36. Margot
36
margot
“Look at the onions on your plate!” I point an accusatory finger like he’s spilled actual blood in the middle of this New York City pizza shop. To be honest, I wasn’t that certain of my theory. The amount of time Jackson and I have spent in the same state as a couple isn’t much, and it’s not like we cook with onions daily. There was really only one instance when Braden cooked some type of casserole, and Jackson ate around them.
Jackson doesn’t talk about himself much. Sure, he talks about the things he wants—mostly music and me—but he doesn’t share the little details. But those are the details I soak up like a damn sponge.
Apparently, it comes in handy when you want to place a bet.
Jackson glances down at his plate. “What? They probably just fell off.”
My eyes narrow. “Jackson, there’s no way only onions fell off your pizza. Plus, I saw you pick them off.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up when I say his name, but he seems unfazed about the bet. I hope he doesn’t think I forgot. Or maybe he thinks I won’t cash in. But I refuse to believe his lyrics are “trash,” as he so often puts it. I want to see them for myself. I want to know what he was scribbling in that notebook all summer. Already excited for my prize, I sit up a little straighter and lift my chin. “I win.”
Jackson doesn’t react or look disappointed in the slightest, and it takes some of the fun out of winning. At least let me gloat.
He pushes his plate aside. “All right. Maybe I don’t love onions, but I didn’t pick them all off.”
I laugh. “You picked off enough.”
He holds my gaze like he’s debating whether to fight me on this. When he finally looks away, he lets out a sigh. “Fine. You win.”
I grin, but he cuts me off when he leans forward and points at me.
In a low voice, he says, “But I want you naked as soon as we’re in that hotel room. Skinny dipping or not.”
“And you’ll let me look at your lyrics?”
He scratches the side of his head and drops his gaze. “Some of them.”
My lips twist. I love seeing him squirm. It’s such a rare thing that I only feel a little bad about being the cause of his discomfort.
“The good ones,” I tease.
“Good might be a stretch.” Stacking our plates in a neat pile on the table, he nods toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
On the walk back to our hotel, Jackson asks at least six times if there’s anything I’d like to see before we head in for the night.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Times Square?”
Make that seven.
With an incredulous look, I say, “Would you stop? You’re acting like Times Square is going to disappear by morning. ”
He scratches the side of his head. “I just figured you’d want to see as much as you can while you’re here.”
Stepping in front of him, I cut him off, stopping him in his tracks. “I’m not here to see New York, okay? I’m here to see you.”
His eyes search mine the way they always do when he thinks I might be putting up a front. It breaks my heart a little that he thinks he has to cram in special dates and sight-seeing just to make my trip worth it. He would be the highlight of my trip regardless of what we did.
When he doesn’t say anything right away, I add, “We can plan a trip when you have a break from touring. We’ll come back together and see everything this city has to offer.”
“You’re sure?”
I shake my head, a bemused smile pulling at my lips. “Would you stop doing that?”
A slight crease forms between his brows. “Doing what?”
“Doubting me,” I answer simply. “I know what I want, Jackson. If I wanted to go to Times Square, I’d tell you.”
A slow, easy smile stretches across his face. “Oh, I could never doubt you, Red.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing down my neck. “You’re one of the few things I’m sure of.”
My entire body tingles at his touch until a familiar heat settles between my thighs. I don’t know how he does it. All it takes is a brush of his fingertips and I’m ready to jump him. He’s so close to me and breathing in his familiar scent has my head spinning. How does he smell this good even after a show?
When I’m quiet, there’s a flicker of amusement behind those eyes. He takes a step closer, forcing me to look up at him. His hand still tracing lazy circles, like at any moment he might wrap that hand around my neck and pull my lips to his.
I fight the urge to press my thighs together.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low .
My brain struggles to keep up with what he’s doing to my body. With a small disbelieving huff, I ask, “What?”
Cradling my face in both hands, he gently kisses my lips, and my legs go weak, the heat between my thighs intensifying. “You said you know what you want, so what is it?” Another slow kiss lingers on my lips until he murmurs against my mouth, “Tell me.”
My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You’re impossible.”
His low chuckle sends a tingle down my spine. His thumbs brush over my cheeks, his hands still holding me in place. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say it. I think I have a pretty good idea.” He gives me one more chaste kiss before stepping back, a taunting smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You,” I say with a shake of my head, my lips twisting as I fight my smile. Instead of finishing my sentence, I turn and start walking. “Unbelievable.”
His footsteps speed up, and I yelp as he wraps his arms around me from behind. “Know where you’re going, Red?” he says in my ear.
It’s hard to keep the laughter out of my voice, but I manage to say, “You’re frustrating.”
“Good.” He kisses my cheek from over my shoulder. “It will give me something to redeem myself for later.”
My entire body warms, and I’d love to know how he plans on doing that.
Stopping me, he spins me around.
“What?” My voice comes out more alarmed than it should, my body still on edge from thoughts of him redeeming himself.
He points over his shoulder with his thumb, and amusement shines in his eyes. “The hotel is back there.”
Craning around him, I see the entrance to our hotel a few feet back. “I was distracted. ”
“Because I distract you,” he says it like it’s an accomplishment, and I get the urge to roll my eyes again.
“You . . .” But I can’t argue his point. He does distract me. Always. It doesn’t matter if he’s thousands of miles away or standing right in front of me, Jackson Phillips is the best kind of distraction. Instead of finishing my sentence, I push up on my toes and kiss him. Jackson wraps his arms around me, deepening the kiss, his mouth warm and soft on mine. It isn’t the same as when he kissed me earlier today. This kiss is slow and packed with feeling, and I do everything I can to memorize this moment.
I’m breathless by the time we break the kiss, and grasping his hand, I pull him toward the hotel. The sound of his low laughter warming my soul.