by Penny Reid
“She had to cancel. We’re going out tomorrow instead.” I leaned back and moved my coffee cup out of the way as Rebecca approached, my breakfast in one hand and my father’s in the other.
“Oh. That’s too bad. You taking her to The Front Porch again? Thank you, Rebecca.”
Rebecca nodded once tightly, then scurred away.
I picked up my fork. “Yes, sir. I switched the reservation.”
“Y’all go there a lot.”
“This’ll be the third time.” I didn’t volunteer that this would also be our third actual date in the months we’d been together.
We’d tried going on a picnic, just the two of us, but her sitter canceled at the last minute and we’d ended up taking the kids along, choosing a park with a playground instead of the private, romantic location originally on the agenda.
I’d tried taking her on a hike three weekends ago and her momma—who was set to watch the kids—decided she wanted to come too when she’d heard our plans. It had become a Mitchell family outing ending with an extended family barbecue at the trailhead.
“Why not take her to Knoxville?” he asked, cutting up his eggs.
“The drive is too far. She only has the sitter for three hours.”
“How about if your momma and I babysit? Then y’all could go as far as Nashville if you wanted. Take the whole day.”
I perked up at that. “Really? That’d be great. I can certainly ask.” I liked Charlotte. She was funny. Not many people are funny. Even when she was surrounded by her kids and family and all that chaos, she was always hilarious, positive, upbeat. And she did her best to try and make me feel seen and special. This troubled me.
Here she was, a single mom of four, worked full-time, managed her house and kids and everything all on her own, and she was worried about making me feel seen and special? That didn’t sit right.
“A couple needs time alone, especially a courting couple,” he said around a bite of bacon and fried eggs. “It’s hard enough to woo a woman when there’s no time limit on your evening out.”
I knew my father liked Charlotte, so I knew he was commiserating with me, not complaining about her circumstances or lack of availability.
“But you’re creative,” he added. “I’m sure you’re finding other ways to sweep her off her feet.”
Finished chewing a slice of pepper, I nodded. “I am.”
“Like what?” He peered at me, gaze suddenly sharp.
My hand halted, another slice of bell pepper halfway to my mouth. “Seriously? You want me to talk to you about this?”
He nodded. “Humor me.”
Huh.
He had never—and I mean never, not even when Zora Leffersbee and I were faking an engagement, and he adored Zora—asked me about my romantic prospects other than how the woman was doing and wishing us well.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. After Zora ended our arrangement and ran off with the man she was actually in love with, he’d sat me down and asked me how I could expect the people of Green Valley and this county to take me seriously if I didn’t take myself seriously. That’s how he always made his point, he asked questions with only one right answer.
He needn’t have asked the question at all. I’d tried returning to my previous habits, but they didn’t seem to fit anymore, like trying on an old pair of shoes from high school. It all felt too small, and I’d felt . . . tired. Tired of pretending, tired of being passed around, tired of no expectations. I wanted something that at least felt real, something that felt deeper.
Something like the taste of that night I’d shared with Raquel.
Of course, I didn’t tell any of this to my father. I’d just said, Yes sir, and left it at that. By and large, my father was more comfortable discussing the details of a gruesome crime scene than talking about anything related to feelings or emotions or relationships. He was very much a man of his generation.
And now he wanted to talk about me and Charlotte?
“Well, let’s see.” I placed a pepper back on the plate and scratched the short hair covering my jaw. “I went over on Saturday anyway, and we had a movie night with the kids.”
“Then what?”
“Sunday, I watched the kids so she could run some errands. And then we went to Kimmy’s soccer game together. I’d made dinner while she was out running errands, so we all ate that after the game, and I helped her put the kids to bed.”
“And then?” He put his fork down and leaned forward.
“Well, then I left.” Obviously.
“I see.” His sharp look turned hard. “What else?”
“Yesterday afternoon we talked, and she told me she’s been having trouble with one of the bathroom sinks, so I went over there late, after work, and—”
“She wanted you to come over late?”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He waved away what I was about to say. “You fixed the sink?”
“I did.”
“It didn’t need any parts? You didn’t have to wait and go to the hardware store?”
“No, sir. It was just a loose pipe. I tightened it and then I was finished.”
“And did you stay? After?”
I stared at my father, getting the sense he was hoping I’d give him a particular answer. “No, sir. Course not. It was very late.”
Breathing out loudly, he leaned back in the booth, wiping his hands on a napkin. “So?”
“So?” I stared at him, bemused. Had he been expecting—hoping for—a different response? “So she needed to get the kids up for school in the morning, and I had an early breakfast with you.”
What was he fishing for? Did he want me to tell him I’d spent the night with Charlotte? For the record, we hadn’t slept together. We hadn’t even made it past first base, when would we have had the chance? And I’d be damned if the first time we did anything other than kiss was at midnight during a weeknight when I was half asleep and exhausted after a ten-hour shift that had turned out to be thirteen once all was said and done.
Also, my parents hadn’t raised me that way. They’d raised me to be a gentleman. I hadn’t always been a gentleman, and my father had told me as much. He’d been right at the time, and I’d reformed. I liked that I’d reformed. I appreciated drawing these hard lines in the sand I no longer crossed.
