He knows I was sensitive about this the other day after the swimming hole, so how dare he? What where they doing in the woods together?
As they get closer, I see that Blair’s T-shirt is now inside out.
I’m so angry I could scream, but I just stand here, watching them.
Fuming.
Calculating.
Planning my move.
55
Jackson
Rattled from his run-in with Nellie, Jackson notes his palms are slick against the knob of the side door.
He cracks it open, heads toward the guest bath.
As he’s about to enter, he sees the backside of Abigail, her white dress wrinkled like a wadded-up napkin, slipping out the French doors to the back courtyard.
Hmmm.
He approaches the bathroom, and as he does, he hears water splashing, a man whistling.
Alexander.
Seething, Jackson clenches his jaw.
He’s not waiting any longer, he’s going to pry Ethan away from the fray, tell him.
Alexander shuffles from the bathroom. “Yo!” he says to Jackson, clearly startled. Alexander’s face turns a shade of crimson. “Didn’t know you were out here!”
“Yourfriend,” Jackson says, simply because he has too much booze surfing through his veins, “just left.” He hitches his chin toward the patio door.
“I don’t know what, or who, you’re talking about. I just came in to take a leak—”
Maybe that’s true, Jackson thinks.Maybe Abigail came in and used the other guest bath underneath the staircase. Maybe I should shut my trap.
But then, he knows that’s not true. He’s positive, sure as he’s standing here, that Alexander and Abigail just had a quickie in the pantry, in the bathroom, up against the wall.
“Nothing,” he mutters to Alexander, pushing past him to enter the restroom.
Alexander claps him on the shoulder as he exits. “Good party, man, thank you.” Another clap, that says,Hey, we’re good; all is good between us, right?
Finally alone, Jackson shuts the door, studies his reflection. Even with the damp night, every hair is still in place.Thank you, hair mousse.He doesn’t find any mouthwash, but he gargles with water, splashes some on his face. Scrubs his hands with the vanilla-scented pump soap at the sink.
The party could go on all night, but Jackson can’t be sure of how much longer the Swifts will stay—they do have a baby at home—so it’s now or never.
He steps out the French doors. People are drunk enough that they’re now dancing to the band, the trumpet squeaking, the snare drum popping, hips swaying.
Ethan stands by the champagne fountain, chatting with Sherry Reeves, Nellie’s boyfriend’s mom.
Perfect. He’ll be happy to have Jackson rescue him from her clutches.
Jackson dips a glass under the stream of bubbly, then takes a long sip before approaching Ethan. Whose skin gleams in the fluorescent light of the fountain, who has grown even more handsome the drunker he gets. His smile is looser, wickeder, that magnificent body honey glazed with sweat.
Jackson sidles up next to him. “Hey! Can we chat a sec?”
