He shook his head as he pushed away from the bar. "You've changed since the last time your behind warmed that seat," he said. "Not so good anymore."
I didn't refute JJ's comment. I didn't want to address any changes—real or otherwise—that I'd experienced in the past forty-two days. Instead, I paged through my book, sipped my wine, and tried my best to keep from staring at Cole and Owen. Trying didn't equal succeeding.
I wasn't watching them out of morbid fascination or pointless jealousy. I was watching because I felt nothing for them. I had no emotional or romantic connection to Owen, not now and not then. There was little more than familiarity between us and my misplaced hope that familiarity would blossom and bear fruit.
That I'd survived for so long on so little only served to remind me that I was used to begging for scraps. I'd accepted those scraps as proof of affection, fondness, maybe even the inklings of love. I'd settled for those scraps, convincing myself they were plenty. That I could stitch together threadbare rags and form a connection worthy of my heart, my soul, my body.
When you were used to scrounging for scraps, real affection was tough to swallow.
Shortly after I requested a refill, Brooke arrived. She waved to me but found herself snared in a conversation on the opposite end of the bar. It wasn't uncommon for my neighbors to ask after her father and wax on about the time he said one thing or did another. She was always polite about it, answering questions with a pleasant-but-fake smile, nodding along as they reminisced about events she didn't recall. I didn't know how she did it, carrying the world and all its secrets on her shoulders. She made it seem effortless but I saw the cracks in the foundation.
I ordered a glass of wine for her and returned to my books. The minutes ticked by while Brooke kept that hollow smile plastered on her face and JJ peppered me with vague comments about behaving myself tonight, and then silence swept through the tavern. Glancing up, I found Cole and Owen cozied up in their booth, their heads bent together.
I smiled at them, wishing them well in this small gesture. They didn't need my acceptance or approval to love each other but I still wanted them to know we were good. No hard feelings, no awkwardness.
Returning to my cookbook, I got lost in an intricate linzer torte recipe that started with a detailed accounting of the cake's history and permutations through the centuries. It wasn't until the main door clattered that I looked up and found Jackson darkening The Galley's doorway. On a gust of wind, the door banged behind him again, drawing the attention of everyone in the tavern.
He stood there a moment, his shoulders nearly broad enough to brush the doorframe as he scanned the room, and then his gaze fell on me. His golden arms were bent at the elbows, his hands loosely gripping his duty belt. That pose had the fabric of his short-sleeved sheriff's shirt straining around his thick biceps and my lips parting on a sigh.
I found a deep store of confidence, one I wasn't sure I had anymore, and smiled at him. This wasn't how I'd imagined I'd see him again but here we were, no baked goods in sight and the entire town our audience. He blinked at me, once, twice, thrice before allowing the corner of his lip to turn up in response. I tipped my head toward the empty seat beside me, the one reserved for my best friend, and raised my eyebrows.
It was an invitation, one I hoped he'd take even if I didn't have the haziest idea what I was going to say or do if he joined me.
Jackson strode across the tavern, certain and bold, as if sent to collect me. It occurred to me that he was here for that exact reason. I peeked at JJ, who was reading the back of a whiskey bottle like it revealed the secrets to a long life.
"This will come back to you, Jedidiah," I hissed. "Don't think I'll forget."
"Can't imagine what you're talking about," he replied, watching as Jackson stopped at my side.
"Annette," Jackson said, his deep voice raking over my name. "I'm taking you home."
"Not until you settle up your tab," JJ called.
Jackson dropped some bills on the bar and pushed them toward JJ without taking his eyes off me. "I'm taking you home," he repeated.
"Can we talk first?" I asked, gesturing to the empty seat.
He shook his head once, a curt movement that had my edginess rising. He didn't want to sit, didn't want to talk…what was I missing?
"I am taking you home, Annette," Jackson said, each word crisper than the one before. Then, softly, "Please, beautiful. I need you right now."
And that was it. That was all I required to hop off the stool and gather my books.
"Give me that," he ordered, reaching for my tote bag.
I snatched it away with an exasperated frown. "I've got it," I said, swinging the tote over my shoulder. "It's two books and I can't let you pay for my drinks and carry my bag all on the same night. These people are going to think I'm a kept woman or something."
Jackson brought his hand to my lower back and bent to brush his lips over the shell of my ear. "That's exactly what I'd like them to think."
25
Glaze
v. To brush food with milk, egg, or sugar before baking in order to produce a shiny, golden finish.
Jackson
I hadn't expectedto march through The Galley and claim Annette with the whole town watching us over their grilled swordfish, but Brooke was right. It was the best way to kill a whole lot of birds with one stone.