And now he was disappointed that I was acting like the man he wanted me to be? What the heck is going on?
He sighed, then pressed his lips together in a grim line, glaring at the back of the booth behind me. “You know I love you, son.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And I’m proud of you. You’ve always been an exceptional deputy—and I mean that, though I don’t often say it.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” And it did. My father was a man of few words, he didn’t often use them to compliment or praise.
“I see you’re finally taking yourself seriously outside of work too. Using your time wisely, building something lasting with a fine young woman. But . . .”
A short laugh erupted out of me. “There’s a but?”
“You’re a good son. You’re a good man too. But women—most women—don’t always w-want a-a man to be-to be good.”
I let him see how confused his words made me. “What does that mean? Should I. . . Are you saying Charlotte didn’t want me to fix her sink? Should I have said no?”
He seemed to struggle. Eventually, he placed his elbow on the table and his forehead fell to his hand. “Your momma and I, we should’ve had more kids.”
I flinched at that, dropping my eyes to my coffee cup and trying my best not to see his words as a reference as to how I might be lacking. This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned wanting to have more than just me and Jess, but he’d never elaborated, and I’d never asked.
A saying my momma favored—and one I’d learned well over the course of my life—was, Never ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer.
/> Chapter 5
*Raquel*
“If being a sex symbol means you have lots of sex, then I am glad to be a sex symbol. But in real life I’m not. That doesn’t happen.”
Diego Luna
The “carriage house,” as Sienna called it, was awesome. She’d described it as a two-bedroom cottage, but it had an enormous chef’s kitchen, a huge family room with a fireplace, and a substantial living area lined with shelves, every inch of which were stuffed with books and magazines. Set back, as it was, from the circular driveway and the main house, it was the first time I’d experienced anything resembling real privacy in ages.
The easily defensible twelve-room mansion I’d bought in Hollywood Hills felt more like a high-security dorm than a home on most days. The only place where I had any privacy was in my bedroom, and not all the time. Someone was always knocking, asking me a question, needing me for some reason.
After two lazy days on Sienna’s property spent in virtual solitude, reading books, ignoring my phone, social media, and email, taking walks in thick wildflower fields and green forests, I debated asking if she’d been serious about me staying all summer.
But if you stay longer, then you will have to return Sasha’s calls and ask her to bring more clothes.
I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t explain the depth of my aversion to the idea but inviting my personal assistant or any member of my team to visit here—even for a brief afternoon—felt wrong on a visceral level. Like an invasion. Or an infection.
I made do with the three outfits, three pairs of underwear, and one pair of pj’s I’d hastily shoved into a backpack before leaving California for Tennessee three days ago. That meant only two clothing options existed for Operation Deputy Distraction, which was what Sienna eventually nicknamed our plan to approach Jackson James. One that would hopefully end with him enthusiastically agreeing to being photographed making out with me.
Convinced he would agree to my proposition, Sienna originally proposed Operation Flaxen Action as the code name for our plan, I guess because he had blond hair?
“Or what about Operation Saxon Angler? Because you’re trying to catch him and reel him in, and Jackson rhymes with Saxon. You know he’s got to be of Saxon ancestry with his coloring.”
I made a face even as I laughed. We were sitting on her porch after a delicious dinner she’d cooked, the first meal I’d shared with anyone since the whiskey flight on Saturday. They’d stocked my fridge in the carriage house but left me alone until just this evening, sending their oldest over earlier in the afternoon with a no-pressure invitation.
“Saxon? If anything, he looks German.” I poured myself a third glass of wine, thoroughly enjoying the looseness in my limbs, the mild summer evening symphony of crickets and frogs, and the fullness of my belly. I hadn’t indulged in a real home-cooked meal in what felt like ages.
Don’t get me wrong, my chef in LA made my strict plant-based diet more delicious than it had a right to be, but there’s just something about home cooking, a meal made with love meant to nourish more than just the body. And then there’s the actual eating of the meal, gathering around a table, saying grace, asking someone to pass a dish, listening to chaotic conversation, being a part of something so simple and mundane, and yet so wholesome and authentic. Something real.
“That’s what I said. Anglo-Saxons are descended from three different Germanic tribes—the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.” Sienna took the bottle of wine from me and refilled her own glass.
I laughed harder, looking at her like she was crazy. “How do you even know this?”
“My sister-in-law’s sister-in-law knows all the random facts. Hey, how’d you like to hail from the Jute peoples? That’s a fun sounding word. Oi! Jute! Oh, wait. That rhymes with flute! We could call it Operation Jute Flute, because a flute is sorta shaped like a long—”
“No!” I erupted with more laughter, the intensity of which was likely aided by the two glasses of wine I’d already finished. “You have to stop. I’m going to pee my pants.” God, it felt so good to laugh. I’d needed this.
We spent the next forty-five minutes debating the name while her husband did the dishes and worked on getting the boys down for bed. Sienna had waited until we were alone to bring up Jackson and didn’t want me to ask Jethro his opinion, nor did she want me telling Jethro that I was interested in Jackson.
