by Penny Reid
“I was told it was your favorite,” I said truthfully, disarmed by how he was looking at me as I handed the pie over.
He stepped even closer, not looking at the dessert as he accepted the container, our fingers brushing. The contact sent an aching, tingling thrill down my spine—first contact!
“Sour cherry? From Daisy’s? You didn’t.”
“I did.” For some reason, I hadn’t yet let go of the pie.
He grinned, his voice dropping to a deep rumble. “How’d you know?”
“I have my sources.”
“Sources?” His eyebrows ticked up. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“You weren’t before?”
“Oh, I was. But now I’m even more intrigued.”
“Are you?” I was helpless against the urge to smile.
“I am. Not many people know what my favorites are.”
“And now I do.”
Those bedroom eyes seemed to heat and darken as they lowered to my lips. “Yes. You certainly—”
“Jackson James!”
I flinched, and so did he. We both turned our heads in unison toward the woman at my right. My escort. The woman who’d loved my movies and was a big fan until approximately two minutes ago.
That’s when I remembered where I—where we—still were.
“I do believe you have an appointment with the Mitchells to prep for,” she snapped, appearing to be . . . not exactly angry. Accusatory maybe? Indignant?
I felt Jackson retreat, the pie slipping out of my hands as he took it with him and placed it on the desk. By the time my eyes returned to his, he was looking everywhere but at me.
“Yes. I know that, Florence.” He wore what could only be described as a grim smile, his eyes darting around the room while a faint hint of pink colored his cheeks above his close-cut beard. “Thank you for the pie, Ms. Ezra. It’s also my momma’s favorite, so I’ll be sure to send her your regards.”
Then and only then did he lift his gaze to mine. If I thought he’d looked shuttered and distant before, his stare seemed ten times more guarded and aloof now.
My stomach sank.
Oh no. I’d embarrassed him. At his job. In front of everyone he worked with. I’d made a scene. Me making unintentional scenes by merely showing up someplace was why my mother had asked me to stop visiting her. Absentmindedly, I rubbed my thumb over the center stone of my evil-eye bracelet.
You’re a mess, Rae. And this was a mistake.
I managed to force a light tone—to pretend—as I shoved my empty hands in the pockets of my shorts, taking a step back. “Technically, the pie is from Sienna, so please make sure Mrs. James thanks the right person. Anyway, I’ll be going. So . . .” I nodded to him and tore my eyes away, the act physically painful.
I nodded to the stern-looking Florence lady. “I’ll just show myself out.”
“I’ll walk you,” came her curt reply. “Don’t want you getting lost.”
“Absolutely. Thank you.” My pretend smile increased for the benefit of everyone watching.
She marched me down the perimeter aisle, and I kept my eyes forward, a pleasant, unconcerned expression on my features. I nodded politely to the one or two deputies who were looking at my eyes instead of my chest. Soon we were through the double doors, and Florence stopped just in front of them, crossing her arms and standing tall as though barricading the way.
“I think you can see yourself out from here.” There was no mistaking her snide tone as anything but disapproving.
I countered her attitude with another pretend warm grin tossed over my shoulder, and I unhurriedly walked to the exit, even though I wanted to run. “Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”
Maintaining the façade, I walked to my awesome loaner car, got in, and started the engine. I then turned my phone on, intent on pulling up Google Maps for directions so I could get back to the carriage house ASAP. And then I would hide under the covers until my flight next Friday afternoon.
That’s a good plan. The other plan? The plan to approach, bribe with pie, and proposition Deputy Dreamy? That was a bad plan. That was a—
The feel of my phone buzzing along with the accompanying chimes announcing text messages had me frowning at the screen. I’d turned my phone off for most of my stay in Green Valley. Sasha had been texting me nonstop since Saturday, and I didn’t want to listen to the cell chime every ten minutes. Frustrated and sad—yes, I was a little sad at how sublimely I’d crashed and burned with Deputy James—I prepared to fire off a text to Sasha, telling her to chill out, when my eyes snagged on the sender of the latest string of texts. Sienna.
