by Penny Reid
You still have a week . . .
Technically, I had nine and a half days left in Green Valley. I intended to make each moment count, starting with this afternoon.
Resolutely picking up the pie from the passenger seat, I exited the car and pulled in a deep breath for courage.
Do you want to know something (perhaps) surprising? I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman who has never asked out a guy, never initiated a conversation with someone I’m attracted to, never flirted with someone who hadn’t already made a pass at me.
Jackson James would be my first.
I approached the double doors to the station and inspected my reflection in the glass. I looked . . . good. I think. My long hair was down and fell around to my lower back in glossy waves. It had taken me almost a full hour to dry and wrestle and arrange. I had my Italian and Cuban ancestry to thank for the dark brown color, wavy texture, and heavy thickness.
I also had them to thank for my every three-week waxing appointment, particularly the Italian in me. My Cuban grandmother never had facial hair issues—that I knew about—but my mother always had a faint mustache since I could remember. But she wore it proudly, along with the dark hair on her arms, armpits, and legs, and especially when she interacted with my dad. I think it was one of her big F-U’s to his preoccupation with how women were supposed to look and act and behave.
My eyes moved to the makeup I’d applied around my eyes and then lower to the thin-ish black tank top and cutoff shorts. Hmm. I reminded myself that it was—indeed—quite hot. Sienna had promised me that the outfit did not make me look desperate. I’d decided to believe her at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Maybe because I feel a little desperate?
The door opened before I could debate the level of my desperation or the Converse sneakers on my feet, and a woman walked out, fiddling with her purse, and doing a double take as she passed me. I rushed forward, not wanting to be distracted from my mission. I struggled to silence my doubts and stop second-guessing the plan.
But . . . what if Sienna was wrong and Jackson wasn’t even here? What would I do? Leave the pie? What if he was here but was too busy to see me? What if he didn’t want to see me? What if he did see me and laughed at my request? What if he was insulted by it? What if he didn’t remember me and—
“Raquel Ezra?” A voice that was somehow both sharp and breathless pulled me out of my worry cascade. An older woman with dark brown eyes and short graying hair stood behind a circular desk, her hands clasped beneath her chin. The desk was placed in the center of what looked like a combination lobby and waiting room.
I pasted a smile on my face, darting a glance to the empty chairs lining the far wall before settling my attention on the woman’s expectant expression. “Hi?”
Had Sienna called ahead? Was Jackson expecting me? That wasn’t the plan!
“Oh my stars, I’d heard you were in town, but folks thought you’d already come and gone. I cannot believe it’s you.” Sidestepping her chair, she scurried out from behind the desk and rushed over, her eyes and smile wide. “I am such a fan. I hope you don’t mind my saying, and I know you aren’t here to be mobbed, but I honestly love every single one of your movies. Starlight Surprise is by far my favorite.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it, her gaze dreamy and unfocused. “You brought me to tears at the end, when you lost y’all’s baby.”
“Thank you.” I slipped into the character I assumed when chatting with individuals who hardcore enjoyed my work. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
The woman’s gaze grew more unfocused. “Good Lord, you are just too gorgeous to be real,” she said on a croaky sigh, giving me the sense she was speaking mostly to herself. “You’re like an angel.”
“You are too kind.” I found my smile growing more sincere, her words a boost to my faltering resolve and doubts. An angel never looked desperate, right? What could this woman possibly gain by lying to me? This was a compliment I could trust. “I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of Deputy James, could you?”
“Jackson?” She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry. Are you here to see Jackson James?”
Okay, so, good. Sienna hadn’t called ahead, Jackson had no idea I was coming, the plan was still in play.
“I am.” I withdrew my fingers from hers and supported the pie with both hands, lifting it up between us. “Sienna asked me to bring over the deputy’s favorite pie while I was out today. Is he here?” This was the story Sienna and I had decided on, and a bold-faced lie. I had no reason to be out and about today other than buying pie for bribing and then propositioning the good deputy.
