Probably a lot, but too late now.
Wasn’t sure he was brave enough to open up about all of it anyway. “Going chicken on me?” he teased.
“If your momma scares you, I don’t hold out much hope for myself.”
“She’ll lady your boots off,” Jackson said. He hit her with his best disarming smile, even though he wanted to pound his foot on the gas and get away from the negative gravitational pull of the house. “Don’t reckon you studied that Officers’ Wives Handbook to figure out how to use your silverware at dinner tonight.”
She hitched one side of her mouth up. Looked as if she were trying to make it reach those wide doe eyes. “Get on my bad side, and I won’t wear that sweatshirt in the backseat you think I don’t know about to the game tomorrow.”
He chuckled. “All right, Anna Grace. I’ll behave myself. And I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, to defend you and your Yankee ways against all those suspicious looks and backhanded compliments you might be walking into.”
He pocketed his keys, then stared at the house. It was the kind of house that all those suburban mini-mansions wanted to be. Three stories tall, as wide as a football field was long, stone façade, arched windows and an arched double doorway, pristine landscaping. Russ and his first wife built it after his business took off, and now it was everything Southern grandeur was supposed to be on the outside, everything hell was supposed to be on the inside.
Anna was watching him. He made his face blank. “Ready?”
She put soft fingers to his cheek and pressed a kiss to his mouth.
Never knew it could feel so good to not be alone. “Don’t you be trying that at the dinner table unless you’re looking to get on my momma’s bad side,” he said, but his voice was huskier than he meant it to be.
“Only after I thank her for raising you to chase ants out of ladies’ cars.”
Couldn’t help but smile at her gumption. “And don’t forget pulling ladies out of garbage cans. That one there’s my favorite.”
“Bring that up again and no more pie for you.”
He laughed, because he had to enjoy it while he could.
Anna couldn’t decidewhich was worse, being underdressed to meet Jackson’s momma in a house that reeked of money and elegance, or the fact that he hadn’t warned her his momma lived in a house that reeked of money and elegance.
Knowing him for so long now, and hearing him talk about his momma, she expected a comfortable house in a middle-class neighborhood, not a mansion that looked like Martha Stewart herself hosted billionaires here every weekend.
Jackson opened the front door, a massive oak number taller than any door Anna had ever seen back home. He led her inside, hand comfortably at the small of her back. She contemplated asking if she should take her shoes off, but he didn’t seem to think anything of tramping across the gleaming wood floor, so she went along through the high-ceilinged foyer and into a grand living room where she had to immediately swallow a quiet whimper.
If she thought the outside signified she’d entered the home of someone in an entirely different economic class, the inside did nothing to quell that feeling of stepping into a world where she didn’t belong. The walls were covered in oil paintings rimmed with frames that Anna guessed cost more than her monthly rent, and she didn’t want to think about what that meant for the glittering, dust-free crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the tray ceiling.
That tingling on her scalp might’ve been a little bit of sweat.
Here she’d thought her biggest sin would be not liking grits.
The couches were all dark leather with brass adornments. They were beautiful, but looked as cozy as a log in a bear’s den. She suspected that if she dared to sit and prop up her feet on the spotless glass coffee table, its metal legs would morph into jaws and politely chomp off her lower extremities.
With barely a pause, Jackson nudged her through the next doorway. The massive dining room table was set with fine china, ready for a meal fit to serve a king and his entourage. A buffet and hutch displaying another set of fine china—probably the everyday china, as opposed to the Thanksgiving china—stood on one wall. On the opposite wall, a huge picture window overlooked the lush yard where Radish was happily basking in the sun. So much for that fleeting thought that maybe his momma just worked here. Beyond the yard were more woods, separating the house from any suggestion of neighbors.
She cut a glance up at Jackson. He’d retreated into his blank mask.
She’d thought she was coming for a football game, and instead, she’d stepped into an entirely different world. Maybe she could fake a posh Southern accent all weekend to fitin.
A couple of old silver plates rattled in an ornate curio cabinet as they passed into the kitchen. At least, she thought it was the plates.
It could’ve been her feet quaking in her shoes, or her bones rattling out of their sockets.
The kitchen was brightly lit and large enough to support a whole cooking crew. The smell of money and opulence overpowered whatever was cooking on the stove. An average-height, curvy woman was chopping something green on a wooden block on the massive island in the center of the room.
Her skin was smooth and clear, lipstick perfect, light-brown curly hair tamed in an elegant yet simple bun. The shrewdness in her light eyes and the way she held her shoulders back told Anna that this was a woman who’d experienced life and was still coming out on top.
If Anna had had a kid who had done half what Jackson claimed, she would have wrinkles and gray hair.
Not Jackson’s momma. She looked as though she’d bend time and space before she’d allow anything so plebian as age to sully her appearance.
