Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
MEYER
Have you seen Jackson today?
Pippa
Not yet! I don’t think he’s been in.
Something feels off.
Not the same kind of strange as Jackson finding those pictures of me, but strange nonetheless. Usually Jackson is the first of us to arrive in the office, despite my efforts to come in early, and he always has a coffee waiting for me. This morning, there was no Jackson and no coffee.
I could text him myself. I’ve even thought about it, opening our message thread and staring at the screen. But this is everything I have been wanting since the day he set foot here—Jackson, out of my way.
Except…maybe that’s not what I want anymore.
I stand from the desk abruptly, my chair rolling backwards. Stuffing my phone into my back pocket, I make my way into the hall and head for the stairs. I haven’t been to Jackson’s room at the inn since I went on my tipsy rampage. I told myself I wouldn’t go back, for the sake of my dignity. But desperate times and all that.
After knocking on Jackson’s door, I take a step back, feeling all sorts of awkward. Why did I think this was a good idea again?
Because I’m trying to be nice. Because, as loath as I am to admit it, I’m more than just curious about the reason he’s missing work. I care .
When the door swings open, the sarcastic comment on the tip of my tongue promptly dies. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Jackson rubs a hand across his jaw. He is generally always clean shaven, but today, he’s let the stubble take over. It isn’t a bad look, though it is slightly concerning.
“Sorry, I meant to text you,” he says. “I’m not coming in today.”
Since he’s been in town, Jackson hasn’t missed a single day of work. Not once. I would be surprised if he has ever taken a day off in his whole adult life. He’s definitely the type.
“You’re not?” My eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Can’t I take a day off without having some kind of ulterior motive?” he asks.
“This,” I say, gesturing to his appearance, “is not like you.” I try to gentle my voice. “What’s going on, Jackson?”
He scoffs. “You don’t know me. And you’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want to.”
My brows jump in surprise. “Wow, this really isn’t like you. You must be spending too much time with me. ”
He sighs, the weary look in his eyes growing stronger. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
I lay a hand on his arm. The move shocks me almost as much as it shocks him. “Just tell me what’s going on. Are you sick? I promise I’ll leave you alone. I’m just…worried.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. It’s Cherie’s birthday today, and I thought I could handle it. Operate like normal. Evidently, that’s not the case.”
That stops me in my tracks. In all the years I had known Jackson’s grandmother, I don’t think I ever learned when her birthday was. I’m not sure my mother even knows. The last thing Cherie would have wanted is us making a fuss over it.
She wouldn’t want Jackson to be alone today either.
“Alright,” I say as an idea begins to form. “You have five minutes.”
“Five minutes? For what?”
“To get ready.” I gesture to his room behind him. “Come on, hurry up. I need your help with something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not really in the mood, Meyer.”
“Well, tough.” I cross my arms. “We can’t let Cherie’s birthday go by without making her favourite dessert. She’d find a reason to haunt us.”
This earns me a small grin. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“She absolutely would. So get beautified, Hotshot, and then let’s go.”
Baking with Jackson was a mistake.
First, he doesn’t know his teaspoons from his tablespoons, so he severely over-measured the salt for the pie crust. Then he almost choked me with the amount of flour that flew around my kitchen. After having to scrap everything for a third time, I finally relegated him to cleanup while I started over with the crust, then the filling.
As the shell bakes, Jackson leans against the island, watching while I slice the tops off a basket of strawberries. He reaches over and plucks one from the bowl, popping it in his mouth.
“Hey.” I poke him in the side. “Those are not for eating.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what they’re intended for,” he replies.
I bite my tongue as I take a steadying breath. Be nice, Meyer. He’s having a hard day . Though he seems to be in much better spirits now. I’d like to think I had a hand in that. I took a shot in the dark by forcing him from his room earlier.
Shaking my head, I say, “You sound like Atticus.”
When I look over at him, I see a soft smile pulling at his lips. My heart does a little backflip. Ever since the day we were at the strawberry patch, Atticus has been obsessed with Jackson, even more than he was before. Atticus loves his uncle, but I think having another guy around has been good for him. Good for Jackson, too, it seems.
“He really likes you,” I add.
“I really like him, too,” he replies. “He’s a good kid.”
He was wrong earlier, when he said I didn’t know him. Without my permission, I’ve become familiar with parts of Jackson I had no intention of knowing. When he’s not being a gigantic pain in my ass, and I forget about the inn, he’s actually…nice to be around. A fact I don’t care to admit out loud, especially to him.
I’ve known he’s attractive since I first set eyes on him back in April. But slowly, he’s been challenging all of the preconceived notions I had about him.
Jackson reaches for another strawberry, but I pluck it from his grasp before he can eat it. My other hand presses against his chest, holding him back.
“This,” I say, holding the berry between my thumb and forefinger, “is not for you.”