“Oh! Well, yes. Absolutely, yes.” She nodded, turning suddenly and calling over her shoulder, “The big room is just through here. We don’t usually let civilians inside—unless they’re under arrest—but I think we can make an exception in your case.”
I jolted into action as soon as she pushed through a set of swinging double doors, rushing to follow her inside. She hadn’t waited for me but had marched halfway down the aisle around the perimeter of what she called the big room.
It was clear why it was called the big room, as it was a big room. Packed full of desks—some occupied by women or men in tan uniforms, some empty—the only way through the space without disrupting the buzz of movement and activity was to walk around the perimeter. Bringing the pie closer to my chest, I power walked to catch up to the older woman, and she sent me a grin once I pulled even with her shoulder.
“Jackson’s over there, at the corner.” She pointed to a desk that was the farthest spot from the double doors leading into the room, and I saw him, a fissure of nerves zinging through me as my eyes greedily devoured the sight.
He leaned back in his chair, a phone receiver caught between his shoulder and cheek, his elbows resting on the arms of an office chair while he. . . peeled an apple?
Yes. As I drew closer, I confirmed Jackson was indeed peeling an apple. He held what looked like a small paring knife in one hand and an apple in the other. His eyes were on the piece of fruit, absorbed in his task, and his movements weren’t slow, but they were careful. The apple’s skin dangled in one solid piece, a spiral below where his fingers worked.
“Look at that, he’s finally got it,” the woman next to me said, gesturing to Jackson. Two deputies—also on their respective phones—glanced up as we passed. Like the woman who’d been leaving the station earlier, they both did a double take.
I ignored them. My eyes were fastened to Jackson as heat spread through my body at the sight of his big hands and meticulous movements skillfully slicing through the apple skin. Unlike most of the other deputies in the big room, he wasn’t wearing his uniform. I surmised this was because it was his day off. Instead he had on a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t spare us a glance as we approached, clearly listening to someone on the other side of the phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“I understand that you’re allergic, and I will certainly be glad to check on that, sir,” he said as we drew within earshot. “But if the flowers aren’t over the property line, you can’t remove them. Mrs. Templeton is right, it’s damaging property.”
My stomach gave a little flutter at the deep timbre of his voice. I’d forgotten how wonderful his voice was. Somehow, the deputy sounded firm and reasonable and sympathetic. How did he do that?
My escort halted a few feet away from his desk, just out of his eyeline, and so did I. She clasped her hands in front of her and glanced at me, a creaky smile on her lips. “We’ll just wait ’til he’s finished. Shouldn’t take long.”
I nodded, thankful for the extra time, because I suddenly needed a moment. Swallowing convulsively, I repeated my lines in my head. I just needed to get him alone, flirt a bit, and then make my request. That’s it. That’s all.
Another deputy walked past us as though in slow motion, her mouth hanging open, and her eyes widened as she looked me up and down.
&
nbsp; “Holy . . .” the deputy said on a rush of breath, a young-ish woman with her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. She stopped, gaping at me, and whispered, “Are you—”
“She is,” my escort whispered back harshly, straightening her spine. “And she’s here to see Deputy James. Get back to work, Mable.”
I gave the female deputy a friendly grin as I wrestled with my frazzled nerves and then ended up offering the same grin to three other male deputies who’d also stopped their work to stare at me.
Jackson’s brows pulled lower, and his mouth formed a stiff line. His movements stilled, the apple three-quarters peeled. “Sir, if you can prove they’re over the property line, I’ll be happy to oversee the relocation myself. But you know those are blue ribbon roses and she makes a bundle on prize money during the season. If you touch, remove, abuse, or otherwise molest Mrs. Templeton’s flower beds , she will be justified in pressing charges.” His tone was firmer this time, deeper, tinged with a hint of anger.
