Chapter 22
NOW
July
Jackson didn’t come over once during the weekend, which was probably a good thing.
The restaurant was probably busy for the holiday weekend, and with Sophie being out of town, Jackson would’ve had to step in.
I didn’t go in once, even though I was craving pizza. I had to get my head back on straight.
I spent the weekend moving the family room around, pushing all the furniture into the middle so that I could start prepping the walls for paint. I washed the walls and filled in the holes, then I sanded every surface. Everything was ready to paint by the time Jackson came over on Monday.
When Jackson stepped into the family room, he took one look at my blanket and pillow on the couch and quirked his eyebrow. “Have you been sleeping on the couch?”
“Yeah,” I said without looking up at him. I had to fight the urge to cringe. The couch usually faced away from the front door, so he hadn’t seen the bedding until today. I’d meant to move it all before he got here, but I got so caught up in preparing the walls that it slipped my mind.
“Why? Did Peter get rid of your bed?” He leaned over and tore a loose strip of leather off the couch. Every morning when I woke up, I had to peel pieces of that faux leather off my arms and legs.
I shrugged one shoulder. “I haven’t been in my old room yet.” I finally met his eyes.
He looked at me like I was insane. “Maybe we should do that today instead? You shouldn’t sleep in here tonight with the paint drying.”
A lump appeared in my throat. I wasn’t ready to look inside that room.
The last time I had been in there, it was a whirlwind of grabbing what I could and running.
For all I knew, Peter had destroyed what was left of it, and being in there with Jackson might force me to finally discuss the past—something I still wasn’t ready for.
“Why don’t we tackle it tomorrow? We’ll just do the trim in here today,” I said as I picked up the paintbrushes and handed him one. Jackson didn’t argue, and instead of us picking songs off his phone, he put on a random playlist.
We were being nice, making small talk, and working on different sides of the room.
Jackson told me about his nephews, Sammy and Nico, who were six and seven now.
Sam had a wife named Emma who was also a lawyer, and every summer, Jackson and their boys stayed with Julie and Britt for two weeks in California.
Julie became a lawyer like she’d always planned, and her wife owned a coffee shop in downtown LA.
Jackson told me that every time he flies out there with his nephews, it’s like a big sleepover for two weeks straight.
Sophie has never gone with him because of the restaurant.
I was surprised he shared that with me, but it was clear that the restaurant was more important to Sophie than it was Jackson.
It didn’t escape my notice that she was gone for two weeks right now, though.
Was this the first time she’d been gone for this long?
It wasn’t my business though, and I didn’t want to ask him.
I told Jackson story after story about Mia. I had watched her grow up since she was two, and my entire life had revolved around her for the past decade. “I can’t wait to see her again; I miss that girl. She’s about to be a teenager now, and Wren and I are in denial.”
“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Jackson said with a small smile.
Ten years had gone by in a flash. So much had happened in our lives that the other wasn’t a part of.
There was so much to catch up on between graduation and now.
Even though I wanted to know more about what Jackson had been doing all this time, that could lead to a conversation about why he never tried to find me.
I couldn’t ask—I wasn’t strong enough to know.
We fell back into a comfortable silence, refocusing on painting.
I turned the music up, letting the sound fill the room.
“Paper Rings” by Taylor Swift started playing, and I couldn’t help myself from shaking my hips from side to side as I sang along to the song.
It was too catchy not to, and I could hear Jackson start to sing, too.
I felt like we were teenagers again, closing at the restaurant together.
When I turned around, Jackson was singing into his paintbrush like it was a microphone, so of course I had to follow suit.
We danced around the family room, jumping on the couch and coffee table as we belted out the lyrics.
Jackson looked ridiculous, and he almost fell off the couch when he tried to spin in a circle.
I leapt from the coffee table to the couch, and I felt winded from how much I was exerting myself.
I missed this side of us, acting like idiots together.
He started to sing into my face, and I leaned back, laughing as I pushed against his chest. He gave me a devious grin, then flipped his paintbrush to swipe it across the skin above my tank top. I gasped and tried to get him back but he ducked, and my paintbrush skimmed the side of his head.
We laughed as we attempted to paint the other, wrestling with each other’s hands until we fell off the couch and onto the floor.
I landed on top, my hips pinning him down as I tried to paint his face again.
He abandoned his own brush to hold both of my wrists.
I was crying from how hard I was laughing, trying to break free from his grip.
The song ended, and “That’s So True” by Gracie Abrams started playing like a warning.
Both our smiles slowly faded as the lyrics basically screamed at us.
My thighs tightened around his hips anyways, and Jackson pressed his lips together to keep from making a sound.
I was breathing so heavily I felt like my breasts were about to fall out of my tank top with each inhale.
The paint on my chest was dripping down into my cleavage, but the only thing I could concentrate on was the feeling of Jackson beneath me.
The way he was enjoying me on top of him.
The paintbrush fell from my hands, and paint splattered against Jackson’s side.
Neither of us reacted to the mess. He has a fiancée.
Get off. His lips parted, and for a second I thought he was going to pull me down to kiss him.
I wasn’t sure if I would be strong enough to fight it.
At least I didn’t rock my hips against him—that had to count for something, right?
Suddenly, Jackson flipped us so I was on my back and he was holding himself up between my legs.
He was still holding my wrists even though I had already dropped the paintbrush.
Our hands hovered over my chest, and I wriggled my hips slightly.
As if he’d sensed my thoughts, Jackson leaned forward, pinning my wrists to the floor above my head.
Our chests connected, and I felt a rush of heat run through my center at the hardness of his chest against the softness of mine.
This time I was the one pressing my lips together to keep from reacting.
Paint was transferring from my chest to his T-shirt with each breath I took, but we still didn’t move away.
His brown eyes bored into mine, filled with want.
It was like he was daring me to make the first move.
I averted my gaze to stare at his lips, because I’ll admit it, I wanted to kiss him.
I saw a faint scar right above his mouth, and the memory of his split lip at sixteen years old rocked me back in time. Suddenly, I remembered the rules.
“No touching,” I whispered.
He slammed his eyes shut and took in a huge breath of air.
“I’m so sorry. I should go,” Jackson said as he let go of my wrists and scrambled to get up.
I sat up just as quick, fixing my hair and picking up the paintbrushes.
“No, no. I’m sorry. That was . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. Highly inappropriate.
Jackson looked at me with apologetic eyes. I knew that look; he’d looked at me like that plenty of times when we were teenagers. That look meant he was fighting something inside—that he wanted me, too. The past started rolling over me in unwanted waves. I hated this. I hated everything about this.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again before flying out the front door.
I dropped one of the paintbrushes, then returned to the wall to keep painting. I had to give up when I couldn’t get my hand to stop shaking.