Chapter 8 Jackson
JACKSON
Rosalie doesn’t talk much on the ride back, but I try not to take it personally.
She’s not an overly chatty person. She doesn’t have to fill every quiet space with words, and the silence isn’t uncomfortable.
It’s quite the opposite, really. That is, until the urge to reach out and hold her hand comes out of nowhere and smacks me in the chest.
Wanting to hook up is one thing. There are lots of women I want to hook up with. But holding hands? That’s couple behavior.
Maybe it’s the fact that today kinda feels like a date. Or that it’s been a long while since I let anyone outside of my family into my space. Hell, maybe it’s the afternoon sun, and I’m suffering the effects of heatstroke.
Fuck, it doesn’t really matter what’s causing this feeling.
All I know is holding her hand would be unwelcome, and the last thing I want to do is make Rosalie uncomfortable.
Besides, for the first time in forever, I feel like we’ve finally found a middle ground.
She’s not actively avoiding me—and yes, that’s partially due to the fact she’s stuck in my home for the next week.
But she didn’t have to agree to spend the day with me.
She didn’t have to talk freely or offer details about her life.
That feels precious, and I’m not about to fuck it up.
“Do you need me to carry anything inside?” Rosalie asks as I pull in front of my house.
“I’ve got it.” Like I would let her lift a finger when my hands are perfectly capable. She really does not understand the concept of being spoiled. “You’ll probably want to take a shower.”
“Obviously.” She shoots me a mock glare as I cut the engine. “I hope you are going to take one as well.”
It’s a shame she doesn’t offer to conserve water and take one together.
“Yeah, I’m gonna unpack, shower, and then start on dinner. Give me an hour or so. Does that work for you?”
“Let me check my schedule.” She grins. Actually grins, and I feel as though I’ve earned some kind of award.
“Be prepared to be further wowed by my culinary excellence.”
We exit the truck, and she heads inside while I grab the cooler from the back seat.
I quickly unpack, and head to the guest bathroom to wash up.
A hot shower feels great, and if I hadn’t spent most of the day napping in the sun, I’d surely pass out.
Turning on the baseball game on my way to the kitchen, I listen more than watch as I prepare a pesto pasta with sausage.
Slicing up the loaf of bread that Rosalie packed, I slather it in butter, garlic, and a few seasonings before popping it in the oven.
While I wait, I wash a few dishes. Whenever I cook, I clean as I go.
It’s something my mother instilled in me when I followed her around the kitchen, complaining that I was hungry.
As I got older, she put me to work—and I complained about that too.
My chest tightens at the memories. God, I was such a brat.
Normal, typical behavior between a mother and son, but still.
I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could shake my own shoulders and give myself a lecture.
Do you know how fucking lucky you are right now?
You have a mother who loves you, who cooks for you and her family every evening, who puts up with your teenage attitude when she’s had a long day herself.
She’s going to be gone, and you’re going to regret how you didn’t cherish this time with her in the moment.
You’re going to wish you could trade anything, just to have more time with her.
You’re going to wish you could know how much you take for granted, and that life is not guaranteed. Not this moment. Not any.
“Wow!” Rosalie steps into the kitchen. I didn’t even hear her come down the stairs. “This all looks amazing.”
I turn away and discreetly wipe the moisture gathered in my eyes before clearing my throat to answer.
“I’m here to amaze.” I fix her with a bright smile. “You hungry?”
“Yes.” She nods and glances around the kitchen. “What can I do?”
“Open a bottle of wine?”
She moves past me to pick a bottle from her stash, and retrieves two clean glasses from the cupboard. She uncorks the wine and pours herself a glass, leaning back on the counter to watch me dish up two plates.
“Careful,” she warns as I sprinkle grated Romano onto one dish.
I pause, and look to her for clarification. “’Bout what?”
“I could get really used to this personal chef thing.”
Oh. I can’t fight my smile. “Maybe that’s my plan.”
“Is that so?” She chuckles, following me to the table with our glasses.
“Yeah.” I set each plate down, then go back for the garlic bread still wrapped in foil on the stove top. “Step one, make you addicted to my cooking. Maybe then you’ll want to hang out.”
“Hang out?” Her brows lift. The suspicion behind them is clear.
“Yes, hang out. It’s something friends do. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term.”