My breath caught, a renewed spike of heat flared outward from my chest. God, he was so sexy when he was stern. I guess listening to Deputy James reprimand faceless civilians about the placement of roses really did it for me.
Chuckling a breathless laugh and gritting my teeth, I shook my head at myself, earning a curious side-eye from my escort.
“It’s the reverend,” the woman said in a lowered voice, like this would explain everything.
“The reverend?”
“He and the missus just moved next door to Mrs. Templeton and her acre of rose bushes.”
“A—a whole acre?” My mouth fell open.
“Yes. They’re blue ribbon every year and she supplies the lodge. Her husband planted the garden before his passing—may he rest in peace—and Reverend Seymore is allergic to all flowers. Roses, lilies, peonies—every single kind. Never has any in the church. He uses ferns and branches, I’ve heard.” My escort leaned closer, her tone that of a person who was practiced in the art of gossip. “Why he bought the place, no one knows, but now he wants her to remove the roses and she near pitched a fit, showed up in tears earlier today, inconsolable.” She lifted her chin and sniffed, her dark brown eyes shrewd. “If you ask me, Seymore is a bully. Jackson will put a stop to it.”
“Just as long as we understand each other, Reverend.” Jackson leaned forward and turned away from where we hovered, offering his strong profile. He transferred the knife to the hand holding the apple and caught the phone in his free palm.
My lashes fluttered as he gave us his back, my mind telling me without being asked that the deputy had been working out. He seemed bigger, bulkier, his shoulders broader than five and a half years ago, the sleeves of his short-sleeve shirt not exactly tight at his biceps, but nowhere near baggy either. My attention moved to his butt and thighs just as my escort cleared her throat.
I stiffened, shifting my gaze to hers. She’d narrowed her eyes, seemed to be watching me speculatively, and embarrassment bloomed thorny and hot around my neck. The woman had caught me ogling Deputy James’s butt, and she didn’t seem to like it.
Is this his mother? They were both white, but she didn’t look like him—no clef in her chin, her eyes were the wrong color brown, her upper lip was bigger than the bottom whereas the opposite was true for Jackson. Plus, her forehead was small, her face was heart shaped instead of oval, and the silver in her hair was mixed with black, not blond.
Unless he’d been adopted, this was not his mother. Nevertheless, her stare reeked of disapproval. Fan or no, this woman did not like me ogling Deputy James.
I offered a small smile, which she didn’t return as she asked, “Why’d Sienna Diaz want to give Jackson a pie?”
I shrugged, shifting away from her sudden frigidity. “Oh, you know. Being neighborly.”
The intensity of her squint increased, and perspiration trickled down my back. I looked away and meant to arrange my features in a neutral expression while pretending to benignly study the big room. Except, in the next moment, I found that everyone in the big room—except Jackson, who was still on his call—was currently studying me.
Also, the room had grown remarkably quiet. Crap.
Aaaaaand now we have an audience.
Having an audience didn’t bother me once upon a time, back before I traveled everywhere with a human wall buffer; back before I lived in a heavily guarded mansion with a host of people I paid; back before I never left my house for any reason other than to go from the gated environment of my house to another gated environment of filming locations and sound stages. I’d grown accustomed to living separate, and I hadn’t felt or realized how much until right this moment.
“That’s right, sir. Uh-huh. . . Uh-huh. . . R-right. Glad to hear it.” Jackson leaned forward over his desk, and I didn’t look at his butt, his voice virtually the only sound in the big space. “Okay. Bye now.”
My heart thundered between my ears. I did my best to appear entirely at ease while I gave myself a hurried pep talk. If I could act like kissing Gardner Beatty in Starlight Surprise was an enjoyable experience, then I could act calm now. I could slip into a character far removed from myself and my current discomfort. I could pretend.
Pretending is my superpower.
“Deputy James.” My escort stepped forward and in front of me, his title and last name a sharp rasp, and basically blocked me from his view. “This woman is here to see you. I told her you were busy, but she said it would only take a minute or two. Do you have the time, or should I send her on her way?”
