Leah’s eyelids fluttered. She curled the palm of one hand beneath her cheek to cup her chin. “If I die and I’m still alone, I’m hoping one of my book boyfriends will keep me company in the afterlife.”
Jackson shook his head and swallowed. His eyes burned. It took him two tries to clear his throat enough to speak. “If you die and you are alone, it will only be because I’ve let you slip through my fingers. And if I’m that much of a dumbass, I give you—and every book boyfriend you’ve ever had—my permission to haunt the shit out of me.”
She smiled sleepily. “Thanks, Jax. That’ll be fun.”
He wasn’t sure if she’d properly taken in his words. And he didn’t get the chance to check. When he turned his head to look at her, Leah’s eyes had closed.
Chapter 50
Leah
She woke with a raging thirst and a queasy stomach. Her phone told her it was well after eleven. Her dress lay discarded over the back of the small armchair by the window. She’d dropped her shoes by the door and slept in her black thong, passing out within minutes of reaching her room. Her hair was a snarled mess; she found several pins still hidden in its depths.
Her memories of getting home were jumbled and disjointed. She recalled some of the car ride with Jackson, remembered slipping off her heels to climb the porch steps (avoiding the hole), and the two glasses of water he’d made her drink in the kitchen. He’d guided her to her room and—oh, God—turned down her offer to share her bed. Leah’s cheeks flared; she pulled the comforter up and over her head. Why couldn’t she have forgotten that?
What a disaster of an evening. Even dressed up to the nines and plastering on the social graces, she hadn’t been able to make it through the night without showing herself up. It had all been pointless.
“Coffee.” Her voice sounded surprisingly normal. “And toast. No more thinking until I’ve had coffee and toast.”
She halted in the kitchen doorway, digging on all her reserves of strength. Jackson paused, mid-chew—cereal bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Leah could have sworn his mouth ticked up at one corner when he ran those arctic eyes over her well-worn leggings and crimson hoodie. She tried desperately not to care.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“Could be worse.” She grimaced. “Thanks for making me drink water.”
“You’re welcome.”
The silence was sticky. Leah expected Jackson to leave, the way he usually did when she entered a room. But he stayed, leaning against the countertop, watching her as he ate. He didn’t move when she crossed the kitchen to take a mug from the cupboard by his head or when she accidentally brushed his arm reaching to flick on the coffee machine. He smelled fresh and minty. It was a relief to move away and slot two slices of bread into the toaster. A dozen conversation starters hovered on her tongue but Leah’s spirit felt too heavy to spit any of them out.
“Want to eat that out back on the veranda?”
Her knife hesitated, laden with peanut butter. She didn’t know which was less expected—the actual question or the amenable tone it was asked in. “I—”
The clamorous chime of the doorbell cut through her reply. She saw Jackson’s chest rise and fall with the deepest of sighs, and the frustration as he dragged his hand along his jaw. “Of all the fucking timing...” he muttered, wrenching his eyes from hers and striding out of the kitchen.
Leah chewed on a mouthful of toast, heart plummeting as the unmistakable and unwelcome tones of Jackson’s father rose and fell in the foyer.
“Crap on a cracker.” She raised “give me strength” eyes to the ceiling.
“You didn’t expect to throw a bomb into the middle of our lives and just walk away, did you?” Alistair Hale sounded at the end of his tether.
“I’ll be honest, I expected we’d sit down and start untangling this mess tomorrow. Unrealistic of me, as it turns out.” Jackson pushed his hands deep into his pockets, weary resignation in the slump of his shoulders. “Come on in.”
Leah propped herself against the kitchen doorframe, raising her toast in subdued greeting when Alistair and Celia swept into the living room. Seeing Jackson’s parents again so soon had not been on her wish list when she woke up this morning, and as a recap of the night before played at full volume in her mind, she fought to keep the color from flooding her face.
“I suppose we have you to blame for this,” Alistair snapped.
“That’s enough, Dad. Leah knows nothing about it.”
She swung her gaze from Jackson to his father to his mom, and was still none the wiser.
“Hello, dearie!” Hazel’s greeting was full of sunshine. It burst merrily over the gathering storm in the living room, as she tapped on the kitchen door and opened it in the same second. “How did your evening go?”
Leah’s breath escaped in a silent whoosh of relief.
Alistair Hale, hearing Hazel’s voice, did not seem to feel the same. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Can we not have a single, solitary moment without freeloaders and the elderly crashing in on discussions that don’t concern them!”
“That’s quite rude, actually,” Hazel admonished, as she passed through the kitchen and into the living room. “I apologize for barging in but there’s no need for bad manners, young man.” Handyman Stan sauntered in at her heel, brushing against Hazel’s trousers before leaping delicately onto a broad cast-iron radiator and stretching out along its length, clearly none the worse for hisgasoline dunking. “I remember when your drainpipe trousers were so narrow you could hardly get your foot through the leg holes, so don’t get all lofty with me.”