Frowning, I unlocked my phone and read her text messages:
Sienna: Stop! I have information. Do not approach Jackson James, do not procure a pie, do not pass go. Call me!
Sienna: Please tell me you haven’t gone to the station yet.
Sienna: PLEASE CALL ME ASAP. URGENT ALERT URGENT!
Sienna: Oh no. You’ve gone, haven’t you? You’ve seen him. I’m so sorry. I am responsible. This is my fault.
Sienna: Prayers have been said. Call me when it’s over.
I read through her messages a second and a third time, trying to make sense of them, then I hurriedly called her. Pushing the AC vent to blow more directly on my neck, I brought the phone to my ear.
Almost immediately she picked up. “Rae? Did you see him? Or did I stop you in time?”
“I saw him.”
She groaned. “God, I’m so stupid. And I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve talked to Jet about it before you went over there, and that’s my fault. I never know who is dating who, I can’t keep up, but he’s got the inside track on all the gossip in town. When I told him where you were, he told me about Jackson and Charlotte, and now I feel like I led you astray and—”
“Wait, wait. Stop. Charlotte? Charlotte who?”
“Charlotte Mitchell.” Sienna’s voice was small and apologetic.
Mitchell. . .
MITCHELL!
My escort had said that Jackson was late for a meeting with the Mitchells. She must’ve meant his girlfriend, Charlotte Mitchell. “Oh snap.”
“But I swear I had no idea when I sent you over there. They’ve been together for a few months.”
I stared out the windshield, the scenery beyond blurry while her words soaked into my brain. Together for a few months. He was dating someone. He had a girlfriend.
He’s dating someone, and you brought him your pie to eat?!
“Ugh.” I placed a hand over my stomach, feeling ill. “I am such a dick-twat.” No wonder Florence-the-former-fan had looked at me like I was scum.
And no wonder Jackson didn’t want my pie.
“No. You are not a dick-twat.”
“Are you kidding? I went in there to proposition someone else’s boyfriend! I am a dick-twat.”
“No. If anyone is a dick-twat, it is me. I am the dick-twat. And I’ll wear a vagina sash and a penis crown proclaiming my dick-twat championship status. You had no idea he was with someone because I took for granted that he was single. Jackson has been single forever, ever since his fiancée left him and—”
“He was engaged? When? When was this?”
He’d been engaged. He’d been in love. And she’d left him.
“I don’t remember. I can’t keep up with the Green Valley gossip. Years ago at this point. And before that, the man was a complete player, never with the same woman twice.”
Never with the same woman twice.
The sick feeling in my stomach bubbled up my esophagus. I closed my eyes; my chest tight, aching; my forehead pressing against the steering wheel. That night we’d shared all those years ago, I’d told him our time together came with no strings, that I was never with the same man twice. I’d promised him I would never speak to him again after the night was over. I’d promised.
Now I was a liar.
I’d spent half a decade wishing I hadn’t left, that I’d stayed one more day, even though he hadn�
�t asked me to. And then the first thing (other than hermiting) that I did when I came back to Green Valley was seek him out and break that promise. A one-night stand, showing up unexpectedly and unannounced at his work place after no contact for five and a half years.
If he’d wanted to talk to me, he could’ve asked Sienna a million times. But he didn’t. Seriously. What. Had. I. Been. Thinking?
“Rae?”
“Sorry. I’m here. I’m . . .” I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the tepid air gushing out of the car’s AC. It wouldn’t cool down until I was on the road. “I’m coming back.”
“To the house?”
“To the carriage house, yes.”
“Come up to the main house. Spend the rest of the afternoon with me.”
“I think I want to hide under some blankets for a while.” Straightening in my seat, I checked the rearview mirror and buckled my seatbelt.
You’re a mess, Rae. Normal people don’t proposition people, especially when those people have nice girlfriends and live nice, normal lives with nice, normal coworkers in a nice, normal office.