The older woman’s misrepresentation of events shaved away some of my unease, allowing me to focus on a spike of irritation rather than the twenty or so sets of eyes staring at me.
Before he could respond, I straightened my spine and stepped around her, prepared to say hi or some other sort of greeting. But then his eyes—those dark bedroom eyes I’d been fantasizing about for years—connected with mine.
It felt like being slammed into. Or doing a flat belly flop in a pool. Words failed me. Everything failed me. Oh no.
Rae, you are a mess. And this was a huge, huge, HUGE mistake.
Chapter 6
*Raquel*
“Being a sex symbol was rather like being a convict.”
Raquel Welch
Those sexy bedroom eyes of his widened with obvious surprise. He shot up from his office chair and backed up a step, like the sight of me was a shock. Unfortunately, I didn’t know him well enough to know whether the shock was a good one or a bad one.
Jackson breathed out, blinking rapidly. I sensed my escort look between us. I didn’t spare her a glance, but Jackson did. Whatever he saw on her face seemed to sober his. Drawing himself up to his full height, he returned his gaze to mine, dark eyes now shuttered, his expression neutral.
“Ma’am.” Jackson tipped his head toward me, not quite a smile on his lips. “How may I help you?”
I stared at him because . . . ma’am?
Ope! Did he just call me ma’am?
He wasn’t supposed to call me ma’am! He was either supposed to say “Raquel!” as though surprised, or “Raquel!” as though excited to see me. I would then say something friendly and witty and ask if I could have a moment of his time in private.
He wasn’t supposed to regain his composure so quickly, and he wasn’t supposed to call me ma’am like we didn’t know each other. And we weren’t supposed to have an audience or a grumpy-interloper-disapproving escort.
And now I forgot my lines completely. Dammit. What is my line?!
As we stood there, the room near silence, Jackson’s eyebrows ascended slowly while I merely stared at him, struggling to make the words and say the thing. His gaze seemed to grow less guarded and more hey-crazy-lady-are-you-okay? while he waited for me to do something other than look panicked and constipated.
Say something!
Tearing my eyes from his, I looked around without allowing myself to absorb the surroundings, gathered a deep breath, and opened my mouth because
I absolutely had to speak, even if my words made no sense. That’s when I noticed the pie in my hand. Yes! Sienna was right, pie is the answer.
I would hand over the pie and then I would promptly leave because this was a bad idea. Clearly, it had been crazy of me to think I could just walk in here without drawing attention and proposition the guy I’d been fantasizing about for over five years. I didn’t proposition people, I didn’t know how. And if I’d known how at one point in my life, I’d completely forgotten now. I was completely out of my depth because I’d spent the last several years of my life exclusively in shallow waters.
“This is for you.” I held up the pie between us, trying not to cringe at the breathless quality to my voice. As soon as he took it, I would smile politely, wish him well, drive back to the carriage house, and hide under the covers for the rest of my days. That’s a good plan. Hiding under covers is approximately my maximum depth.
His gaze shifted from me to the pie and then back again, one side of his mouth curving up. “You’re not going to throw it at my face, are you?”
I breathed a surprised laugh and responded automatically, “I heard it was part of your beauty regimen, and I wanted to help.”
He unleashed a grin and a laugh, his eyes bright. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only him as my stomach did a trapeze routine, swooping up and down. It was disconcerting to realize my memory hadn’t overexaggerated how breath-stealingly attractive he was, especially when he smiled.
Jackson stepped closer, his gaze now significantly more open than before. “Thank you.”
“What?” Oh no. I worried that I’d just told him how handsome he was out loud instead of just thinking it.
“Thank you for the pie.” His lips twitched, and the look he wore told me he thought I was both weird and cute. The deputy’s gaze traveled over my face deliberately, perhaps reacquainting himself with the shape of it, or committing it to memory, or simply just enjoying it.