Jackson’s entire Mercedes shudders as he crosses over the cattle guard. Once he’s on the dirt-paved drive, he eases off the gas even more, careful to avoid the ruts and potholes.
It’s exactly 10:00 a.m.
Should I have arrived fashionably late? he wonders. Will he look needy, being so prompt? No, Ethan mentioned his wife will be away, and who knows how long she’ll actually be gone.
God, he’s nervous, hands slick on the wheel, sweat biting his armpits even though his AC is blasting.
Is he wearing too much cologne?
The sweating makes him feel like he is, that it’s oversaturating the air around him.
He slows down even more, cranks his window, hoping the fresh air will dissipate the strong scent.
Calm the fuck down, he tells himself. Play it cool. Look at the man’s furniture, praise him, and see what happens.
But what do you think is going to happen, Jackson? He can’t stop the hamster wheel of his brain from running through all the different scenarios.
God, he shouldn’t have had all that wine last night. And all this coffee on top of it. Fucking Charleigh and her drama. But let’s get real, he was probably going to drink his fair share all on his own anyway, to steel his nerves for this morning.
Ethan comes into view. Standing at the head of his drive, hand resting on a shovel that’s planted in the earth, head slanted to one side. As he pulls closer, Jackson sees his grin: crooked, mischievous, inviting. Almost as if Ethan can read his careening thoughts.
Whew. Here we go.
Fuck, did he just say that out loud? With the window down? Surely not.
Jackson twists the keys, kills the engine.
He climbs from the car.
“Sorry, I shoulda warned you about our drive. Your shiny Benz is gonna get all dirty out here.” Ethan’s still grinning that sly grin at him, and even though he’s talking about Jackson’s car, it feels fraught, like he’s really hinting at something else.
“I’m not one to mind a little dirt,” Jackson replies, going for flirty but instead just sounding awkward.
Ethan bites back his smile, locks his eyes onto Jackson’s.
“It’s so lovely out here,” Jackson offers.
And it is. Rolling hills, jewel-green pasture, pastoral house. Plain but charming. The Swifts are evidently of modest means. This isn’t the rich side of town, where acreage fetches a lot of coin; it’s the jagged outskirts where real farmers live. People living hand to mouth.
“Thank you. Got a deal on it, and I know it needs work, but it’s home. For now.”
“Do you intend to stay a while?” God, please don’t let this fine man hear the neediness in my voice.
“We usually move around a lot. My business calls for it. Only so much need for furniture, especially the custom kind. But I really like it here and would love to settle in one place for a while. Throw down some roots for the baby.” Ethan flicks his chin to the house.
“She’s inside napping. Older sister’s keepin’ an eye on her.
But she’s probably napping, too.” His eyes clasp onto Jackson’s again, as if to convey, We are pretty much alone.
Heat creeps up Jackson’s neck. The sky above them is swollen with clouds, threatening rain, the air thick as pancake batter.
Jackson eyes a structure in progress next to what appears to be Ethan’s woodworking shop—an open-air structure with a table saw and scraps of lumber.
“What’s that going to be?” he asks.
“It’s what I’m working on today. A shed. Digging postholes for the framing. Gonna be a guesthouse. I’ll rig a window unit, run plumbing, too.”
“All on your own?” Jackson thinks about his crew and how quickly, efficiently they could knock this project out. But he bites his tongue from saying another word about it, realizing that Ethan most likely can’t afford their labor.
“Yep! Should be done by the end of the week. At least with the shell. I work fast.” Again, that crooked, mischievous, wickedly hot grin slides across his face. “Wanna see the shop?”
“I wanna see it all,” Jackson says pointedly.
“Hm.” Ethan continues smiling at him. Then peels off his glove and drapes it over the handle of the shovel. “Allow me.”
Jackson follows him up the stairs to the modest house.
“You can see the inside another time. I don’t wanna disturb the baby.” Ethan leads him around the back via the wraparound porch. On the back side, the land slopes up, cresting into a ridge. Jackson sees a glimmering pond and, behind that, some kind of orchard.
“That’s the blueberry crop. Jane tends to it. I intend to make wine from the berries if we have enough—”
“I grow wild muscadines!” Jackson chirps. “Never made wine, but if you know how, you’re welcome to my grapes.” My grapes? Did I just really freaking say that?
“You serious? I’d love ’em. I have all the equipment and everything. And I’ll share the finished product.”
The air presses down on Jackson, causing him to sweat even more. That, and standing on the back porch next to Ethan, whose amber eyes are basically caressing him.
Ethan hops off the porch, and Jackson follows. Trails him around to a neat little shed with a Swift’s Apothecary sign hanging above the entryway.
It’s tiny, but open-air, with rows of twinkling glass bottles lining built-ins. From the ceiling, bundles of herbs are twined, hanging upside down to dry. The little room smells piney, like a spruce tree. “This space is incredible!”
“Yeah, it’s the wife’s shop. She’s really heavy into botanicals. All-natural stuff. Using Mother Earth to heal us…”
Jackson, of course, doesn’t let on that Charleigh already told him all about it.
“God, that must sound so dopey to you,” Ethan says, leaning against the counter.
“Not at all. There’s something to it—”
“Yeah, we just prefer to try and live as close to the land as possible. Not going in for pesticides, man-made chemicals, prescriptions—”
Jackson nods vehemently, his neck almost aching from how hard he keeps bending it. Naturally, he doesn’t agree with all this—he pops antibiotics when he has an infection—but he wants Ethan to believe he understands him, believe that he’s open-minded to an alternative way of thinking.
Jackson traces the row of bottles with his finger, stops when he reads a label that says, Love Potion. The skin on his face burns.
“And that right there? Her biggest seller. The ladies really go in for it.”