“Oh shit,” I said. When Jackson said my name, though, I was unable to ignore the warming sensation radiating through my chest.
It’s not an exaggeration when I say that nearly every single head in the stadium turned to look in my direction. There was no way my face could flush any brighter, and for a split second, I was sure I was going to pass out right there on the popcorn and sticky soda pop-laden concrete floor. I stared at the field, my eyes meeting Jackson’s in a moment of uncertain clarity.
“Grace, I don’t care that you’re scared,” Jackson said. He walked towards our side of the area, taking the mic with him. Even from a distance, I could see the brightness in his eyes and the dimple in his cheek. He’d cut his hair, but it was still just long enough that I could already imagine running my hands through it.
“I don’t care that you don’t think you can trust me,” he continued. “Because we both know that’s bullshit. All I care about, Grace, is being with you because I simply cannot imagine my life without you in it.”
Beside me, Alex took my hand and squeezed my fingers. I took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to help anything.
“Regardless of what happens between us, whether it works out or it doesn’t, I don’t intend to let you go,” Jackson said. “If that means we stay nothing but friends for the next one hundred years, I’m okay with that, because then at least you’ll be here.”
Jackson stopped talking to allow the words he’d spoken to sink in. An electrical buzz was traveling through my system, my heart beating rapidly against my chest. There were some whistles in the crowd, cheers and even a boo or two, and I was still trying to wrap my head around what was happening right in front of me.
“You amaze me, Grace,” Jackson said. He handed the microphone off to somebody, and as the crowd cheered him on, he jogged up the bleacher steps to where Alex, Shawn, and I were standing. He slipped between the audience until he was standing in front of me, face-to-face. My mouth went dry.
“There’s nothing in the world you could ever do to scare me away,” Jackson said. He stepped forward to place his palms lightly against either side of my face. My skin tingled beneath his touch, and my lips parted as I tried to catch my breath
“You sound ridiculous,” I said. My voice cracked. Jackson skimmed his fingertips along my jaw line, still cupping my face. I raised my hands up and covered his fingers with mine.
“Life is ridiculous,” Jackson said. “You know that. We both know that.”
“Jackson.” I was fighting the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I wasn’t thinking of the crowd of people anymore; they were non-existent in this moment of disbelief. “Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “Why me?”
“I want you,” he said. There wasn’t a single beat of hesitation. “I want to love you. I do love you. I love everything about you.”
“You don’t know me. You know nothing about me, Jackson, or who I am. You think you want me, but you have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“You think so?” Jackson said. His fingers continued to caress the red flush of my face as he spoke. His eyes were clear and lovely; eyes with no intention of being deceitful.
“I think so,” I said.
“Do you want to know what I do know?” Jackson asked. One hand lifted from my face to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes. Every nerve ending in my body tingled. “I know that your favorite color is aqua. Not blue, and not green, but aqua, the color of the Caribbean Sea.”
I opened my mouth to stop him, but he kept on going.
“I know that your favorite cereal is Cheerios, but only if you have sugar to sprinkle on top of it.”
“Jackson.”
“I know that you want to write political pieces and travel the world, educating people about the havoc wreaked on other countries.”
“Don’t make me fall harder for you than I already have,” I said desperately. Jackson dropped one hand down and put a single finger on my lips to shush to me. I swallowed.
“I know that you care about people so deeply, so passionately, that the world can’t help but to love you back,” he said. The anxiety in my muscles was loosening, jaw relaxing, the tingling sensation where his skin touched mine was growing.
“But—”
“And I know that I would do anything for you,” Jackson continued. He dropped his finger from my lips, resting his hand on my waist. “I think I knew that from the very beginning when I carried you home that night. I just had no idea at the time that you would come to mean so much to me.”
I was feeling lightheaded, elated with the desire to touch and explore every inch of Jackson’s being. Not just his body, but his mind.
“Grace, I would move mountains to see you smile, and I would march in a thousand more parades if I was by your side ... inflatable vagina and all.”
“Oh, God.” I put my hands over my mouth, laughing and crying at the same time.
“I won’t be the idiot who screws this up, not when you’re the first person I’ve ever met who makes me want to be a better person.” Jackson inhaled deeply, his small smile building. “Your encouragement, your drive, your dreams . . . it’s inspiring. I want you there, by my side, when we take on the world together.” He paused, then reached out again, taking my chin between two fingers, drawing me into him with nothing more than his soft, lingering touch. “You want to stand there and say that I don’t know you and that I don’t know what I’m getting into, but you’re wrong. I think I know you better than you know yourself, and that scares the shit out of you.”