“You want to be friends?”
“Of course.” I open the foil and slide the bread to her side of the table as I take a seat. “Anyone would be a fool not to want to be your friend.”
“Oh.” She glances down at her plate, and a pinkish hue fills her cheeks. Is it that hard to believe I’d want to be her friend? I instantly hate whoever made her feel otherwise.
After dinner, Rosalie helps package leftovers as I clean the kitchen. When she heads into the living room, a glass of wine in hand, I follow.
“What should we watch?” The game is over, so I pick up the television remote and sit down, patting the sofa cushion beside me before she can escape to what I will now refer to as her reading chair across the room.
“Jackson”—she pins me with a stare—“You don’t have to entertain me.”
I want to.
“One perfect day of relaxation. That’s what I promised you, and the day is not over. Now, don’t argue. A promise is a promise, and I always deliver.”
Maybe I imagine it, but her cheeks turn a shade darker as she comes over and takes a seat on the sofa. Of course, she sits as far away as possible, practically hugging the opposite end of the couch.
I scroll through the channels. “What’s your fancy?”
“I can pick anything I want?” Her brows lift, just slightly, betraying her interest.
“Anything.”
“What if it’s something you’ll hate?” Her lips twist with the start of a devious grin.
“Torture me. Please.” I hand over the remote. “You have full control tonight.”
While she flips through the guide, dozens of channels at her disposal, I go back into the kitchen and uncork a second bottle of wine. When I return, there’s a commercial playing on the screen.
“Find something good?”
“I found one of the best movies of all time.” She holds out her glass for me to refill. She’s practically giddy as the film comes back on. “You’re in for a treat.”
“Should I be scared?” Or more accurately, will I be bored? The screen fills with characters from another time period. Their English accents are thick and I attempt to follow their conversation without losing interest.
“Only if you hate the best book-to-film adaptation of a classic.”
“Oh, God,” I groan, remembering the show my sister would not shut up about. “Is this Bridgerton?”
“No.” Rosalie frowns. “This is Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version.”
“There’s more than one version of this crap?”
“Crap?” Rosalie turns an accusing glare my way. “Crap?”
I chuckle at the offense I’ve caused. I love riling her up. It’s not easy to get under her skin, but I manage to do it regularly. I motion to the screen. “Who’s Darcy? And what’s with the long stares?”
“Long stares are fundamental.”
I’m going to need to drink this entire bottle of wine to survive this. “We should turn this into a drinking game.”
“A drinking game?”
“Yes, a drinking game is a social activity in which both parties consume alcohol based on a series of conditions.”
“I know what a drinking game is, Jackson.” She says dryly. “What are the rules?”
I’m surprised she doesn’t immediately shoot down my idea.
My body thrills at the idea of getting drunk with Rosalie.
The last time . . . I shake off that train of thought.
I won’t get lucky tonight. Still, it’ll be fun to see her let loose.
I think she needs that. I push to my feet and head back into the kitchen. “We drink when they stare?”
“That’s preposterous. We’ll be drunk before the first half of the movie is over.” She calls after me, “Where are you going?”
“So, you admit there’s a disproportionate number of longing stares!” I shout over my shoulder. Inside the cabinet, I retrieve two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila. If we’re doing this, we need to do this properly. You can’t play a drinking game with wine.
“I think they longingly stare the perfect amount,” Rosalie says, as I return. “Oh, wow.”
“I take my drinking games seriously.” I set down the two shot glasses and sit closer to her this time.
“We drink each time someone says, ‘Mr. Darcy.’ Darcy alone doesn’t count.”
“Deal.” I nod, filling the glasses so we’re ready. “What about when they kiss?”
“Drink.” She stares at the screen. “And when their hands touch, it’s a drink, too.”
“When their hands touch?” I guffaw, but when she doesn’t join in my laughter, I sit up straighter. “Wait. You’re serious.”
“Of course I am.”
“Fucking hell,” I groan. The movie comes back on. “They don’t fuck in this, do they?”
“Shush.”
“Did you just shush me?”
“I sure did,” she whispers. “This is a fucking classic. Lock in or get out.”
“Okay, then.” I focus on the movie. This might not be my cup of tea, but if Rosalie enjoys the film so much, it must hold some merit. If anything, it’s another clue to getting to know her better.