Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
MEYER
You will regret this.
Despite the fact that the letters are indistinguishable now, the message is burned into my brain. Stamped behind my eyelids. I turn the words over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of them.
A hand touches my arm. “Meyer.”
I jump. I’ve been on edge since Jackson and I got back and found the paint. But my body relaxes marginally when I realize it’s only Pippa standing beside me.
Despite this, I don’t cease my angry scrubbing. I’ve been at it for hours. As soon as the police wrapped up their report, I took to the supply closet to find a bucket and some sponges.
We’ll have to have the white siding repainted. There’s no way around that. Even if I scrub until my fingers bleed, there will be no erasing this completely.
“Meyer,” she says more forcefully, grabbing the sponge I’m holding. “Stop. ”
“I already tried that,” Jackson says. He pushes away from where he was leaning farther down the wall, looking as weary as I feel. “It didn’t end well.”
We all look at the patch of red slashed across the front of his white shirt from where I pressed a hand against him. He abandoned his jacket some time ago, so at least I don’t have to feel bad about possibly ruining one of his suits.
Pippa sighs. She retracts her hand and folds her arms against her chest, hugging herself. “Who would do this?” she asks. “ Why ?”
I let the sponge fall to the ground with a splat. Then I stare at my hands, tinged red from the water and paint mixture I created. It looks a lot like blood.
Wordlessly, Jackson passes me a dry cloth, and I wipe my palms clean.
“You should go home, Pip,” I say. My voice is scratchy, my throat impossibly dry. “It’s late.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Declan’s home with Atticus. My priority right now is you .”
I offer her a reassuring smile. At least, I try to. Her frown indicates that perhaps it turns out more like a grimace.
“Really, it’s okay. I promise I’m done with the scrubbing. I just want to go to bed.”
She chews on her bottom lip, thinking. “Maybe you should stay in one of the rooms tonight. Or you could stay with me.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, but I need my sleep. I need my own bed, and I can’t be kept up by your snoring.”
Her mouth pops open in shock. “I do not snore ! ”
“You so do.” This time, my smile is genuine. “Seriously. Please go home. I’m alright.”
After carefully assessing my face for signs of a lie, Pippa nods. She wraps her arms around me in a gentle hug as she reminds me how much she loves me. Then she sets across the parking lot toward her car.
“C’mon, Ellison,” Jackson says, nudging my arm. “I’ll walk you home.”
On a normal day, I would protest. But there’s nothing normal about today.
After checking in with the staff working the night shift to make sure they have everything they need, Jackson and I make the trek to my cottage.
When I step inside, Jackson follows. I whirl around. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He frowns, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “If you’re insisting on staying here alone, then I’m making sure the house is clear first. And that all your windows are locked.”
“My house wasn’t broken into,” I insist.
Jackson sighs. “Anything else, Ellison, I’ll let you fight me until you run out of breath. But your safety is not something I’m willing to argue about.”
That strangely sounds like he cares . And that makes the words dry up in my throat. All I can do now is nod, and then I let him into my house.
True to his word, Jackson inspects every nook and cranny of my tiny cottage. As his search proves fruitless, my muscles begin to relax, and I decide that maybe we’re all a bit paranoid. The spray paint was probably just some dumb high school kids with nothing better to do. Wouldn’t be the first time a building in town got graffitied.
But it wasn’t just graffiti , a part of me says.
Like it or not, this was intentional—a way to get under my skin. My mind drifts to Reggie. He’s the only person I know of that would be mad enough to want to hurt me like this. But he wouldn’t do that. Or would he?
I thought I knew him, but I had never expected him to act the way he did the other day when I fired him. That was a side to him I hadn’t ever seen before.
When the last window is unlocked, opened, slammed shut and then locked again, I feel more at ease. Everything is right in my tiny corner of Fraisier Creek. Even Fish comes out from his hiding spot, sans panties, to swish against my shins.
When he spots Jackson, he hisses. This causes a small giggle to burst from my lips. Then I take note of Jackson’s offended expression, and the laughter turns hysterical, verging on unhinged.
“Like mother, like son,” Jackson muses.
“He takes a while to warm up to people,” I admit.
Also not unlike his mother.
I think of my mom’s nickname for me—prickly pear. Sharp on the outside, but all around sweet on the inside , she would say.
It’s natural to me to distance myself, but over the years, I’ve honed my skills. Other than with my select inner circle, closeness breeds vulnerability, and I can’t afford to be vulnerable when I want to be taken seriously by my employees. By this town.
I was raised by this town, and I know they love me. But it’s also not lost on me that to most, I’m still that little girl who would play make believe in the corridors of the inn. As a woman—and a young one, no less—I’m already at a disadvantage. Giving off the impression that I can’t handle whatever comes my way is not an option.
So I’m a prickly pear, and I’ll be damned if I let Jackson Vaughan crack me open.
I clear my throat. “Thanks,” I say quietly. “I’d, uh, really like to go to sleep now.”
He almost looks hesitant to leave, but he nods. “Okay,” he says, heading for the door, “we can talk about this tomorrow. Make sure you lock up behind me.”
“Believe it or not, I know how to operate a lock,” I fire back, holding the door open for him. “It’s this little flippy thing back here, right?”
His lips quirk when he turns to look at me over his shoulder. “There she is.”
Here I am, prickly and closed off. While any other man would’ve already written me off as too difficult, Jackson doesn’t look deterred. He looks amused. Glad, even, that my public persona has slipped back into place.
