Chapter 1 The Boots That Started Everything #2
But the moment is gone. I can feel it, the fizz of excitement that's been carrying me all week, flattened now into something that just needs to be reported.
"Twenty events minimum. I set the per-head rate.
She's paying for ingredients at cost plus fifteen percent, and I get to bring my own staff or use hers as I choose. "
Jackson presses my hand between both of his, trying to find the excitement he missed. "That's incredible. I'm proud of you."
He means it. I can see that he means it. Then he glances at his phone again.
Is he waiting for her to call back? I am sitting right here.
"Thank you." I fold my napkin beside my plate.
He gestures toward the view as though a nicer restaurant might do what he hasn't done here. "We should celebrate. Properly. This weekend, maybe, somewhere nice..."
I know his calendar because I've been trying to find room in it all week. "You have the buyers coming Saturday."
He counts ahead on his fingers, searching for another opening. "Sunday then."
I hate having to reject an invitation I should have been happy about. "Your mother invited us for dinner."
Jackson starts to reach for the phone to move the dinner, then remembers and leaves it alone. "We can reschedule."
"Jackson." I pull my hand back. "I don't want a rescheduled celebration squeezed between obligations. I wanted tonight. I told you I wanted tonight. You promised me tonight."
He looks down at the hand I've pulled away.
He keeps his eyes on me this time. "You're right. I broke the promise. I'm sorry."
I push my plate away. I'm not going to finish it now. "Tell me about Shay."
His eyebrows lift. "Now?"
I can see the objection forming, and I stop him before he can pretend she's off his mind. "You're thinking about her anyway. I can see it. Let's just have the conversation so I know what I'm agreeing to."
He nods slowly. "We grew up together. She was the only kid within three miles who wasn't scared of my family, so we ended up in a lot of trouble together. There's a story about my father's tractor that I've never fully confessed to."
I remember Delilah laughing about damage Jackson still wouldn't explain. "The barn incident."
For the first time since the call, he almost looks pleased with me again. "You remember."
I don't reward him with the smile he's looking for. "I remember you being vague about it."
He almost smiles. "We tried to see if the tractor could fit through the barn doors at full speed. It couldn't."
I can picture it. Young Jackson, reckless and convinced of his own invincibility, egged on by a girl who matched his energy. That version of him isn't so different from the man I married. "What kind of work is she looking for?"
Jackson turns his empty glass by the stem, considering the request. "Anything. She said she can't afford to be choosy."
I need something concrete before I invite a stranger into our home. "Eight months is a long time to be looking. Either she's being picky or something's making employers pass her over."
He hesitates. "I don't know the full story yet. She didn't want to get into it on the phone."
I watch him hesitate over what he doesn't know. "But you want to help her."
He spreads his hands beside his plate, asking me to see how simple it could be. "I want to at least give her a chance. See if there's something here that would work."
I think about the grounds crew, down a person since Martinez moved to Colorado last month.
We've been meaning to fill the position anyway.
If she can do the work and show up on time, does it matter that she's Jackson's childhood friend rather than a stranger from an agency?
"We can consider it. I'd want to know more first. Why the eight months, what experience she has, whether she'd fit with the rest of the team. "
Jackson reaches for the notepad he keeps in his pocket. "Of course. Absolutely. I'll get you whatever information you need."
I stop him before this becomes a decision we've supposedly made together. "And I want to meet her before we decide anything."
He writes that down too, his answer quick with relief. "Done."
The relief on his face is too large for what I've offered. I've agreed to consider, nothing more, and he's looking at me like I've handed him something precious.
Why is helping her suddenly so urgent? He barely mentioned her before tonight. "I haven't said yes to anything."
"I know. But you're willing to listen, and that's..." He stops himself. "That's more than I had any right to expect, given how I handled the last thirty minutes."
I let the agreement stand. I don't need to tell him his apology is unnecessary. "It is."
We finish dinner in something that isn't quite silence and isn't quite conversation. The lamb has gone cold and I don't care anymore. When we carry the plates inside, Jackson loads the dishwasher while I wrap the leftovers, and we move around each other with the ease of long practice.
But the ease feels different tonight. Thinner.
I'm being unfair. His friend is in crisis and he responded to her. That's not a character flaw. That's who he is, the man who shows up when people need him, the man who carried his family's legacy at nineteen when his father died and his mother needed someone to lean on.
I fell in love with that man. I married that man.
It's just that tonight, I wanted to be the person he showed up for.
In bed, Jackson reaches for me the way he always does, his hand finding the curve of my hip under the covers. "I really am proud of you. The Bennett contract. You worked hard for that."
I look at him in the dark. I wish he'd stayed with that thought at dinner. "I did."
He brushes his thumb over my hip, trying to settle the space between us. "And I'm sorry I got distracted. It won't happen again."
I want to believe him. I want to let the evening end on his apology rather than my disappointment. "What does Shay need? Specifically. What would actually help her?"
He shifts onto his side to face me. "Honest work. A place where her history doesn't follow her through every door. People who'll give her a chance to prove herself."
I draw the blanket over my shoulder while I consider what we can reasonably promise. "We can offer that. If she's willing to earn it."
Jackson answers with a certainty I haven't been given enough information to share. "She is. I know she is."
He kisses my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth. I let him, but I don't reach back the way I usually do, and after a moment he settles onto his pillow.
He reaches past me to switch off the bedside lamp. "Get some sleep. We'll figure it out tomorrow."
I lie awake after his breathing slows, watching moonlight move across the ceiling.
The jewelry box on my vanity sits open the way I always leave it. My grandmother's opal catches the light, throwing color across the darkness, blue and green and fire. I've worn it almost every day since she died. Jackson touches it sometimes, gentle, like he knows what it means to me.
I think about the woman on the phone. The warmth in his voice when he talked to her. Tell me what happened. Hang in there.
I wanted him to talk to me like that tonight. I've gotten efficient Jackson, distracted Jackson, the version of my husband who's present in body but calculating feed prices in his head.
That's not about Shay. That's just April, auction season, the busiest month of his year.
But she gets soft Jackson on her first phone call in years, and I can't even finish announcing my contract.
I turn onto my side, facing away from him.
Friday night was supposed to be ours. I've been holding onto that thought since Monday, since he looked me in the eye over breakfast and said I promise.
Promises used to mean something. He once bid fifteen thousand dollars on a charity dance with me, then spent the evening trying to defend his orange boots. When he said he wanted another date, I believed him. I built a life on believing.
Maybe that's not fair either. One interrupted dinner isn't a pattern. One phone call from an old friend isn't a betrayal.
I close my eyes. Tomorrow I'll wake up and be reasonable. I'll meet this woman before we hire her. I'll ask about her work and give her a fair chance.
But tonight I go to sleep with the taste of cold lamb on my tongue and the echo of his voice in my ears, warm and careful, asking someone else what she needed.
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