by Donna Hill
Jackson didn’t say a word. He simply held her, stroked her hair, and caressed her back until she was drained dry.
“I’m sorry,” she finally muttered. She kept her head lowered, unwilling to look him in the eyes.
Jackson lifted her chin. “This is me, baby. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
She sniffed hard. “Everything is just so fucked up,” she said, her voice raspy and raw.
“How bad are things with you and the family?” he tentatively probed.
In bits and pieces and between short bouts of tears, Zoie unloaded everything that pressed down on her soul.
* * *
Throughout her confession, Jackson listened in silence. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that she could not be responsible for the behavior of others, but he knew now was not the time. Zoie didn’t need absolution. She needed an ear and a vessel into which she could pour her pain.
“Why don’t I drive us into town. We can grab an early dinner and talk—or not.”
When she dared to look in his eyes and allowed herself to be lulled by the easy cadence of his voice, she had nothing left in her to resist. She nodded her agreement.
CHAPTER 5
Jackson pressed a few buttons on the console and the car’s interior was filled with the soft jazz that he knew Zoie enjoyed. He took a quick glance at her. She’d leaned back against the headrest, and her eyes were closed. Faint tear stains streaked her cheeks. Her lids were slightly puffy, and she’d all but chewed off her plum-colored lipstick. He’d never seen her more beautiful.
Wow, he’d missed her. He didn’t realize how much until he saw her at the house, and now having her this close, holding her again . . . A part of him always regretted what had happened between them, but they were both too stubborn to have it any other way.
Zoie Crawford, his first real love. Fool that he was, he didn’t realize it until too late. Young and dumb, he’d believed that he had all the time in the world to get it together. Zoie needed a strong, focused man who could shore her up against the onslaught of her overbearing mother and often caustic aunts. Intellectually, he understood what Zoie needed. But all he wanted was a career, great sex, and to hang out and live his life with as little drama as possible.
Zoie was high maintenance, on every level. He simply had not been ready for the fully formed woman who was Zoie Crawford.
They’d met in the Quarter on a Saturday afternoon in May at Le Grille. She was sitting alone at a table across from him with her wild head of curls buried in a Toni Morrison book. Beyond reading, she looked to be taking notes. He figured she must be a student and decided to dismiss her when, as if sensing his stare, she glanced up.
That bullshit he’d always heard about getting hit by lightning was true. His body actually throbbed, and as he admitted to her after the first time they’d made love, he got hard with just that look from her.
She’d given him a cursory smile and returned to her reading and note taking.
He couldn’t move and seemed unable to unscramble his thoughts after that jolt from her.
The waiter appeared and obstructed his view. When the waiter walked away, Zoie was preparing to leave. Opportunity got up and started toward the street.
Jackson slapped a twenty on the table and hurried out behind her. He caught up with her at the corner, seconds before she stepped onto the crosswalk.
“I’m going that way,” he said, sidling next to her and matching her step.
Her head snapped toward him, and recognition widened her eyes. Jackson wasn’t sure if the look was tempered with surprise or alarm.
“Excuse me?”
“I was saying I’m going that way.”
She frowned for an instant, then picked up her pace. Jackson kept up.
“Really, which way is that?”
“Whichever way you’re going.”
She stopped when she got to the opposite side of the street and faced him. She folded her arms. “You were at Le Grille.” It was almost an accusation.
“Yeah, I was.” He grinned.
“And you’re a stalker.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Actually, I work over at The Shade, tend bar on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. You should stop by.”
She made a face and gave him a quick once-over. “Not interested.” She stepped to the curb, and a cab screeched to a stop as if secretly summoned.
“Wait!”
She ducked into the cab and pulled the door shut behind her.
Jackson watched her lean forward to give the driver instructions, then recline and open her book; the cab pulled away to leave him standing on the corner. She hadn’t given him a backward glance or her name.
Jackson shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, then headed back to Le Grille to get his car.
* * *
Jackson tried to push her to the recesses of his mind and chalked it up to a missed opportunity—hers. In his mind, he tried to convince himself that it was her loss. It was the only way he could reconcile who the real loser was. That train of thought was the only thing that helped to quell his sense of defeat.
Most women whom he met and dated became a blur in short order. Not her—whoever she was—and he didn’t know what to do about it.
* * *
Almost three weeks had passed since he’d seen her. In between, he’d returned to Le Grille in the hope of running into her again. He’d even gone so far as to hang out around the university on the off chance that if she was a student, he might catch a glimpse of her walking across the quad.
If he did run into her, what would he possibly say to nix the whole “stalker” MO? He had no idea.
After a few weeks, he’d all but given up on ever seeing her again, and then there she was, sitting at an outdoor café on Chantilly Street in the Quarter.
It took a moment for him to process the image. It was her, once again with her head in a book and looking more desirable than she did before.
He darted around the meanderers and the photo-taking tourists and got to the other side of the street. He drew in a long breath of resolve and headed toward her, but he stopped short when she glanced up and smiled at the man who approached her. He leaned down, placed a possessive hand on her bare shoulder, and kissed her. They shared some words that made her laugh, and the luckiest man in the world sat down opposite her.
