His eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “Well, I like the fact I can do something better than you, smarty pants.”
“Right.” A laugh bursts from my chest before I can hold it in. “You just repaired a faucet after playing cowboy all day.”
“Playing cowboy?” His brows rise and there’s a teasing glint to his tone.
“Isn’t that what you do?”
Are we flirting? This feels like flirting. I flush with embarrassment as I realize I don’t really know what he does on the ranch. I grew up in the city. Cattle ranching wasn’t part of my vocabulary until moving to Wilder Valley. Still, living here as long as I have, I should know more about what that job entails.
“Oh, darlin’. Everything about this cowboy is real.” His smile turns wicked and I have to look away.
Oh, I remember.
“Well, unfortunately, we need to come up with something to eat.”
“I think we can still make your casserole work.”
“Without power?” I’m thinking we’ll have to settle for bread and cheese.
“Rosalie, sometimes you’re such a city girl.” He grins. “I’ve got two different grills out back.”
Ah, yes. “Propane to the rescue.”
“Exactly.”
An hour later, when the rain is gone and night has fallen, we enjoy my casserole by candlelight at his kitchen table. It’s not bad, thank you, Internet, and Jackson generously dishes out compliments as he goes back for seconds. I’m not good at receiving praise, but I force myself to accept his kind words. It’s clear he means every one of them.
I ask him questions about life as a rancher and he asks me about my job. We couldn’t be more different, but it doesn’t deter his interest—or mine. It’s actually kind of nice to talk about something outside of my world.
“No power means I can’t subject you to another of my favorite movies tonight,” I tease when the table is cleared.
“Good, my liver can’t handle another drinking game.”
“Whatever will we do to entertain ourselves?”
I realize how inviting that sounds as soon as the words leave my lips. I’m grateful for the dim light to hide the flush that’s certainly darkening my cheeks.
Jackson meets my gaze, his smile turning my stomach to butterflies.
“I can think of a few things . . .” He waits. Maybe for me to make a suggestion? Maybe because he’s discerning my flirtation from my apprehension. “I’ve got a book to read,” he says finally.
I’m both relieved and disappointed. Does he not feel this? The live wire of attraction that crackles to life whenever he meets my gaze for more than a few seconds? Is he not affected? Does he not want to throw caution to the wind and just give in?
I clear my throat and the intrusive thoughts swirling in my mind. “You’re going to read?”
“Yeah, this hot librarian recommended a book and I can’t stop thinking about it. I stayed up way past my bedtime last night, and I might do it again.”
There’s only one part of his sentence that I catch.Hot?If he thinks I’m so hot, then why doesn’t he suggest we do something other than read?
That’s it. Sexual frustration has infiltrated my good sense. I need to get hold of myself before I do something foolish, like drag him upstairs to his bed.
My phone rings, lighting up and bringing me back to reality, and I flash him a smile as I excuse myself to take the good-night call from my son. While Edward tells me all about his day, the power comes back on. The overhead lights extinguish the romantic ambiance of candlelight, but they do nothing to extinguish the longing for aphysical connection with Jackson. I give my attention back to my son, but that only lasts temporarily. As soon as the call ends, I become hyper-aware of Jackson.
I want him in a way I shouldn’t, and I don’t know if I can trust myself. I definitely can’t trust my thoughts. As we find our places on the couch, books open and only the faint sounds of night bugs to serenade our reading, I allow myself to imagine Jackson as the hero in my fictional story. I’ve always claimed that book boyfriends are better than real ones, and that may be true. But the longing to have Jackson’s strong frame pressed against mine doesn’t compare to the fictional world in my hands. It’s a good thing I’ll be gone on Saturday. Any longer and I might do something crazy—like ask him to recreate the spicy scene I’m currently reading.
12
JACKSON
