AllFreeNovel
Share Us
9
Bree
Running up the stairs, I press my hands against my burning face. I feel like such an idiot. I ought to feel relieved that, thanks to Jackson’s timely intervention, I do not now live in a fish tank, but all I feel is embarrassed. In many ways, this could have gone way worse. No one would have come, or worse, it could have been Sylvie! I don’t know how much help she would have been in this situation, perhaps just as much as I, but the news that I almost transformed my house into an aquarium would have reached the entire town.
I strip off my soaking clothes, and grab a towel to dry myself. It feels strange to be completely naked knowing that Jackson Scott is under the same roof as me. Yanking my dresser open, I throw on another tank top and a pair of shorts. After rubbing my hair roughly, I grab a scrunchie and fix it in a messy knot.
Poor Jackson is still soaked to the skin. The image of his shirt sticking tightly to his muscly torso springs into my mind. I sigh. There are other, more important things to think about, I remind myself. I open the wardrobe and look inside. Maybe I do have something in here he can use.
After grabbing what I was looking for, I head back downstairs. I find Jackson in the kitchen with a mop in his hand, soaking up the water that’s still spilt all over the floor.
“What are you doing?” I cry.
He turns to look at me, and shrugs. “Mopping. Do native New Yorkers not mop their floors after causing an indoor flood?” he smirked.
I cock my head to one side, and pull a face. “Funny. Here,” I hold out what I’ve brought him—a dry towel and an oversized sweater that I ‘borrowed’ from my brother Jonathan about eight years ago. It has conveniently never been returned. “I’ll do you a swap.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, reluctant to hand over the mop.
As I glance over to the faucet, I see it’s all back together, with new washers attached. “I think you have done enough to help me today. Please, you’re making me feel guilty, and I already feel bad enough.”
He looks at me and gives me a strange smile. “But, why?”
“Why what?” I reply.
“Why do you feel bad?”
“Well,” I gesture to the mess and then to him, “because of all this. The mess, and me making a disaster out of something that should have been simple, and you having to come here and save me.”
“Do you not like being saved?”
His smile is gone, replaced with a look that I can only describe as curious interest. Out of everything I just said, I find it surprising that Jackson chose to ask me about that in particular. I tense up trying to think of a proper reply.
I could regale him with my failed relationships over the last five years. I could tell him that the only reason I moved out here in the wilderness is to try and get my life back in order. I could tell him that my stomach churns at the very thought of him.
Woah! Let’s just take a step back here.
Ultimately, I decide on sharing none of those things.
“Hey, Dr. Phil,” I smirk, “why don’t you just come and take these things off me.” I point at the towel and the hoodie.
Jackson rests the mop against a cupboard and enters the living room, where I’m currently at. He takes the towel and the sweater from my hands.
“That’s my favorite sweater, “I continue, “so I’ll be needing that back when you’re finished with it.”
“Of course,” he replies, before he starts to rub his head with the towel.
I step into the kitchen and grab the mop, taking over from where Jackson left off. The mop is small, and in a short while, I discover that it’s also quite useless, at least for such a gargantuan job of mopping up Lord only knows how many gallons of water. I’m probably exaggerating, but honestly, at this point, I’m really not that sure.
It would just be easier to drop several towels on the floor and let them do the soaking. As I glance at Jackson still drying his hair, I conclude that using towels is a far better idea. I run back upstairs to grab them. There’s a big pile of towels that I only recently unpacked inside a cupboard on the landing. Like any woman I know, I probably have far too many; but then, that ‘just in case’ section of my brain has never allowed me to part with any. Surprisingly enough, this is exactly one of those just-in-case moments. I quickly grab an armful of the thickest ones.
I’m still thinking about how many towels it would take to cover the entire kitchen floor as I dance down the stairs. Seven? Maybe ten? There’s a lot of water. Maybe I can just…
As I enter the living room, I stop dead in my tracks.
Oh my.
Jackson is standing with his back to me, his wet shirt in a soggy pile on the floor near his feet, while the towel glides across his naked back. His muscles ripple with the movement, and I find myself utterly transfixed. When I had followed him across the field at the fair, I had somewhat noticed the defined curves under his t-shirt, but good grief. There’s still a thin layer of water covering his skin that shimmers when he moves.