Jackson wanted to kick something or someone; instead, he walked away, determined to put her out of his head once and for all.
No such luck.
* * *
Several weeks later, his best buddy, Lennox, texted him, wanting to meet up after work for drink. They agreed to connect downtown in front of TNC Bank, then decide where to go.
He stood in front of the bank and passed the time by checking his email on his cell phone.
“Hi,” Zoie greeted him, as if she hadn’t given him the brush-off the last time they were together.
Jackson glanced up and did a double take. “Hey.” He smiled. “How are you?”
“Good. Waiting on someone?”
He slid his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. I am. Buddy of mine. You?”
She gave a slight shrug. “Nope. Just came to grab something to eat.” Her gaze darted away. “Didn’t want to stay in the house tonight.”
Something in her voice unmoored him. “Join us,” he blurted.
Zoie grinned. “Do you always invite strangers to join you and your friends for dinner?”
“Not usually.”
“Hey, bro,” Lennox said, walking up to the couple. He gave Zoie a quick once-over. “Lennox Banks.”
“Zoie Crawford.”
Lennox nodded, looked at Jackson.
“Yeah, I was telling Zoie . . .”—he liked how that sounded on his tongue—“that we wouldn’t mind if she joined us.”
“Cool with me. Le Grille is on the corner. Good music, food, drinks.”
Zoie and Jackson looked at each other, and the irony was not lost on him.
&nbs
p; “Let’s hit it,” Jackson said.
The trio fell in step, with Zoie in the middle.
Jackson held the door for Zoie, caught the barest hint of some soft, sexy fragrance, and pretty much shut the door in Lennox’s face.
* * *
Le Grille hummed with activity. The fully occupied bar left them no option but to wait for a table or find another venue. The hostess promised fifteen minutes.
“So how do you two know each other?” Lennox asked, cutting straight to the point.
Jackson shifted his weight. Zoie laughed.
“We actually don’t,” Zoie announced with ease. “As a matter of fact,” she turned, facing Jackson and looking up into his gaze, “I don’t even know your name.”
For a moment, his thoughts became encrypted and he couldn’t decode them. She tilted her head to the right, snapping him out of his haze. “Jackson Fuller.”
Zoie extended her hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Good to finally meet you, Zoie Crawford.” He knew he’d held her hand too long when Lennox’s throat clearing reached the annoying level.
Much of the night was a montage of simply feeling good. Conversation flowed, along with the drinks. The music added to the jovial atmosphere, and Zoie . . . he couldn’t put words to it. A light seemed to radiate around her. Her infectious laughter, laser-focused questions, and razor-sharp knowledge about so many things mesmerized him, and at times during the evening, he found himself helplessly staring.
If only things could have stayed that way. Perfect can’t last forever.
* * *
Jackson eased down River Road and found a parking space. He angled his body toward her. Her lids fluttered open, and when she looked at him, whatever myths he’d been telling himself about keeping Zoie Crawford in his rearview mirror dissolved like sugar in hot water.
“You okay?”
She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. “I’m good.” She sat up straight.
Jackson knew the tone, knew the sound all too well. Zoie was on the verge of autopilot shutdown. The drawbridge was being cranked up, and soon the only way to reach the castle would be to chance the alligator-filled moat.
His jaw clenched. “Come on. Let’s find a spot.” He quickly got out and came around to open her door. He dared to place his hand at the small of her back, and when she didn’t pull away, he guided her down the street and smoothly ushered her into a dimly lit café without a word of protest.
They were shown to a small banquette in the back of the café, and Jackson was relieved that they were relatively secluded from prying ears.
Zoie linked her fingers together and kept her gaze fixed on them.
Jackson draped his arm across the leather back of his seat. “Talk to me,” he softly encouraged. He watched her body tighten. He reached across the table and covered her hands.
The waitress appeared, and Jackson took the liberty of ordering chicken and waffles, and two bottles of Coors. One thing he remembered about Zoie was that when she was stressed she would run and then settle in with some comfort food. And it didn’t get more comfortable than chicken and waffles. Once the waitress was gone, Jackson turned his full attention on Zoie. He gently squeezed her hand.
Her gaze jerked up, then skittered away. “Nothing’s changed . . . everything’s changed. I don’t know what the right thing is to do. Nana, the will, my mother, my aunts . . .” Her eyes filled. “It’s just all fucked up, Jax. I can’t stay here! How could Nana do this to me?”
“Wait. Slow down. You’re losing me. What happened with the will?”
Zoie drew in a breath and exhaled the details of the will and her family response.
“Damn, Z. I don’t know what to say. Are there any loopholes?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So you have to stay or your family is out on the street.”
“Basically.”
“Hey,” he leaned forward, “You’re freelance. I’m sure your grandmother understood what that meant when she came up with her ‘master plan.’ That gives you the liberty to go where the story is. Do your writing from here. We do have the Internet here in Nawlins, you know,” he said, with an exaggeration of his drawl.
The remark elicited the first smile he’d seen on her face in far too long.
