15. Blakely
FIFTEEN
Blakely
It isn’t until we’re back in Jackson’s car that I pull out my phone and realize I never texted Sierra. Honestly, I didn’t think of her once, and even though there’re dozens of missed calls and texts, I’m glad for my lack of communication.
It would have felt wrong to take advantage of Jackson after how raw I still feel from his realness. From his unwavering support in the face of my vulnerabilities.
I freaked out. Again . It’s been a long time since I’ve had two panic attacks so close together. Years of figuring out routines—of making sure every second is planned—have allowed me at least a modicum of control, and it’s not because I enjoy being busy. It’s because when I’m still, the thoughts creep in, weaving into my nerves, creating a spiral of panic that never lets me go once it’s taken root.
But there’s something about Jackson that inspires me to slow down. For the first time, I want to enjoy the quiet moments. If only my brain would let me. Still, even though today started as a disaster, I’m happy I’m here.
Who knew my vulnerability would inspire the same in him?
I’ve never been a secret keeper. No one has ever shared the most intimate parts of their soul, and I think I like the way it feels to hold something so valuable in the palm of my hand.
I love the way it feels when Jackson holds me in his.
I don’t think about the age difference. Or the fact he’s technically only with me because my father asked him to be. That I annoy him on my best day and make him hate me on my worst.
All I think about is how unbelievably safe it feels. How right . How there isn’t anything on this earth that would make me want to walk away. And maybe that’s why I didn’t text Sierra—because I was enjoying letting someone see me and reveling in the feel of them liking what they saw.
Jackson glances at me, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Leaning my head against the window, the chill of the glass sends a shock of cold shooting down my spine. “Sierra’s just pissed.”
Jackson hums. “Why?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t blurt out the truth. That he’s supposed to be a prop, and the only thing that matters to her—and usually to me—is how to spin a situation in my favor.
“She’s always pissed these days.” I sigh.
“What’s her job again?”
I look over at him. “She’s my manager. She literally runs every part of my day. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
He grunts and I laugh. “What?” Huffing out a breath, he shakes his head. “I mean…you pay her, right? So is it really her place to treat you the way she does?”
Defensiveness swirls in my stomach, the need to stand up for Sierra surging through my veins, urging me to lash out. She’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a mom, and I’m not sure what to do with the fact that Jackson is telling me she’s taking advantage.
What does that say about me if the only person in my life who gives a damn is only giving a damn because I pay them to?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I bite out. “Things are different for someone like me.”
His head cocks, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Because you choose for them to be or because they just are?”
“You don’t have any idea?—”
He cuts me off. “Calm down, princess, it’s just a question.”
“A shitty one,” I mutter, crossing my arms.
He grins. “So does the wicked witch need you back in your castle, or do I get a few more hours of your time?”
I bite my lip to stop my own smile, thankful he’s changing the subject. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Let’s go back to my place. We can cook some food.”
A knot of tension tangles in my stomach at the thought, but I nod. I’ve already been enough of a hassle today, no need to make it worse. Still, my brain jumps into overdrive, outlining all the ways I can avoid putting whatever he makes into my body. Or how many hours I’ll need at the gym to work it off.
“That sounds good.” I hesitate. “I’m pretty strict with what I eat, though, just fyi.”
His forehead creases. “Why?”
Shrugging, I tense my fingers in my lap. “Because I don’t like eating trash?”
Jackson smirks, rolling his eyes. “You’re right, delicious food is absolute garbage.”
I force a giggle to cover up the exasperation that’s sneaking its way into the moment. Of course he doesn’t understand. “I didn’t say that. I just… In my line of work, you have to stay in shape. Besides, it’s better for me mentally when I’m not desecrating my body with junk. Food is fuel, not enjoyment.”
A frown drags down his face. “That’s pretty sad, Blake.”
“Being healthy is sad?” I blink at him.
“Healthy…” His brow quirks. “Is that what you are?”
