by Penny Reid
He didn’t answer.
“Are you here to check on your plot, Jackson?” Kimmy Mitchell wandered over to the blanket and plopped down, picking up the bag of chips I’d assaulted earlier.
“Your plot?” I snuck a glance at him, but his eyes were narrowed on Charlotte.
She was still smirking. “Oh! That’s right. I’d forgotten all about your plot. How silly of me. And what a coincidence that it’s right here, where we are standing, right now.” She wasn’t even trying to lie believably. She looked like she was trying not to laugh. “How are your plots, Jackson? All my plots are going swimmingly.”
“What’s blooming?” Joshua Mitchell, the second oldest and a sensitive, sweet soul, took the bag of chips from Kimmy and gently opened it for her.
“Wait, what plot are we talking about?” I addressed this question to the kids since I wasn’t sure Jackson was capable of conversation yet. His body had been quite primed for other activities when we’d been interrupted.
“Jackson watches over the land for the rangers and takes notes about the plants and such.” Joshua opened the picnic basket and riffled through it as his baby brother toddled over.
“You do?”
He gave his eyes to me, the heat behind them tempered but still present, and I longed to pull him away from here, someplace private, for hours upon hours so we could figure things out between us. Maybe we needed to be placed in cages so we couldn’t touch each other.
Great. Now I’m going to have cage fight sex fantasies about Jackson tonight.
“Something like that,” he finally said, a barely-there smile softening his features and making me melt.
Note to self, buy a cage.
“Nonscientists, or future scientists—” Jackson absentmindedly ruffled the toddler’s hair and then helped Frankie sit as he knelt next to the basket “—can adopt plots of land in the park. All you have to do is stop by every two weeks between spring and late fall, write down what’s there, keep track of the tree line, the foliage.”
“It helps the rangers understand how the weather makes the plants grow.” Joshua handed a plate to Kimmy, then to Jackson, then to himself. “Momma? Are you eating?”
Charlotte grabbed her second youngest, pulling the ponytail out of Sonya’s hair and redoing it. “No baby, we’re not staying long.”
“Oh? That’s too bad,” I said. It wasn’t too bad. It was great news. And now I felt like a jerk. I lowered to my knees, accepting a plate from Joshua.
“Yes!” Kimmy—who had just spotted the main course in the basket—sent me a hopeful look. “Is this for us?”
“What is it? What did she make?” Charlotte, looking undecided, hovered at the edge of the blanket.
Kimmy turned over her shoulder. “Pesto primavera,” she announced, pronouncing the words perfectly.
“Then I guess we will be staying after all.” Charlotte immediately sat and reached out a hand. “Gimme two plates, Josh. One for me and one for your little sister.”
“Pesto primavera?” Jackson’s eyes skimmed over me. “What’s that?”
“It’s a fancy name for spaghetti with this green slimy sauce and vegetables, and you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Rae’s pesto primavera.” Charlotte raved, and I knew her compliment came from the heart. The last time I’d made my mother’s recipe for her, she’d eaten three servings. “Wait a minute. Haven’t you been to Italy, Jackson? And you’ve never heard of pesto primavera?”
“We didn’t eat out much, and I was only there for a short trip to see the baby,” he replied, passing out the forks and napkins to the kids. Frankie sat down on Jackson’s lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world, as he directed his next comments to me, “My sister lives there for now, and we all went out when my nephew was born.”
“Does your sister work outside the home?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know very much about Jackson’s family.
“Yes.”
“What does she do?” Kimmy reverently passed me the container pesto primavera, and I peeled back the lid.
“She’s an heiress,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
Jackson sent her a flat look. “She teaches. She’s a math teacher. Wherever she goes, she teaches at a local school.”
“She’s an heiress,” Charlotte whispered loudly. “That’s how she can afford to go wherever she wants.”
“Anyway.” Jackson cleared his throat, setting down the toddler’s food to cut the pasta and vegetables into little bits. “Where’d you pick up this recipe?”
