We use the picnic blanket to towel off. I find a spot to sit and put my socks and shoes on for the walk back, averting my gaze from Jackson when he removes his T-shirt and squeezes it out. The sun is high in the sky and helps dry our clothes. He walks back to the truck shirtless, and it takes everything not to stare as I follow a step behind. He might be tall and skinny, but every inch of this man is hard, cut muscle. It’s moments like these when I can’t believe someone like him could ever be interested in someone like me.
Sure, I take care of myself, and I think I look good for my age. But that’s the thing. I’m almost a decade older than Jackson. I’ve carried and birthed a child, and my skin is stretched and scarred because of it. I work out just enough to keep my health in check; not enough to get naked in front of this fine specimen. Not that I plan on getting naked with him.God, Rosalie. Stop thinking the word naked!
“You getting hungry?” Jackson turns to catch me staring.
Am I hungry? Hell, yeah. Thirsty, too. Heat works its way up my cheeks.God damn it.
“For dinner? I’ll make something when we get back.” He pulls his keys from the zipped pouch of the cooler as we approach his truck.
“You’ve done enough today.” I wave off his offer. The last thing I need is to spend more time with Jackson. I feel like all my convictions for not sleeping with him are weakened the more time we spend together.
“There’s no limit, you know.”
“What?” I can hardly follow this conversation. I’m so distracted by his half-naked body. Especially when he comes up beside me to open my door.
He waits until I’m buckled inside, but instead of shutting the door, he dips his head and leans forward to meet my gaze. “I told you I was going to spoil you today. I can’t very well make you cook your own dinner.”
“Oh, I wasn’t planning to cook.”
“Girl dinner?” He eyes me suspiciously.
“I should at least eat some of the bread and cheese I brought.”
“Perfect.” He grins as if he’s won another round, and maybe he has. “It’ll go great with pasta.”
I can’t find it in myself to refuse this man. Not today, and that’s going to be a problem. One I’m planning to ignore.
8
JACKSON
Rosalie doesn’t talk muchon the ride back, but I try not to take it personally. She’s not an overly chatty person. She doesn’t have to fill every quiet space with words, and the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s quite the opposite, really. That is, until the urge to reach out and hold her hand comes out of nowhere and smacks me in the chest.
Wanting to hook up is one thing. There are lots of women I want to hook up with. But holding hands? That’s couple behavior.
Maybe it’s the fact that today kinda feels like a date. Or that it’s been a long while since I let anyone outside of my family into my space. Hell, maybe it’s the afternoon sun, and I’m suffering the effects of heatstroke.
Fuck, it doesn’t really matter what’s causing this feeling. All I know is holding her hand would be unwelcome, and the last thing I want to do is make Rosalie uncomfortable. Besides, for the first time in forever, I feel like we’ve finally found a middle ground. She’s not actively avoiding me—and yes, that’s partially due to the fact she’s stuck in my home for the next week. But she didn’t have to agree tospend the day with me. She didn’t have to talk freely or offer details about her life. That feels precious, and I’m not about to fuck it up.
“Do you need me to carry anything inside?” Rosalie asks as I pull in front of my house.
“I’ve got it.” Like I would let her lift a finger when my hands are perfectly capable. She really does not understand the concept of being spoiled. “You’ll probably want to take a shower.”
“Obviously.” She shoots me a mock glare as I cut the engine. “I hope you are going to take one as well.”
It’s a shame she doesn’t offer to conserve water and take one together.
“Yeah, I’m gonna unpack, shower, and then start on dinner. Give me an hour or so. Does that work for you?”
“Let me check my schedule.” She grins. Actually grins, and I feel as though I’ve earned some kind of award.
“Be prepared to be further wowed by my culinary excellence.”
We exit the truck, and she heads inside while I grab the cooler from the back seat. I quickly unpack, and head to the guest bathroom to wash up. A hot shower feels great, and if I hadn’t spent most of the day napping in the sun, I’d surely pass out. Turning on the baseball game on my way to the kitchen, I listen more than watch as I prepare a pesto pasta with sausage. Slicing up the loaf of bread that Rosalie packed, I slather it in butter, garlic, and a few seasonings before popping it in the oven.
While I wait, I wash a few dishes. Whenever I cook, I clean as I go. It’s something my mother instilled in me when I followed her around the kitchen, complaining that I was hungry. As I got older, she put me to work—and I complained about that too. My chest tightens at the memories. God, I was such a brat. Normal, typical behavior between a mother and son, but still. I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could shake my own shoulders and give myself a lecture.
Do you know how fucking lucky you are right now? You have a mother who loves you, who cooks for you and her family every evening,who puts up with your teenage attitude when she’s had a long day herself. She’s going to be gone, and you’re going to regret how you didn’t cherish this time with her in the moment. You’re going to wish you could trade anything, just to have more time with her. You’re going to wish you could know how much you take for granted, and that life is not guaranteed. Not this moment. Not any.