And nice, normal people keep their promises.
Maybe I really did belong in LA. Maybe flying out here to escape my pretend life was the fantasy, and Hollywood was the reality. Maybe the sooner I made peace with my reality, the better.
“No. You will not hide under blankets. Hey, I’ll get a sitter, and we’ll go out to dinner. We haven’t been out to dinner since you arrived. There’s a great steak place called The Front Porch. They have cocktails.”
I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “Sienna—”
“It’s settled. You, me, Jet. Maybe one of his siblings is free and can join us.”
“Don’t try to set me up.”
“I wouldn’t, I promise. Plus, all Jet’s siblings are married or in committed, long-term relationships. They’re just fun people, and I think what you need is an evening out with fun people.”
I didn’t agree.
But I didn’t have the energy to argue either.
Chapter 7
*Jackson*
“Nobody can understand what you’re feeling unless they burn the way you burned.”
Rihanna
I didn’t allow myself to think too hard about why I took meticulous care getting ready for my date with Charlotte—trimming my beard, styling my hair, wearing my best suit, and using both aftershave and cologne.
Nor did I allow myself to think about Raquel’s visit to the station today. Her unexpected visit. Or how I’d taken one look at her and forgotten where I was. Or how, when she’d left, I’d felt like the entirety of my life was walking out the door with her.
Because none of it made any damn sense.
My priorities were in order, I had my sights set on something and someone permanent, not on temporary or fun or easy. Not anymore. I would not think about Raquel. I had no reason to think about Raquel. So, I wouldn’t.
“Look at you, Fancy.” Charlotte, pulling open her front door, smiled and then frowned within the span of two seconds, glancing down at her jeans and red V-neck shirt. “Wait. Should I change?”
“No need, you look fine.”
“Gee, thanks.” She rolled her eyes. “But you’re in a suit.” Now Charlotte squinted at me, and her hands came to her hips. “Wait a minute. Is tonight a surprise? Are you taking me to a surprise?” Before I could answer, her eyes got big all of a sudden and she lightly hit my shoulder, looking excited. “Let me guess, is it a funeral?”
I laughed. She was so funny and weird. We’d been friends forever, and I knew not everyone appreciated her humor, it could be dark at times, hitting an off-note. But I thought she was hilarious.
“No. There is no surprise, I swear. We have reservations at The Front Porch, like we agreed earlier. I ordered ahead your favorite to cut down on time, so you can get back for the sitter. Now, come on.” I motioned for her to get moving.
Charlotte looked torn. Glancing down at her clothes again, she sighed. “I want to change.”
“Okay. Go change. I’ll wait.”
She grimaced and stepped closer, whispering, “My mother is here.”
I understood her indecision. Charlotte’s momma made a habit of inviting herself on our dates. “Then don’t change and let’s go.”
She huffed. “But I really want to change. Why’d you have to wear a suit?”
“We can go to my place—”
“Really?” She perked up, looking pleased, but then wary. “Wait, is Boone there?”
“Boone is there, I think. But I can change real fast. If we leave now, we might still make it.”
“Or, if Boone isn’t there, we could just hang out at your place?”
“Charlotte, I called ahead. They’re expecting us. The food will be waiting.”
Charlotte’s face fell and she made a low, grunting sound in the back of her throat. “Never mind. I’ll go change. But—” she quickly glanced behind her “—you stay out here. In fact, go get in your truck. Don’t let her see you.”
“Are you kidding? I have to say hi to your mother.”
“What? Why?”
“It’d be disrespectful not to.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It would be nice if you made more of an effort to be less respectful every once in a while.”
I released a frustrated breath, her statement sounding suspiciously like what my father had said at breakfast yesterday.
“What ever happened to fun, flirty Jackson James? The one who used to sneak in Darlene Simmons’s window for a quickie? Did you stop by her momma’s room to say hi on your way out?”
