We stare at each other for a few tense seconds. The options are to lie or to tell him about the rideshare. Both options suck ass.
“I was going to fly home in my spaceship.”
Jackson takes a slow breath. His grip on the box tightens enough that it looks borderline painful. I wonder what I need to do to snap his patience. Pushing Jackson’s buttons is more fun than I’ve had in months. Maybe years.
“Can I give you a ride?” Jackson asks, voice clearly controlled.
I lean to the side to look around him, noting the absence of his own spaceship. “In what?”
“My car.” Jackson abruptly turns around and heads in the opposite direction. I look down at Honey, exchanging a curious look with her. Well, there’s nothing to lose, I guess. Plus this way I don’t risk losing the cupcakes.
Of course, the man drives a Mercedes. Chrome wheels, matte exterior, and an interior with leather so supple that my brain short-circuits a little at the idea of having a seizure in his car. I don’t think the man would take kindly to a piss stain on his leather seats. Oh well, his decision. He holds the door open for me as I climb into the passenger seat. Jackson patiently waits until I’m buckled in to gently close the door. Then the door behind me opens, and Jackson holds the door open for Honey to jump in.
Honey climbs onto the seat without a care in the world, tongue dangling out of her mouth. I watch in the rearview mirror as Jackson lays the box of cupcakes on the floor, then gently closes the door without paying Honey any attention. Most people would’ve tried to pet her by now but Jackson just blatantly ignores her.
Either he did research, or he knows that service dogs should be ignored unless they bring attention to themselves. I hope no one has told him about me. The idea of him finding me useless rankles me, turning my insides rotten at the thought. I squint at him when he climbs into the driver’s seat. His forearms tighten as his hands grip the wheel, pulling us out of the spot in front of his townhome.
He’s driving me ten minutes home, only to have to turn back around. What a waste of gas.
“You didn’t need to drive me,” I complain.
“I know. I wanted to. Plus, I rarely get the chance to have two beautiful things in my vehicle.”
“Stop,” I say softly, unable to stand it anymore. “Don’t do that.”
Jackson looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do what?”
“Call me pretty or beautiful. I don’t like it.”
Jackson nods tightly. “Alright. What do you do for work?”
“I’m a data analyst,” I say, waiting for his confusion.
But he’s not remotely confused. His eyes light up as he navigates us out of downtown onto the small county road that leads toward the Callahan and Smith properties. He lifts one finger in the direction of my house.
“I’m going the right way?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you when to turn.”
Jackson nods in agreement. “So, data analyst. What company do you work for?”
“One of the largest marketing firms in the country. I analyze data for their campaigns and make forecasting recommendations. It’s fun, and I get to work remotely despite headquarters being in Manhattan.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
No one has ever asked me that before. Usually, they ask me how much money I make because that’s what people care about. I’m lucky that I make bankandlike my job, seemingly a rare thing to find these days.
“I love it. Numbers make sense to me. People don’t.”
“Valid.”
I roll my eyes. “As if you have trouble understanding people. What do you do for a living?”
Jackson’s face closes off, his mood shifting in a way that oddly makes me feel a sense of sadness. “I play around with stocks here and there.”
I blink slowly. “You make a living by dabbling in the stock exchange?”
“Yes,” Jackson says slowly, his voice going up a little at the end as if he means the word like a question.
