But Charleigh did tell him they were religious nuts.
Jackson divorced himself long ago from any ties with the church. Aside from the handful of Methodist churches in Dallas and Houston that openly welcome gays, Christianity is a foe to his community.
But he can’t pry his eyes off Ethan as he leans over the bar, that lock of golden hair now dangling across his forehead, luscious fingers paging through the battered-looking Bible.
Through his straw, Jackson sucks in more Jack and Coke, savoring the sweetness of the soda mixed with the bite of the whiskey. He flicks his eyes back to the Rangers game, but then they rove—of their own accord—back over to Ethan.
As if sensing this, Ethan closes his Bible, turns to Jackson. “I know it might seem odd, but I like to take this wherever I go.”
Jackson nods, his brain incapable of forming a reply.
“I know religion isn’t foreverybody.” Ethan says this in a low voice, almost conspiratorially, as if he’s all but saying he’swell aware that Jackson is gay. “And organized religion isn’t really for me. But this,” Ethan adds, tapping the Bible, “the pure word, meant to be read in both churches and places of ill repute, by everyday men, is almost poetic to me. Especially the Psalms.”
Ethan licks a finger, flips through the tissue-like pages. “I waited patiently for the Lord. He drew me up from the pit. I delight to do your will, O God. My heart fails me, but you are my help.” He closes the book, slips it back in his bag. “It’s almost like a country song, you know?”
Jackson nods again.Say something clever, he thinks for the second time this evening. “Yeah, I don’t go in much for the church—”
“I bet you don’t.” Ethan’s eyes move over him. Trickling down his chest, to his jeans. Jackson feels like he’s being lit on fire. “And hey, I’m not trying to convert you—there’s nothing worse than a man pushing his own beliefs on another. I just wanted to explain why I take my Bible to the bar. Helps keep me on the right path.”
But the way Ethan’s looking at Jackson, it’s as if he wants to be led rightoffthat right path.
“Gotcha.” Jackson takes a nip of his cocktail. “So, what line of work are you in?”
Jackson knows the answer to this, of course, but the time has long passed for Jackson to admit that he’s already heard all the dirt on the Swifts from his catty best friend.
“Woodworking,” Ethan says, winking at him.
The double entendre isn’t lost on Jackson; he chokes on his drink. “What kind of…woodworking?” Jackson can play this game, too.
“Mmmm…” Ethan moans. “Custom stuff. High-end furniture. One-of-a-kind pieces. Like, really, anything a client wants. Credenzas, tallboy dressers, sideboards. You name it. But I really only like to work with the choicest woods.”
“That’s really fascinating!” Jackson says too brightly. But it is. Finally something they can talk about. “I’m a designer. Interior design. So I’m genuinely interested.”
“I knew I liked you for a reason.” Ethan’s voice is husky. He inches his barstool closer to Jackson’s. “What’s your specialty?”
“Kind of like yours. I work with high-end clients. Scouting for everything from antiques to the latest pieces from the showrooms in Dallas. That sort of thing.”
“Wanna come see my stuff sometime?” Ethan combs his bangs back into place with his hands. “I mean, no pressure. But my shop’s out on my land.” Ethan juts his head toward the exit. “Not far from here.”
Don’t say yes, don’t say yes, Jackson thinks. Cut this off right here. Nothing good can come from this. The man is married, and Charleigh will skin him if she finds out he talked to Ethan even this much.
Jackson’s mouth hangs open, trying to form words. “I’d love to,” he finally says, stomach spinning.
“I’m about to head out. Wanna come outside, exchange cards? Mine are in the glove box.”
Jackson’s boots crunch over the white gravel as he trails Ethan through the parking lot. Above, the sky is clear, the moon a pale quarter dangling above them.
Ethan’s truck is parked next to Jackson’s convertible.
“Nice signage,” Ethan remarks about Jackson’s magnetic sign on the side of his car that reads,Ford Design.
“Yours, too,” Jackson says. And itisnice. A vintage-looking font, perfectly painted in white, that reads,Swift’s Custom Furniture.
“Thanks. Painted it myself.”
Of course you did, Jackson thinks. As if he needs another reason to have a crush on this man.
As they swap cards, Ethan’s hand brushes Jackson’s, sending electricity zipping up his arm. Jackson turns to leave, cracks open his car door, lowers himself inside. Before he closes it, Ethan says, “Hope to see you soon. I bet we have a lot more in common than you think.” Ethan winks at him again.