But it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me.
I sigh as I shut the door, lock it, and then flip Jackson the bird for having the utter audacity.
Tonight, my bedtime routine feels like a gruelling workout. By the time I’m done, I’m even more exhausted than I was before, with none of the benefits of exercising.
I settle into bed, a lamp illuminated on the table beside me, Fish curled at my feet. And I don’t sleep a wink.
The next two weeks trudge by slowly. The police get nowhere with tying the spray paint to anyone, much less Reggie, who seems to have skipped town. In the absence of answers, Jackson has taken it upon himself to distract us.
The morning following the vandalism, Jackson brought me a coffee. Whether he thought I needed it or he was trying to butter me up, I’m still not sure. After clarifying it wasn’t poisoned—to which I received an eye roll—I took one sip. And promptly gagged.
“ Black ?” I sputtered, incredulous.
He hummed, ignoring my question. “Not black, then,” he muttered to himself.
The next day, another coffee awaited me. This one had a splash of cream. It was better than the bitterness from the day before, but again, I gagged.
It didn’t dawn on me until the third day what he was up to. By trial and error, he was figuring out my coffee order. Instead of asking me—though if I’m honest, I wouldn’t tell him—he decided to conduct an experiment. Collect that data he loves so much.
Jackson could easily ask Prachi, the regular barista at the café. Flash her his easy grin and she’d be a puddle of knowledge in no time. He doesn’t do that, though.
I’d be annoyed if it weren’t so nerdy and endearing.
No , I tell myself firmly. Nothing about Jackson Vaughan is endearing . He’s still enemy number one .
“Morning.” A to-go cup, complete with biodegradable sleeve, is placed on top of the report I’m staring at with unseeing eyes. “Your caffeine fix.”
I look up. Damn it . Jackson looks exceptionally good today in a navy suit. He’s ditched the tie, and I’m tempted to ask what that means in his philosophy of suits, but I refrain.
Enemy, Meyer. E-N-E-M-Y.
He brings his own cup to his mouth, takes a sip, and then licks his lips. Over the last two weeks, I’ve managed to forget about our almost moment in the parking lot. At least, I forget about it until he does something like lick his kissable lips. Then, well, my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t.
“Meyer.” My eyes snap up, away from his lips. Jackson’s gaze brims with amusement. “Drink your coffee.”
“I will,” I reply, “but not because you told me to. I’m drinking it because I’m thirsty.”
I take a tentative sip. Jackson eyes me as I let the coffee settle on my tastebuds. Shit . It only took him two weeks to figure it out. I force a look of dissatisfaction so he doesn’t know that he has hit the mark—medium roast with one sugar and a generous dash of hazelnut creamer.
I set my cup back on the desk and clear my throat. Jackson grins, and I internally curse my expressive face.
“That’s it, right?” he asks. “I got it right?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
His own cup can’t hide the self-satisfied smile he wears as he brings it to his lips again. I hate it. Hate that he sees me, even if it’s just something stupid like my coffee order.
Thankfully, I’m saved from Jackson’s gloating when the office door swings open. It reveals an elderly man with greying hair and a practiced scowl .
“Where’s my bench, Meyer?”
I sigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eddie.”
He crosses his arms. “My bench,” he says gruffly. “It’s gone.”
“I didn’t touch your bench. You know I wouldn’t,” I reply, hand placed over my heart in earnest. I turn and raise my brows at Jackson. “Perhaps Mr. Vaughan knows something about it?”
Eddie wastes no time. He marches up to Jackson and shoves a finger into his chest. “You got rid of my bench.”
“The one out front that was falling apart?” Jackson asks. “That bench?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s it. The one that holds a lot of sentimental value for Eddie.”
“My wife was sitting on that bench when I met her,” Eddie adds. “That was our bench.”
Jackson’s gaze flits to me, unsure. I shrug, but inside, I’m grinning. “I can appreciate that, sir, but it really was in poor condition. Someone could’ve gotten hurt if they sat in it.”
Eddie’s voice takes on a choked up quality as he says, “It was all I had left of her.” Now Jackson looks downright stricken. “This is what happens when you city folk come in and try to change everything. You wreck things!”
I almost feel bad about the guilt written on Jackson’s face. Almost .
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I’ll get your bench back.”
“I’ve been visiting that bench for the last sixty years,” Eddie continues. He truly is a good actor. “Don’t fix what ain’t broke.”
He takes a step back, like he’s preparing to leave, and then he looks at me. Eddie and I stare at each other for a beat, and then we both start to laugh. He leans against the doorframe, tipping sideways from the force of his guffaws.
“Alright, I’m…confused,” Jackson admits.
This only makes us laugh harder.
“That never gets old,” Eddie declares, slapping his thigh.
Jackson crosses his arms. “What is going on?”
“Rite of passage to work here,” I explain. “Try being fifteen and only officially on the job for an hour. Eddie almost made me shit my pants, thinking I had done something to ruin his connection to his late wife.”
“Then your mama had to go and cut my fun short,” Eddie adds with a pout.
We dissolve into laughter again, but Jackson just shakes his head. Before he leaves, Eddie pats me on the back, and then he offers Jackson a handshake.
I’m still smiling as the door closes behind the old man.
“He is wrong, you know,” Jackson says. “I know it was a joke, but I really am trying to help.”
A sliver of guilt settles in my gut. Slowly, I nod. “I know,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze. “I’m…starting to see that.”