“It’s a long story,” she said, sipping her wine. “I don’t even know the whole thing, but Jackson and Jethro have never gotten along even though sometimes I think they do. Maybe?”
“They don’t? Why?”
“Eh.” She shrugged. “I like Jackson, but Jet only sporadically likes him. Jackson has babysat for us before, and he did a great job. I don’t understand the dynamic there.”
“Jethro doesn’t like Jackson but is okay with him babysitting the boys?”
“It’s hard to—it’s a long story. Long, long story. Longer and more tedious than The English Patient, despite Ralph Fiennes living up to how his last name sounds phonetically.”
I decided if Deputy Dreamy agreed to my proposition, I would ask him why he and Jethro didn’t get along. They both seemed so laid back and nice. My curiosity burned like the Duke did for Daphne.
Ultimately, since Deputy James and Sienna’s husband didn’t get along all the time, inviting Jackson over for dinner was out of the question. We decided I would have to seek him out at the sheriff’s station.
“You will wear those shorts”—Sienna gestured to the cutoff jean shorts I wore—“and your black tank top. It’s supposed to be hotter tomorrow than it’s been all week, skimpy clothes will be understandable.”
“You don’t think I’ll look desperate? Showing up dressed like that?”
“Once he sees you, he’ll be feeling too desperate to care.”
I appreciated that Sienna hadn’t responded with something like, What’s the big deal? Haven’t you been topless in a movie? That was the typical response I received whenever I expressed concerns about being less than fully clothed in any situation. Like, since I’d shown my breasts in a movie once I no longer had the right to cover myself. I’d somehow forfeited control over how much skin I wished to share and with whom and when.
If I’d known in my early twenties when I’d filmed my first and only topless scene how it would be forever after, I never would’ve taken the role.
“It’s not unusual for members of the community to show up at the station with treats and goodies for a particular deputy. You should bring him sour cherry pie.” Sienna nodded at her own idea.
“Pie? Really?”
“In Green Valley, pie is always the answer.” She paused for a moment and frowned thoughtfully. “Or so I’m told. Anyway, we’ll reserve one from Daisy’s Nut House, you’ll pick it up and take it to him tomorrow, just before dinner.”
“How do you know he’ll be at the station?”
“While you’ve been in your fortress of solitude these last few days, I called Jessica—his sister—and asked what Jackson’s favorite kind of pie was, as well as if she knew his schedule this week. She said he has Wednesdays off but usually goes to the station to catch up on paperwork. He’ll be there.”
“He has the day off, but he works anyway?” Consistently working on his day off likely meant he didn’t have a healthy work-life balance. So why was this news about him such a turn-on? Hmm.
Plan settled, I left Sienna’s porch soon after and spent that evening and the next morning considering my perplexing interest in Jackson James. Why did I hungrily inhale every ounce of information Sienna had shared? Why was I so attracted to him, this responsible and diligent pillar of the community who clearly worked too much, a man I’d only met once? I mean, other than the obvious: body, face, voice, accent, the skill with which he wielded his kraken tongue.
But as I reflected (i.e. obsessed) on the issue, it wasn’t just his exterior (or his tongue) that had elevated him to the level of man-legend in my mind. That night we’d been toge
ther years ago, Jackson had been . . .
A gentleman.
He’d been a gentleman. Thoughtful, considerate, unselfish. He’d given me his coat because it was a cold night, before I’d even shivered. He’d wanted to make sure I was fed since we’d left the reception before dinner. He’d opened my door. He’d said please and thank you. He’d asked me what I wanted, and he’d never asked for a single thing in return.
Had I ever met anyone like him?
A resounding no echoed between my ears as I pulled into the county sheriff’s station Wednesday afternoon, the sour cherry pie Sienna had reserved from Daisy’s Nut House on the front passenger seat of my loaner car.
Oh! Speaking of the loaner, I must tell you all about it. Sienna arranged a verra nice car for me to use in my quest. Verra, verra nice. A vintage, souped-up dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe down the hood and over the trunk. When I’d stepped out of the carriage house, I’d found it parked directly out front with a note on the windshield:
This is the loaner for Ms. Ezra, keys are in the ignition. Please return to Winston Bros. Auto Shop whenever you’re done using her. By the way, she likes premium. Give her premium. –CBW
I figured the W at the end stood for Winston, and CBW had to be one of Sienna’s brothers-in-law. Jethro had mentioned over dinner that two of his brothers owned an auto repair shop nearby.
Clearly restored with a great deal of attention and love, I felt uncomfortable using it without paying for the privilege and didn’t like accepting freebies on principle. Staying at Sienna’s carriage house without reimbursing her in some way felt squicky enough. I decided I’d leave an envelope of $5000 cash in the loaner Mustang’s glove box when I returned the glorious car to the auto shop next Friday before my flight back to Los Angeles.
Ugh. I heaved a sigh at the thought, glancing at my reflection in the Mustang’s rearview mirror and smoothing a frown from my face. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Los Angeles. I loved Southern California. I loved the beach and water, the sun and the temperate climate. But I didn’t—currently—love the idea of returning to my high-security golden cage, cloistered like a nun, and picking up my pretend life right where I’d left off.