Usually, a question like that would send hot rage spewing through me like lava, but instead I’m holding back something else. The truth . For a split second, I try to find the words to tell him, but I’m not sure where to look. I don’t even know what they are . So I push the feeling back down, letting it find another deep, dark spot to hide, somewhere I can ignore that it exists.
He doesn’t really want to know about things like that anyway.
We turn into a neighborhood, surprise flickering through me as he pulls into the drive of a cozy, single-story house with white shutters and a dark wood door.
“This is where you live?” I blurt.
He turns off the ignition and leans back into his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Not grand enough for you, princess?”
I shake my head. “No…no I like it.”
Walking in the front door, I take in my surroundings, the subtle notes of tan and white furniture offsetting the emptiness of the space. There’s a complete lack of personality, like it’s a temporary place for him to sleep, not somewhere he could make a home. Fear skirts around inside of me at the reminder that even though he lives here, his home is somewhere else.
With other people.
I didn’t expect the thought to bother me so much, but I guess I didn’t really expect Jackson, either. Now, there’s nothing I want more than for him to stick around so I can soak in his presence.
With him, even when I’m still, the seconds don’t feel wasted.
“Okay, princess. I’ll give you the tour later. First, you can look for something that’s good enough to be your fuel .” He walks into the kitchen, gesturing to the fridge.
I smile, skipping after him, relief untangling the knot that’s been in my stomach since he mentioned food. Walking to the stainless-steel fridge, I open the door and bend down, searching through the shelves. His fridge is surprisingly well-stocked with a variety of choices, and it doesn’t take me long to find something I can handle.
Grabbing some chicken breasts, romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and an avocado, I stand back up and spin, a grin stretched across my face. But my smile slips when I see that Jackson is frozen in place, leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes burning through my clothes, singeing my skin as they slowly trail up my body. The green in his gaze is dark, and it makes heat flood between my legs, my heart kicking against my chest.
I swallow, taking slow steps toward him, feeling the warmth of his stare as I set the food next to a wooden cutting board.
“Any of this will work, so you can choose,” I mumble.
“Can I?” His voice is low and it sends pinpricks of pleasure trickling down my spine. My fingers grip the edge of the counter and I breathe in deep.
One. Two. Three.
“Yeah.” I lean back, the edge of the counter pressing into my skin. “Anything in front of you, you can have.”
His Adam’s apple bobs and it makes my stomach jump, a deep ache settling between my legs.
“Anything?” he rasps, taking a step closer.
I nod, my heart pounding against my ribs.
His cell vibrates on the counter next to me and I look down, the word Sweetheart dancing across the screen. Reality drops into my gut like a rock.
God, I’m such an idiot.
He glances at his phone, the muscle along the bottom of his jaw tightening as he reaches out to silence it. By the time his eyes come back to mine, the moment is lost. He sighs, running a hand through his hair and walking to the cutting board, starting to prep the chicken.
“Don’t wanna get that?” I nod toward his phone.
He shakes his head. “It’d be rude to answer while I’m with you.”
“I don’t mind.”
I do mind, but the need to know who “sweetheart” is and why he doesn’t want to speak to her when I’m around is strangling me, and I think I mind that more.
“Who’s sweetheart?” The question rolls off my tongue without my permission, my throat tightening.
His nostrils flare. “A friend from back home.”
“Must be a good one,” I quip.
“The best.” He nods.
My fists clench at my sides, but it doesn’t stop me from asking questions I have no business knowing the answers to. “Is she just a friend?”
“She’s…” He groans, looking up at the ceiling. “Yeah…she’s only ever been a friend.” His voice hitches and I peek at him from my peripheral. My chest squeezes tight when I see the grief etching itself on his face, and even though jealousy sears my insides, the look in his eyes has me biting my tongue, because I realize that it doesn’t matter who she is. Or that she always manages to steal his attention even when she’s thousands of miles away.
All that matters is his pain. And all I want to do in this moment is dive inside of his chest and grasp his heart in my hands, so she can’t hurt it anymore.
So I can keep it safe.