“I’m not like that anymore, and you know it.” Charlotte had been one of my friends who’d cheered me on when I’d stopped acting a fool. She’d been there when I’d drawn those lines in the sand, so why she was surprised and/or irritated with my manners now felt like a giant mystery. “Besides, where’d you hear that?”
“Women talk. But I’m starting to think Darlene made the whole thing up.”
I sighed, backing away from the door. I didn’t want to fight, not when we had so little time. “Fine. Fine. I’ll stay out here. You don’t have to change.”
“Yes, I do. I can’t have you looking prettier than me.” She stepped back, winking, and promptly closed the door.
Dutifully, I pulled out my keys and walked back to the truck, careful not to make too much noise as I shut my door. If her mother knew I was still out here, she’d come out to say hi. I wasn’t at all against saying hi to Ms. Mitchell, but I knew Charlotte didn’t want to give her mother a chance to be a third wheel and invite herself—and maybe the kids—along on our date.
Sooner than I’d expected, Charlotte was dashing from her house and jogging to my truck, pantomiming “turn the engine.”
As soon as she hopped inside, she said, “Floor it! The old woman is after me.”
I chuckled, but I didn’t floor it. Instead, I pulled out of the spot nice and slow, and only after Charlotte had buckled her seatbelt.
“What is wrong with you? I told you to floor it.”
“I can’t floor it. This truck is an antique.”
“You need a new car.”
“I love this car.” I petted the dashboard. “Don’t listen to her, baby. She doesn’t know you like I do.”
“I’m feeling a little jealous of this truck.” She gave me a side-eye even as she laughed good-naturedly, then pulled down the visor to check her makeup in the mirror. “Which color? Rambunctious Red or Pernicious Pink?”
“Pardon?”
“I haven’t put on lipstick yet. Which one goes better with what I’m wearing?”
“Uh . . .” I hadn’t paid much attention to what she’d changed into, so I tried to sneak a look. “Sorry, let me get to a stop sign.”
“Never mind. Pernicious Pink it is.”
“Always a solid choice.”
She snorted but said nothing. We drove for a bit in silence as she applied her lip
stick. Charlotte didn’t live too far from the restaurant, and before we’d settled into any kind of real conversation, I’d parked, taking note of the cars in the lot.
“I think that’s Jethro Winston’s truck,” I said, not cutting the engine, my mouth suddenly dry.
“So it is,” she agreed, sounding distracted. “And—uh—look at that. There’s Ashley Winston’s—I mean Ashley Runous’s—car. They must be having a family dinner.”
I struggled to swallow. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s probably crowded.”
“I thought you ‘ordered ahead and they’re expecting us.’” She quoted my earlier words, infusing a good dose of Charlotte attitude.
I leveled her a flat look, and she stuck her tongue out.
“Real mature, Charlotte.”
“What do you want? I’m surrounded by other people’s children all day at the elementary school and my own at home. You’re lucky my hands aren’t sticky.” She unclicked her seatbelt and opened her door, which made me frown.
“Hold on a sec.” I cut the engine and hopped out, jogging around to Charlotte’s side. “Let me get the door.”
“You know, I can get my own door,” she said, hiking up her skirt to climb down from the passenger seat.
“Yes, but I like getting the door.”
“Instead of getting my door, why don’t you give me something I really want?”
“Oh yeah, like what?” I offered my elbow, which she took.
“I don’t know, a massage? I haven’t had a massage in ages.”
Oh. That’s easy to fix. “Sure thing.” I shrugged.
“Really?” She smiled at me, her eyes widening again like they had earlier when I’d suggested we go back to my place. “You’d give me a massage?”
“Yeah. There’s that spa my momma likes in Knoxville. I’m sure they have massages. I’ll get you a gift certificate.”
Charlotte made a face, her shoulders slumping. “Oh. Sure.”
“What? Is there a different place you want to try?” I opened the door of the restaurant for her, and she filed in, walking straight to the hostess stand to check us in, my question apparently forgotten. No matter. I added Get Charlotte a gift certificate for a massage to my mental task list.