"And that," I agreed, "but I'm not complaining. Help is help, and I'll take it."
Jackson tore a handful of paper towels off the roll and passed them to me. "You don't test out recipes with your family? Everyone's told me that your mom's quite the cook."
"Nope," I replied, an entire lifetime's worth of exclusion packed into one word. "We have different kitchen philosophies. Better to keep them separate than start a holy war, you know?"
"Let me make a deal with you," Jackson said, holding open the garbage pail while I deposited the runaway peach and the paper towels necessary to clean up its trail. "You do the baking, I'll wash the dishes."
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I didn't know why that thought burst into my mind like an annoying pop-up ad but it was there now and I couldn't force it away.
"Sure," I said, turning back to the countertop. I couldn't look at him. I didn't trust myself to meet his gaze without agreeing to his demands and that was a bridge I couldn't cross right now. "That would be awesome. I hate washing dishes. I usually fill up the sink and leave everything soaking in there for days. It's not until I need something and there are no alternatives that I'm compelled to wash anything."
Jackson slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he leaned against the island. "We have a deal," he said. "One last question for you, Annie."
Still concentrating on the peach in hand, I asked, "What's that?"
"Am I coming home with you tonight? Or would you rather I come over tomorrow to"—I swear on my life, his voice dropped a full octave and my undies fell off all by themselves—"wash you up?"
"Hmm," I started, "let me think about that."
The peach bobbled out of my grip, first popping into the air and then bouncing off my inner arm when I tried to reel it back in. Instead of containing the fruit, I volleyed it toward Jackson. Bless his heart for trying but he only made matters worse when it slipped out of his grasp and hit me square on the clavicle. It followed the line of my chest down, rolling to a sticky stop right between my breasts.
Jackson and I stared at the half-bald peach sitting just beneath the neckline of my dress before glancing up at each other.
"You're not allowed to distract me while I peel peaches," I shouted.
At the same time, Jackson said, "Now you really need me to give you a good washing."
I wagged a finger at him, and then reached in to retrieve the peach. "At this rate, we're not going to have any scones before three in the morning," I said, handing him the fruit for disposal. "This shit would never happen onThe Great British Bake Off."
"I don't know what that is but I think we could put this stuff in the fridge and try again tomorrow." Jackson shrugged as he tossed the peach away. "It's a tough job but I'll roll up my sleeves and lick the peach juice off you." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, toward his bedroom. "Just take off your clothes and I'll do all the work."
"You're rather gallant, sheriff," I said. I was like a three-year-old—sticky, sugary, in need of a nap. "But it's late and I should go. We have a bit more time until peach season ends."
He nodded as if he understood but I knew he didn't. To him, I was getting over a non-relationship and being ridiculously cautious with my heart. My vagina, too, but mostly my heart. He didn't understand my mind games, my mental gymnastics, my struggles to accept affection when it wasn't hard fought. But he was a nice guy, a gentleman, and he respected the boundaries I laid down.
"I'll walk you home," Jackson said, shoving his hands into his pockets. It was as if he realized the touchy-gropey-kissy portion of the evening was over. "Don't think you can argue this point with me either. You probably know everyone on this street and the location of every crack in the sidewalk but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you walk through town by yourself at this hour. I'll see you home, Annie, whether you like it or not."
I hummed in response, not confident in my ability to reply without overturning my plan to leave. Jackson was tricky like that. He seemed like the average good guy, all nice and polite with his ma'am-ing and charitable lawn mowing and collecting drunk girls from bars. But underneath the good guy veneer was a man who wanted to keep a woman as his own. He stewed with a desire to protect and serve that woman but he also wanted to belong to her. It traveled through his words and gestures, his stares and touches, and it was potent enough to run off with my thoughts. It made me believe that a man could want me—just me, just as I was—and that belief lodged a knot of confused emotion in my throat.
My head couldn't keep my heart straight—or maybe it was the other way around.
I reached for the bowl of cracked eggs but Jackson beat me to it. "I've got this. I'll have it for breakfast, since you claim I chug raw eggs," he said, gesturing with the bowl toward the epic mess we'd created in his kitchen. "Whenever you decide to revisit the scene of these crimes, I'll have everything waiting for you, and I swear I'll stay out of the splash zone until it's time to hit the pots and pans."
With my hands washed and my baking tools stowed in my tote bag, I laced my fingers with Jackson's and let him walk me home. In the harbor, sails jangled against masts. A dog barked in the distance and beetles hissed at the street lights. The midnight air was cool with a hint of damp sea breeze, the kind of air that folks referred to as "good sleeping weather." It was a blessed reprieve from the past weekend's wave of hot, humid days and equally unpleasant nights.
This would've made for the perfect weather to sleep with Jackson. I knew he'd be my personal furnace. My big grizzly. I bet he was a compulsive cuddler, too. He'd chase me right to the edge of the bed and then lock me in his strong arms all night.
I didn't know whether I was a cuddler or not. I'd never lived with anyone but my family and college roommates, and I didn't snuggle with any of them. I'd never had serious relationships either. I was always making big plans, always climbing.
Climbing didn't leave much time for cuddling.
We walked down the street and into the village without a word, and I was thankful for the quiet. It helped ground me in my decision to slow this—this flirtation. It was barely more than that, if I didn't include the nakedness and the one time in his office when we werethis closeto having sex and then the time he said the dirtiest things I'd ever heard spoken.
Just a flirtation. One that was dry humping its way out of control.Dry humping. My word. How did that even happen? I wasn't telling Brooke about this. She'd rake me over the seventeen-and-in-a-minivan coals.
When we reached the alley behind my shop, I gestured toward the building as if he didn't know where we were and said, "This is me."