“Very funny. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be a problem, but my latest assignment is in New York.” She told him about Kimberly Maitland-Graham.
He frowned for a moment. “The Kimberly Maitland of the Maitland fortune?”
“Yes. Her.”
“Hmm.” He leaned back a bit. “You do know that her family is still here in NOLA. Pretty sure they will wind up being a big part of your story, and there’s nothing in the will to keep you from going to New York whenever you need to.” He saw a glimmer of possibility light her eyes.
“Maybe,” she said, with a hitch of caution in her voice.
The waitress returned with their order.
Jackson lifted his bottle of beer. Zoie did the same.
“To possibilities,” Jackson said and touched his bottle to hers.
Zoie stared at him, and for an instant Jackson swore he saw something in her eyes, and then it was gone.
“Possibilities,” she replied.
CHAPTER 6
“Thanks for rescuing me,” Zoie said, half-joking.
“I always wanted to do the whole knight in shining armor thing.” Jackson turned off the ignition and leaned back. “You think you’re going to be jogging anytime soon?”
Zoie smiled. “Probably.” She glanced at the house. “I envied you. Did you know that?”
He sat up. “Me? Why?”
“The way you were with your family. How they were with you.” She sighed. “You all actually seemed to care about each other.” She looked at him for a moment, then turned away.
“Every family has its problems. We were far from perfect.”
“At least they made you feel like you belonged.”
Jackson wasn’t sure how to respond. He was a witness on many occasions when Zoie’s mother would make her stinging remarks, and he had seen how Zoie would visibly shrink and turn inward. He would then become her outlet for her hurt and anger, and as much as he sympathized, in the end he ultimately was unwilling to remain the recipient of her misplaced animosity.
“Look, no matter what the deal is with your people, you’ve risen above it. You made a life, built a career in spite of them. That counts for something.” He reached out and lifted a stray curl from her face.
Zoie looked at him. “I’m . . . sorry, Jax.”
“For what?”
“About everything. How I treated you—ran you away. Blamed you for not miraculously turning my life into a fairy tale.”
“Takes two to make or break a relationship. I wasn’t ready to be who you needed.”
Her tense expression softened. “Who is this man, and where is the real Jackson Fuller?”
He chuckled. “He’s a work in progress.”
Zoie blew out a breath. “Thanks for . . . today.” She turned to get out of the car.
Jackson clasped her arm. She glanced over her shoulder with her hand still on the door.
“I know we parted ways, but if you ever need to talk or need a drink,” he grinned, “I’m a phone call away.”
And then she did something she hadn’t done in years; she stroked his chin with the tip of her finger. It was their special signal that everything was alright.
She opened the car door and got out.
Jackson sat and watched her walk into the house, but her touch on his face lasted for hours.
* * *
“Man, you’re not tryin’ to get back with Zoie, are you?” Lennox asked as they sat on the back deck of Jackson’s house, sipping beer.
Jackson stretched out his legs and put his feet up on the railing. He tipped his beer bottle up to his mouth and took a deep swallow. “Naw,” he finally said. “Just being a friend. We have a history—not all bad.”
; “Yeah, okay.” He chuckled. “That woman did a real number on you.”
“We did a number on each other.”
“Hmm, that’s true. Just think with the head on top of your neck, if you get my meaning”
Jackson cut his dark eyes at Lennox. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What about Lena?”
“What about her?”
“She know you were with Zoie?”
“Nothing to tell.”
“So you say. Women have that special radar, bro. She’ll find out eventually. Then what? Hell hath no fury and all that shit.”
“Lena’s not like that.”
“She’s a woman, ain’t she?”
“Nothing’s going on between me and Z. I saw her, we talked, had a beer, end of story.”
Lennox finished his beer, set the bottle down, and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Look, I know you still care about Zoie. All I’m saying is, don’t let your past screw up your present.”
“That’s not going to be a problem.”
* * *
“Mark, I know I said I’d be back by Wednesday, but some developments have happened down here.” Zoie paced across the grass while she tried to explain her dilemma to her boss.
“I totally understand. Family is important. But I need someone like you on this story, Zoie. If you can’t handle it right now, I’ll reassign it.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Listen, you know me. I can do this. The Maitland family still lives here. I can start with them and come up to New York whenever I need to and work on the interview with Kimberly Graham.”
“I need you on the campaign trail, not conducting hit-and-miss interviews.”
“I know, I know. I’ll make it work, Mark.”
She listened to his heavy breathing while her heart pounded.
“Let me think about it. This can’t be half-ass. I need you fully committed.”
“I am.”
“I’ll get back to you tomorrow with an answer.”
“Okay,” she conceded.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fine.” She stared at the disconnected call. “Damnit.”
Losing this assignment was not an option. Brian was already taking over her Trade Center assignment. Somehow, she had to find a way to keep turning the pages in this new chapter of her life. The biggest problem was not the travel; it was being unavailable to manage her grandmother’s vegetable business. If she was going to find a way through, she needed to get a handle on the ins and outs of the business and figure out how to keep her grandmother’s legacy viable without losing everything she’d worked for in the process.