I’ve watchedthis film dozens of times and could recite each scene word-for-word. By now, I should be immune to the emotional pull of this story. But it’s quite the opposite, and when the camera closes in to capture Matthew Macfadyen clench and unclench his fist, I let out an audible sigh.
“Fuck me,” Jackson whispers reverently.
“Right?”
I could tell he wasn’t into the movie when it first started. I’d bet money on the fact that there weren’t a lot of period dramas viewed in the ranching family of all boys except for Maeve. But he’s totally sucked in now, and I somehow feel vindicated. Everyone should have more Jane Austin in their lives.
“These two better end up together or I’m gonna be pissed,” Jackson mutters.
I grin. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Oh!” He points at the screen. “Drink!”
We empty our shot glasses. The burn of the tequila holds less power with each shot, and for once I’m thankful the end of the movieis around the corner. My liver couldn’t survive this game if we were watching the BBC version.
There’s a warmth that swirls inside my body as the effects of our little drinking game take effect. My mind wanders, and I find myself watching Jackson instead of the film. He is quite the opposite of Mr. Darcy. He wears his emotions without inhibition. I admire that. I’m even a tad jealous. What would it feel like to not hold back before speaking or laughing? To smile simply for the sake of smiling? And he has such a nice smile. He radiates a warmth that draws people in. That drawsmein.
“I knew it!” Jackson pumps his fist in the air.
On screen, Mr. Darcy confesses his feelings to Lizzy, the most grumpy, authentic confession of love there ever was. My heart hammers in my chest and a smile takes over my face. This. This right here is the kind of romantic gesture I live for.
“They belong together.”
“Fucking Mr. Darcy almost dropped the ball, though. Good thing he finally got his shit together.”
I almost laugh at the way Jackson raises his voice to the TV. His tone is more reminiscent of a fan yelling at their favorite sporting event.
When the credits roll, I lower the volume and turn toward him. “So, you liked it?”
“It was better than I expected.”
“It’s my favorite film.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leans in. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. At least, that’s what I intend. But a second later, Jackson’s fingertips brush against my cheekbone and my eyelids flutter shut.
Jackson brushes a strand of my hair back, tucking it behind my ear, and my brain short circuits. It’s the barest of touches and yet, I haven’t been touched intimately since last year. This simple gesture feels more sensual than it should.
My pulse races. My skin feels warm. My breath catches in mythroat as I brace for him to lean closer or pull away. Against my better judgment, I ache for him to close the space between us and just kiss me already.
“Rosalie?” Jackson whispers, his breath close enough I feel it on my skin.
My gaze lifts, and I’m met with the intensity of his stare. We’re barely a breath away, and all it would take is for one of us to lean closer to break through the invisible line separating our bodies. I lick my lips, wishing and wanting him to do that. For him to kiss me. For everything but this moment to slip away.
Ring. Ring.
A familiar melody plays from across the room. My phone!
“Edward.” I rear back, my eyes frantically searching for my cell phone.
Jackson’s across the room and back to my side, retrieving it before I can stand.
Pushing to my feet, I take the phone from him. Shooting him an apologetic glance, I slide my finger across the screen to answer and lift the device to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mama!” Edward’s jovial delight calms my momentary panic and soberingly drops me back into reality. Even still, I can’t shake the frustration that courses through my veins. I was seconds away from doing something stupid. I was seconds away from kissing Jackson.