I go to put the berry back in the bowl, but he grabs my wrist. When my eyes flit to meet his, something in them has changed. His gaze snares me, and I am held captive in the honey pools of his eyes. He pulls my hand toward him, and then he’s taking a bite out of the strawberry.
Lips parted, I watch him swallow. The air in the room feels charged, like we’re one second away from some kind of explosion. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice the temperature shifting, but it’s suddenly very hot in here.
I have no idea what’s happening, but I am powerless to stop it.
Jackson drops my wrist, but he presses closer. My chest rises and falls with each strangled breath I take. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out. I swear I’m not breathing as his brows lower, his attention then focused on his hand. Barely, at first, and then with more confidence, his thumb sweeps in an arch across my cheekbone.
“You had some flour there,” he croaks, his throat tightening.
“ Oh ,” I breathe, unable to hide the note of disappointment in my tone. I curse myself for what little restraint I seem to possess.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” I swallow, and then words fall from my lips before I can stop them. “You looked a little like you were maybe going to kiss me.”
“Oh.” The silence stretches, threatening to consume me. “If I said that I was thinking about it, would you let me?”
My stomach bottoms out and my breathing shallows again. Would I let him?
Maybe it’s the proximity or the sweetness of the pie filling, or maybe my oven is malfunctioning and filling the room with toxic fumes, but?—
“ Yes .”
He surges forward, taking my face in his hands. I expect roughness with his urgency, but he’s gentle. Almost too gentle.
I close my eyes at the first brush of his lips. Then he’s tilting my face up, angling it just so, before his mouth claims mine. I can taste the strawberry on him still, and it has my tongue sweeping out across his lower lip.
He groans in surprise, but he lets me in. It’s a clash of teeth and tongue and lips, and I pull myself closer to him, wanting more. Wanting it all.
For a few minutes, I forget about where I am and who I’m with. I don’t let myself consider the ramifications of my actions, I just feel. And it feels wonderful . For the first time in what seems like forever, my brain goes quiet. It’s strange when something so loud finally shuts off.
Eventually, Jackson pulls away, and my body comes crashing back into reality. His hands are still on my face, so I take a step back, letting them fall away.
My thoughts—all of them, every single one—roar inside my brain. Oh, God. What did I just do?
I clear my throat as I turn toward the oven, just in time for it to ding. The pie crust is, mercifully, ready. I take my time donning my oven mitts and pulling the tray from the oven, all so I can avoid looking at Jackson.
Maybe if I pretend the awkwardness isn’t there, it will go away.
When I look up, he is staring at me. Trying to understand the shift. Please , my eyes plead. Let me hide .
A coward in every sense of the word. But me and Jackson, we no longer toe a line—we’ve crossed it. And now I’m trying desperately to scramble back to the place we once were, for going any further into the unknown will surely end in disaster.
A kiss. With my business partner , no less.
Shame threads through my veins like vines on a trellis. Mom had asked me to get along with Jackson, not do this . Despite the teasing way she talked about Cherie’s hope for us and our partnership. And if anyone in town found out, they would question everything . My integrity.
The inn is more important—would always be more important—than a kiss. Even if that kiss sent a trail of blazing heat down my spine. Even if Jackson’s lips slotted against my own like two puzzle pieces, joined at last.
Even if, goddamn it, I liked it.
“The filling needs more sugar,” he says.
A beat of silence, then understanding. Out. He’s giving me an out. I grab hold of it with both hands, and I don’t look back.
“Considering you can’t tell your head from your ass when it comes to baking, I think you should let me handle it, Hotshot,” I reply. “Recipes have specific measurements for a reason.”
“If you say so.”
I dip a spoon into the filling and then let it settle on my tongue. It tastes off.
“What the hell?”
He smirks. “Can’t tell my head from my ass, huh?”
I glower at him, then frown at the bowl. “What happened?”
A distraction. Jackson Vaughan is nothing but a distraction, with his pretty words and his pretty face.
What usually takes me no time at all ends up becoming a large task as I remake the filling. Still, when the pie is done, chilling in the fridge, I smile. I like to bake a variety of strawberry pies, but this is one of my favourite recipes—the filling is mixed in a pot on the stove, then poured into the baked shell and set in the fridge. It’s served cold with a dollop of whipped cream on top.
“We managed to spend the whole day together without any threats of death,” I muse.
Jackson nods. “You should be proud of yourself. Impeccable restraint on your behalf.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”
“About what? ”
“Killing me.” When his brows jump, I amend my statement. “Not actually . Metaphorically.”
He grins. “I know what you meant.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, ever casual. “But I’m afraid I can’t say that I have.”
Now my brows jump in surprise. “I’m very stubborn, you know. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“That, Ellison, is precisely what I like most about you.”
Not for the first time, Jackson has managed to render me speechless.
“The pie,” he goes on, as if he hadn’t just complimented me. My obstinacy. “When can we eat?” His eyes lock on mine, and I can almost swear something predatory—wolfish—flashes in them. “I’m hungry.”