He pulled me into him, lacing his hands near the small of my back to keep me close. I parted my lips and cupped my hands around the sides of his neck, then moved them up slowly until I sifted them through his hair. I closed my eyes as Jackson went in for the kiss. His lips lingered on mine, teasing, biting my lower lip. Around us, the entire dome erupted in an ear-shattering round of cheers and applauds as Jackson and I kissed again. I melted into him, weak in the knees, securely held by his arms. My body fit against his perfectly, like missing pieces of a puzzle.
“I’ll be with you,” he said in my ear. His breath was warm against my skin, the onset of a five-o-clock shadow tickling my cheek. “I’ll be with you always, through hell or high water. The more you push me away, the harder I’ll fight to stay. I love you, Grace. I love you more than I have ever loved another person.”
Tears ran down my cheeks, soaking the front of Jackson’s shirt as he stroked my hair. I wiped them away and sniffed, burying my head in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his after-shave. Never had I felt so comfortable in the arms of another person. I trusted him, I wanted him, and I loved him from the very depths of my soul.
“This love you speak of won’t be easy,” I teased. “It will probably be the hardest thing you will ever have to do.”
Jackson laughed that beautiful laugh that made my toes curl and lungs inflate. Such a lovely sound, that laugh; a sound I wanted to hear every day for the rest of my life.
“Some pain in the ass girl once quoted Gandhi to me,” he said. “Something about, ‘whenever you are confronted with an opponent—”
“—conquer him with love,” I finished, and Jackson kissed me again.
“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”-Mahatma Gandhi
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AMBER THIELMAN IS AN avid reader and writer of sexy romance books, always shaken up with a little darkness and suspense. She wrote her first 20-page novel when she was 13, and she’s been hooked ever since. Amber loves scary movies, autumn, and has an undying love for pumpkin-flavored anything. When she’s not writing, she enjoys riding her horse Reno, traveling, and spending time with her husband, their son Aidyn, their dogs (Willow & Max), and cat Simba in Southeast Idaho.
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Nearing September Sneak Peek
Available Soon!
“When someone like Emily returns to our Lord and Savior, the initial question is always why—but only He has that answer, and the best thing we can do is accept it and know there was a reason for it.”
“Oh, give me a God damn break.”
Samantha Carson cringed, her eyes darting from the podium where the priest was speaking over to the nuisance of a culprit, Nick Barlow.
“Can you shut up?” she hissed. Nick scoffed and rolled his eyes, ignoring the stabbing stares from the surrounding crowd.
“She would have hated this, you know.”
“That’s not up to you to decide.”
“Samantha! Show some respect.”
Nick and Emily’s mother, Agnes, turned to look at Sam, her eyes shooting daggers as she dabbed at the mascara stains beneath her papery eyelids. Sam’s mouth dropped open as she stared at Agnes, wanting to reach over and throttle Nick. Count on Agnes to reprimand her—-yet again—-for Nick’s incessant stupidity. A strict Christian of seventy-something years old, Agnes Barlow was a master manipulator. While it appeared she was falling apart on the outside, Sam had faced her rage and scrutiny earlier, before the funeral.
Sulking, Sam forced her attention back to the podium where the priest was still speaking so emotionally about a woman he never even knew. He held a bible to his chest, clichéd cross in his hand, glasses perched on his broad, pointed nose.
On the other side of Agnes, five-year-old Piper stared straight ahead, seeming to not focus on anything. Her expression was blank, but the red tint to the skin under her eyes told a story that everyone could read. Sam longed to reach over Agnes and take Piper’s hand, reassure her this wasn’t the end and that somehow—somehow—they would get through this. But would they really? Sam was so full of uncertainty and doubt recently; fear gripped her now, suffocating, raw fear of knowing that things without her best friend would never, ever be the same.
It was ironic, Samantha thought, that cancer killed her best friend. Women like Emily who’d been healthy and funny and kind weren't supposed to die—especially of cancer. Emily’s disease was the cancer that had given no warning. One too many nasty headaches later, and Em had finally mentioned it to her physician. It was a tumor. Inoperable. Cancer of the brain.
God’s will my ass, Sam thought bitterly. Had she known this diagnosis earlier, she might have fought harder for her friend—encouraged whatever surgery or medication that a doctor would throw at her. But Sam hadn’t known about the cancer, and that was because Emily hadn’t told her. Emily had told nobody. She’d quietly resumed her busy life like a terminal illness was the least of her worries. She’d worked, laughed, played—-and even after all that, she was still the best mother she could be to her beautiful little girl.
“This is a joke,” Nick muttered again, but this time, Sam said nothing to shush him. He was right; this was a joke. This entire God damn thing was only a cruel, sick joke, and she was ready for it to be over.