“It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“She’s from Italy,” Charlotte said around a mouthful of food. “And if vegetables in Italy tastes like this, I want to become an heiress and move there like your sister.”
I felt Jackson’s eyes on me, so I gave him mine.
“You don’t talk much about your family,” he said softly, like he was just realizing this.
“We don’t always talk when we’re together,” I whispered.
“What do you two do if you’re not talking? Do you play?” Joshua asked, looking honestly curious.
Charlotte choked on her food, and I set Jackson’s plate down to hand her a bottle of water. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just fine,” she rasped, gulping the water. She breathed out, then in, then said, “Jackson, why don’t you tell Rae more about the plots? That’s a nice, normal, uncomplicated subject.”
“I would like to hear about them.” I finished heaping a serving onto his plate and handed it back to him.
“Sure. But let me eat for a minute first. I skipped lunch.” He accepted his plate and promptly picked up his spoon and fork. Twisting to the side to maneuver around the toddler, he pressed the tines of his fork against the curve of the spoon to painstakingly twirl the noodles, meticulously coiling them until none dangled. The sight made me smile. He was so careful and thoughtful, even with spaghetti.
Making myself a plate, but momentarily forgotten, I watched as he brought the bite to his mouth, and I knew the precise moment the sauce hit his tongue because his face contorted with pleasure, and he groaned.
“Oh my God.”
Goose bumps spread over my arms and neck at the sound of his enjoyment. My mouth watered. I felt a little dizzy.
“Say Oh my goodness. Not Oh my God,” Kimmy instructed, cutting through my daze.
I redirected my eyes to her and discovered she’d already finished eating, her plate completely clean.
“That’s right, Kimmy,” Charlotte said around her own bite, then gave Jackson a meaningful look. “What did I tell you? Isn’t it outstanding? I’m just saying, Rae. If that whole acting thing doesn’t work out, you should open an Italian restaurant in Green Valley.”
“This is—” Jackson shook his head, drawing my attention back to him and his facial expressions of ecstasy. “Rae, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Ever?” I asked, the word slipping out before I could stop myself, and a spiky wave of mortification rushed up my neck and cheeks.
Rae! What is wrong with you? There are children present!
Jackson grew very still, his eyes fastened to the plate in his hands, his mouth paused mid-chew.
And Charlotte, chuckling heartily, stacked her plate with her kids’ plates and stood. “Well. I think that’s our cue to leave.”
I sighed, also standing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you apologize.” She pointed at me, giving me a warm grin as she leaned in for a hug. “You just fed my kids dinner. You’re officially my favorite person. Come on everyone. Let’s get going. Come on.”
With Jackson to help wipe off the youngest’s face and me stacking the dishes, it took several minutes before the children actually vacated the blanket—because somehow Kimmy had taken off her shoes, and then lost a shoe, and then Joshua wanted to try on Jackson’s shoes, and, and, and—and then they were gone.
Jackson stood at the edge of the blanket, watching them go while I knelt, figuratively sit
ting on the edge of my seat, wondering—worrying—what would happen next.
“Do you want kids?” he asked, twisting to look down at me. “And what was your childhood like? In all your interviews, you don’t talk about it.”
Neither of these questions had been expected. It took me a moment to recalibrate the direction of my thoughts, and a few more to find the words. I decided to answer the easy question first.
“I don’t know if I want kids, honestly.” I peered up at him. “I don’t know if I’d be a good mom.”
He made a small sound, turned completely, and sat on the grass. “What is your mom like?”
A light laugh escaped me. “She’s very smart.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a classics professor at a small, private liberal arts college.”
“Hmm. So, Latin and such?”
“Yes. She actually made me learn Latin.”
“How’d you like that?”
I opened my mouth to complain about it, but then stopped myself, really thinking before answering. “At the time, I mostly hated it. But Latin is not like learning other languages. The pronunciation is extrapolated based on current related languages, so I didn’t speak it. I learned to read and write it, though.”
