And he really doesn’t like it.
I’m on the verge of putting him straight, but I hesitate. I suspect Étienne was right about Jackson when he said,The more he thinks he can’t have you, the more he’ll want you.The reason things had been building prior to Chloe coming to France is because I’d had a boyfriend the year before, and the year before that, Jacksonhad been seeing a girl from back home. Being out of bounds made us more appealing to each other than ever. Our chemistry was off the charts: long looks and lingering touches. But we didn’t come close to crossing a line until that moment on the balcony when we were twenty-one and I was in a serious relationship.
Maybe our near-misses weren’t down to bad timing. Maybe it’s more a case of Jackson’s heart wanting what Jackson’s heart can’t have.
I’m still mullingthis over a couple of days later when I arrive at work to find Jackson already at his desk.
“Hey,” he says listlessly, barely looking up.
“Hi.” I place a small box of nougat in front of him and lay my hand on his back.
“What’s that for?” he asks, his eyes fixed on the gift.
“I thought you might need cheering up today.”
He glances up at me, his eyes rimmed red. “You remembered?”
I give him a sympathetic nod. It’s his wedding anniversary.
“You need a hug?” I ask softly.
He immediately gets to his feet and wraps me in his arms, holding me tightly against his broad chest. As he takes a ragged breath and buries his face in my neck, my heart aches for him, even ashisbreaks over his failed marriage to another woman.
“I don’t think I can work today,” he says in a muffled voice.
“So let’s do something else,” I reply.
When he looks at me, tears have collected on his lower lashes. “Like what?”
“Ping-Pong?” I ask brightly.
He throws his head back and laughs. I beam up at him.
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“With alcohol.”
“Done.” I stick my hand out. He shakes it.
There’s a Ping-Pong table right by the tennis court in the château’s grounds, and after we’ve exhausted ourselves running around in pursuit of tiny balls—well, afterI’veexhausted myself; he’s fit as fuck—we sit on the grass and eat one of Marcia’s mouthwatering quiches, washing it down with a whole bottle of wine. Turns out neither of us felt like eating breakfast earlier. The happiest day ofhislife was actually my worst. We don’t like remembering it, but for vastly different reasons.
Jackson is lying flat out on the grass with one arm propped behind his head, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. His eyes are open and he’s staring at plane trails running in straight lines across the blue sky. I’m sitting upright beside him, but he’s close enough that I could count the faint freckles that scatter across his nose and venture onto his high cheekbones. I remember him once telling me that they always come out at this time of year, but I didn’t fully believe him until he showed me pictures of himself in winter, all wrapped up against a snowy New York City backdrop.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m okay.”
The air is filled with the sound of running water from the nearby fountain. Thankfully Albert is at the factory today so he doesn’t know how badly we’re slacking off.
“You’re not really though, are you?”
He pauses and then shakes his head, his eyes still fixed overhead. “I’ve been doing way too much thinking lately.”
“About what?”
“About everything I’ve done wrong.” His voice sounds husky. “There are so many things I’d go back and change if I could.”