Sam glanced briefly at Nick, the spitting image of his twin sister. Nick, a man who hadn’t seen his sister and niece in five years, at least, before the funeral. Nick, the brother of Sam’s best friend so unsure of whether he could even make it back for the funeral. Had it been up to him, Sam knew Nick wouldn't have taken the time to fly all the way to Washington from Miami. But Sam didn't care. Emily was his sister, and he owed her the respect to be present at her funeral—even if Sam wanted to bloody his nose every time she saw his arrogant face.
“We will end this service with a song dedicated to the lovely Emily,” the priest said. “Her twin brother, Nicholas, picked it out for us today. As the song plays for you, we encourage a silent prayer of hope and peace.”
“A song?” Sam peered around Agnes and Piper at Nick, who had perked up considerably. He met her gaze, eyebrows raised innocently. It was a look she’d often seen over the years, the same look he’d given her as a teenage boy the night he’d crashed her brand-new, Sweet Sixteen car into a tree. “Nick,” Sam said evenly, leaning slightly in his direction. “We didn't agree on a song.”
“It's chill,” he said, drawing curious stares from the surrounding guests. “It was her favorite.”
Before Sam even had time to rise from her seat, the CD player crackled on, and the melody started. Sam froze, debating on whether she should flee, cry, or scream. She braced herself, side-eyeing Agnes, who had the expression of someone who just caught a whiff of something dead.
“Tubthumping?” Sam shrieked. “You picked Chumbuwumba to play at my best friend's funeral?” Her tone shot up a few decibels, face burning with hot rage as the song grew louder. The spectators were listening now, and most looked confused—a few seemed wary and unsure. Some were even snickering.
Sam stared straight ahead, unable to meet the critical gaze of Agnes. Emily’s mother scowled, her eyes hard under the brim of her tacky black hat and veiled face as she glared at Sam, almost like she’d chosen this song for Emily’s funeral and not her impeccable son Nick.
Sam clenched her jaw as a migraine pulled at her temples. All she wanted to do was reach across the seat and punch Nick in the face. What a scene that would be—a knock-down-drag-out fight during the funeral.
“Where are you going?”
Nick got to his feet, ignoring her as he reached for Piper's hands. He swung his arms above his head in a sort of epileptic seizure that Sam assumed was supposed to resemble a dance move. She was afraid to turn around and face the crowd again; terrified to see the shocked faces and pitiful stares of Emily’s friends and family. She'd had one job when Emily passed—plan a funeral that would be memorable and touching. With Nick here, it had turned into a disaster, and inevitably, the whole mess would be blamed on her instead of him.
“Sit down,” she hissed between her teeth. She was too humiliated to stand up and draw attention to herself, which wasn't a problem considering that every pair of eyes in the crowd were pinned on Nick and Piper, who were still dancing to Tubthumping mere feet from Emily's casket. Sam put her hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking as she tried to figure out how she could end this thing in the politest way possible. Knocking Nick out, she was sure, would only draw more attention.
“Come on, Sam,” Nick called. He twirled Piper around, banging his head to the music. It was about then, Sam noticed, that his sandy blonde hair was too long to look decent and the stupid stubble on his chin to be shaved—or better yet, waxed. With a boiling pot of honey and some duct tape. The least he could have done, Sam thought, was cut his fucking hair.
“You know what, Nick?” she got to her feet, now more furious than embarrassed, before turning to face the crowd. “I apologize for this,” she called out. “The funeral is over. You can all go home. Emily would have appreciated everyone coming.”
She saw the anger again in Agnes’ eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Sam wanted to throw her hands in the air and scream, “If you don't like how it turned out, maybe you should have planned it. Emily was your daughter, after all, you stuck-up bitch!”
But she didn't. She leaned down to gather up her jacket instead, seething with fury beneath a smooth and composed surface. Around her, the bustle of people (mostly Emily's co-workers, family friends, and neighbors), all dispersed. Some people looked awkward and unsure, as though questioning whether they should try to help or stay out of it. Others looked amused, which only angered Sam more. This wasn’t funny; there was nothing funny about it. Her best friend was dead, and she would never be back.
“I'm so glad you could tear yourself away from magnificent Miami to be here today, Nick,” Sam
shouted, backing towards her car. She couldn’t stomach watching Emily be lowered into the ground. “Thanks for fucking it all up. Per usual.”
She turned away from the scene, fuming, as hot tears streamed down her face, spilling from what seemed to be a never-ending flow of agony. Her chest hurt, heart beating with the pain of a loss she knew would never be filled again.
It was over. It was finally over, and now all Sam wanted to do was go home and cry and cry until she couldn’t cry anymore. She wanted to cry out the sadness and devastation; she wanted to cry until she couldn’t physically cry anymore, because maybe then, and only then, it might stop hurting so much.
As she reached for the car door handle, someone put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
“Samantha Carson?” the man said. “My name is Howard James. I’m Ms. Barlow's attorney. Do you mind if we speak somewhere quiet? I have some papers for you.”
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