“Why ‘mostly’? What did you like about it?”
“The examples, in the textbooks, are always very gruesome and funny.”
“How so?”
“Uh, like, they all have to do with murder and insurrection.”
He laughed. “Really?”
“Yes. I guess because you’re never going to have to ask someone where the bathroom is in Latin, they skip over all the conversational stuff.”
“I don’t know, depends on the conversations you’re having, I guess.” The side of his mouth curved upward. “So, she’s smart. And she’s got good recipes.” He reached over and picked up his plate, bringing it back to where he sat on the grass. “What else? Was it just the two of you?”
“Yes. Just the two of us.”
He seemed to study me before saying, “Do you not want to talk about your family?”
“I don’t.” I never did.
“Okay. That’s fine. But then maybe, could you tell me why?”
I smiled at his cleverness. “I see. You’re not going to push me to talk about my family. But then you ask why I don’t want to talk about them, which means I’ll have to talk about them.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He ate another bite of his pasta, his tone light and conversational. This was so nice.
I chuckled and crossed my arms. “Fine. I don’t like to talk about my family because I feel like I don’t have one.”
He frowned, lowering his fork, his eyes wide with concern. But he didn’t ask me to elaborate, which was probably why I did.
“My mom left Italy for the States over strong objections from her parents. They’re still in Italy, and I’ve only met them and my aunts, uncles, and cousins a few times. We’re not close. When she moved here, it was on a student visa, and she met my dad in Miami—she didn’t go to school down there, she was on summer break. She then got pregnant with me. He wanted to get married, she didn’t, and so she raised me on her own.”
“What about your dad? Do you see him?”
I shook my head. “I’ve met him nine times that I can remember, and not since I was eight. He doesn’t want to know me.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
Jackson winced. He set his plate down and crawled over to me. Pulling me into a hug, he reclined onto his back, bringing me with him. My cheek pressed to his chest, his arms around my body, and I closed my eyes.
“It’s his loss. I can’t imagine meeting you and not wanting to know you,” he said firmly, making my insides feel warm. “Did your biological father have any more children?”
I expelled a heavy sigh. “Yes.”
“How old are they?”
“I don’t know. I think the youngest is nineteen or twenty.”
Jackson’s fingers began stroking my upper arm in a way that felt absentminded. “What are they like?”
“I’ve never met them.”
His fingers halted. “Really?”
“Really.” I frowned at the sky, my heart pinging, and muttered, “I’m not even sure they know I exist.” My stage name was different from my real name, Raquel Ezra instead of Raquel Zanella. But even if I used my real name, I had no reason to believe my father had ever told them about me.
“They’re over eighteen. Have you ever thought about reaching out?” His absentminded touch started up again, the gentle strokes lessening the dull ache in my chest that typically accompanied any thoughts about this subject.
“I have, but . . .” But what would I say?
Hi. I’m not Kent Brockman, I’m Raquel Ezra. You may know me from such films as Starlight Express and Tabitha Tomorrow. I also happen to be your half-sister. Want to grab a coffee?
And what if they said no? What if they—like my father—didn’t want to know me?
“But?” he prompted when I didn’t continue.
“Can we talk about something else?” I snuggled closer to his warm body, leaving the disturbing thoughts behind by draping my leg over his hip and an arm over his chest. Touching him made everything in me soothe and settle. “What about your family? Your dad is the sheriff, right?”
“He is. He’s. . .”
“It’s okay.” I gave him a little shake. “You can talk about your family, you’re not going to upset me if they’re awesome. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.” Lifting my head, I twisted and placed my hand on his chest, pushing up so I could see his face. “I want to know about you.”
He gazed at me, and I felt his fingers sift through my hair as he admitted, “They are awesome.”
I smiled, turned, and resettled against him, gazing up at the blue sky. “I figured they were.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re just—I don’t know. You seem so well-adjusted. Almost too well-adjusted.”
