I’m not proud of the way I objectify him. But even last week, after his run, when I made it out onto the observation point where he was resting, the way sweat rippled down the lines of his freaking six-pack abs had me so hot andbothered I had to take a moment to catch my breath. And not because of the hike.
“I was thinking it was too much,” I say, skimming a hand over the waist of my gown, “but that reaction alone is worth the hit to my credit card.” I step back and hold the door open in invitation. “Come on in, I’m almost ready.”
The weight of his gaze is a physical touch, and somehow, this feels different from any other time I’ve greeted him at my door. Maybe it’s because we’re all dolled up in our finest, and if he were any other man, this could be considered a date. Sometimes I wish… but he’s so hot, and I’m just me. There’s no way he’d ever see me as anything more.
I turn away to both gather my composure and escape his hungry eyes. My skirt swishes softly as I walk to the mirror to reapply my lip gloss. Not that I really need it; I just want a minute to catch my breath. The click of my new heels on the hardwood floors seems extra loud in the hallway. Behind me, I hear the door close, the quiet snick of the latch.
“Damn, Magnolia. You look hot.” His voice is extra sultry and raises goosebumps, even from across the room.
Chancing a look over my shoulder, I find his eyes glued to my ass. Another shot of validation glows inside me. “My ass looks great in this dress, doesn’t it? That’s what sealed the deal.” I turn to the mirror and focus on my cherry lip stain. “I normally hate dress shopping, but this one jumped out, and I had to have it.”
“You should buy one in every color.”
Heat creeps up my chest. I shouldn’t take such pleasure in the growl of those words. But who am I kidding? Jackson is attractive and nearly irresistible even on his worst day. Trussed up in a well-fitted suit, he’s goingto be the eye candy of the event, for sure. If he’s acting growly over me for a heartbeat, I’m going to take this feeling and squirrel it away for later. Like when he’s got the attention of every single woman in attendance, and I’m left on the sidelines nursing a drink.
“So where is this shindig?” I ask around a pout, examining the gloss, making sure to get it exactly right. Then I slip the tube into my clutch, grab the shawl I pulled out in case it gets cool later, and turn to face Jackson.
He’s propped on a shoulder against the doorframe, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets, watching me. Freaking delicious. And I’m a sucker because I love every minute of it. I like his eyes on me.
But his gaze doesn’t track me as I cross to him. It’s like he’s staring off into the distance, lost in thought.
“Jax?”
Twin lines draw his brows together before he blinks. His attention shifts back to me, and the easy smile reappears, his expression morphing from dark and broody to something just shy of his normal light and playful attitude. He straightens, taking my wrap and draping it over his arm. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“Where’s the reception?”
He snags my house key off the key rack and ushers me through the door, then turns and locks up behind us and hands me my keys. “It’s at the Mansion.”
The Mansion is a newly remodeled historical home on the edge of town, on the back side of which the owners invested in an addition of a three-story hotel.
In the past several years, historically owned farmland has been sold off to investors and annexed from the county into the incorporated town limits as our community has grown from rural farmland to sophisticated suburbia.Driven by an influx of funding from the film industry and a need for higher-end dining and hotels, there’s a marked difference at the town limits. On Main Street, it’s quaint mom-and-pop storefronts.
The historical society had a blast fighting over the aesthetic, but the owners compromised by keeping the original centennial home as the main structure and adding wings off the back with five-star accommodations. It’s upscale and gorgeous and brings new customers to my business.
Jackson offers me his arm, providing support down the two stairs of my porch.
“Such a gentleman,” I quip. Maybe he won’t notice the way I gripped his bicep a tad more than necessary. Instead of releasing me at the base of the steps, he flexes when I try to remove my hand, molding his arm to his chest and cradling my hand protectively in the crook of his elbow.
Heat spills across my chest. I shouldn’t like the way it feels—shouldn’t notice how we fit together perfectly, even with me in heels. I shouldn’t feel like a princess on the way to the ball on the arm of a handsome gentleman. But I do, and the feeling lingers as he hands me into the car. It’s a quiet ride to the venue. When I glance over at him, Jackson’s jaw is set, the arm between us draped over the steering wheel. His body language is a damn roller coaster. But when we arrive, he asks me to wait for him.
“This ought to be fun,” I mutter. While he rounds the front of the Jeep, I try to scoot around in my seat enough to get out with some semblance of grace.
Jackson’s large hand appears in my line of vision. “Need some help?”
I stifle a giggle.A giggle. I’m like a dang schoolgirl onher very first date. Where is my chill? Why am I so nervous?
“Thanks,” I say, taking his offer. I shouldn’t be this giddy, shouldn’t feel these butterflies, shouldn’t be pretending that this could be a real date, but the heat of his palm against mine is all too good.
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I should embrace the giddiness and butterflies. After all, it’s not like anything is going to happen with Jackson, so it’s a safe place to feel sexy with no consequences.
My dress hitches awkwardly as I slide out of the seat, drawing his eyes to the expanse of my exposed leg. “Dresses and heels are not my norm.”
His eyes stay glued to my skirt as I fluff the dress to make it lay correctly. God, I hope it’s cooler inside than under his perusal. Jackson has looked at me a million times over the years, but tonight is different. Intense. Heady. Forbidden.
“Good thing they’ve got valet parking tonight,” he says as we walk into the hotel lobby. “I wouldn’t want you standing out here alone while I parked, and those stilts aren’t made for cobblestone walkways.”
“They’re not stilts. They’re stilettos.”