“You make well-adjusted sound sexy or something.” He laughed, and that made me smile wider.
“It is. It’s so sexy. And your manners. Politeness is sexy to me. You’re . . . grounded. You seem to really know yourself.”
His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and then he tugged on me, changing our positions so we rested on our sides facing each other, but not touching. His handsome eyes moved between mine, like he was searching for something there. “Did you mean what you said?”
“You mean about being your nice, dedicated, hard-working, struggling, unfun woman?”
He grinned, but then quickly tried to arrange his mouth into a serious line. His gorgeous bedroom eyes gave him away, though. They continued sparkling with humor. I love his eyes.
“Yes, Rae. Do you really want to be with me? For more than one night?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I do. I want many nights. I want to give this a try, for real.” I nodded, my hand moving with a mind of its own to grab the hem of his shirt. “Do you want to be with me?”
“Yes. Very much,” he said, his voice a tad rougher than before, and my heart swelled. THIS IS HAPPENING!!!
But then Jackson’s gaze narrowed. “If you don’t, at any point, all you have to do is tell me. I’m not ever going to push you into staying with me or doing something you don’t wish to do.”
That made me smile wider. “I know that. You’re a little infuriating that way.”
“Infuriating? How so?”
“Because it makes you hard to read. Most people, when they want something, they push, or they ask. But not you. I think maybe you see even the act of asking for something you want as pushing.” My hand slid to his and I threaded our fingers together. “I want to be with you, Jackson. I want to give this a try. But I need to trust that you’ll tell me what you want, or you’ll ask, and not believe yourself to be pushy, or impolite, or a bad person just for asking. There’s never
any harm in asking, it’s not you imposing your will on me. I’m a big girl. I can say no.”
Jackson frowned, his eyes dropping to the vicinity of my chest. I knew he wasn’t staring at my boobs but rather considering my words.
“And,” I added, “I’ll let you set the pace. I can be patient. We can take things as slow as you need. I’m in this to win this.”
Abruptly, he said, “Okay,” giving me back his gaze. He looked determined. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“Good.” I gave his hand a squeeze. “From now on, I will assume you are asking for what you want and know I won’t go running to the high hills in terror should you make a request.”
He squeezed back, chuckling. “And on that note. Rae. Would you like to go fishing with me on my boat this Wednesday, because I would like to take you fishing.”
I was nodding before he’d finished his sentence. “Are you kidding? Yes, yes, yes!” Flinging myself at him, I ended up lying on top of his body as his back rolled to the blanket. Since I had him in such a delightful position, I peppered his face with kisses and straddled his hips.
His big hands slid to my waist and held me still. “Wait, wait a minute. I have some rules.” He lifted his head to steal a kiss from my lips, then held himself away.
“Okay. Tell me.” FISHING!
“No touching.”
I immediately stilled. And then I lifted myself up, straddling his hips, and crossed my arms. “What?”
“As I’ve said, I’m crazy about you. And every time we’re together, we end up—”
“—almost having sex.”
His long body seemed to stretch and tense under me, his hips shifting restlessly. “Yes,” he said, his voice roughened. “I’d like to get to know you, just be with you, talk. I know there’s this—”
“—pull between us.”
“Exactly. And I want to—”
“—get to know me better without thinking about sex the whole time. I feel exactly the same way.”
“Great.” He squinted at me. “Are you going to keep—”
“—finishing your sentences? No. But I am enjoying the fact that I can totally read your mind.”
Laughing, he slid his fingers from my jaw to my temple and into my hair, guiding my mouth down to his and kissing me sweetly. I gripped the front of his shirt, wishing he’d kiss me less sweetly, but knowing it would be a bad idea. Things between us tended to spiral out of control quickly. And we were in a field. In public. We’d be lucky if some paparazzi a-hole hadn’t filmed us already using a camera drone.