He lowers his sunglasses.
“Oh. Did you come out here to insult me again, then?” I ask, swiveling my back to the setting sun and meeting his gaze. He flinches.
“No.Shit.I am so bad at this.” He drops his head into his hands for a moment before looking back up. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. You actually lookgorgeous. Breathtaking. Your hair–” he gestures with his hands, “backlit like that, it’s like a ring of fire.”
“Oh,” I say, completely taken off guard by his compliment. “Thank you?”
This seems to encourage him to keep talking.
“Earlier today, I didn’t mean to disparage you when I was questioning Marco’s intentions. It was just that everything seemed so off about the way filming went down, and I guess I’m not sure who I can trust anymore. I want to trust you, Isla. Can I trust you?”
He removes his glasses, and the sunlight pools in his gray-green eyes, illuminating flecks of brown and deeper greens that shimmer like bits of beach glass on a rocky shore. His lashes are thick and bronzed in the sunlight, a shade lighter than his hair. And his lower lip is still so deliciously full. I guess the mosquito bite wasn’t entirely to blame.
I feel a pulse of desire coursing through my body, gathering between my legs. But it’s more than just wanting. It’s almost like a premonition. Tangled sheets and whisper-soft kisses. The feeling of stubble against my neck and chest, the taste of something sweet, and the slip of salty, sweat-soaked skin. Every hair on my body stands on end as the phantom sensations wash over me. Like a memory of something that hasn’t happened.Yet.
I spin back around to face the ocean and slowly count to three.
“Yes, you can trust me,” I finally say, without turning around. “But can I trust you?” I know I’m asking the wrong person that question.
I’m not sure I can trust myself around this man.
Jackson stands and steps to the rail beside me, staring at the same vista silently. He doesn’t answer immediately, and with each passing second, I feel the crackle of electricity between us amplifying and building, like we’re both over-loaded conductors passing the energy back and forth. The sparks should be a warning, but it feels more like the prelude to a show.
“There’s no possible scenario in which I would benefit from sabotaging you,” Jackson says, turning towards me. “Or vice versa. We may have totally different philosophies, but this truly isn’t a contest. Especially since Rob seems to have changed the format. The only way either one of us ‘wins’ is if we do it together.” He places a warm hand on my arm.
Another wave of desire crashes down. Hotter. Harder. Does he feel it, too? I search his eyes as his face moves infinitesimally closer. The breeze is ruffling his hair. I note the freckle on his right cheekbone and the curve of his ear. He’s already got a light tan, despite copious use of my sunscreen this morning. His skin is glowing with a new golden tone. Our lips are just inches apart, and then - an alarm goes off on his phone.
“Shit!” Jackson snatches his hand away and shakes it, like he’s just touched a hot stove. He fumbles to retrieve the phone from his pocket and stop the alarm. He glances back at my folded laptop.
“Well, I know you were working. I really didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says. “I set the alarm as a reminder for dinner. I was actually hoping we could talk then.”
“It’s okay, I was ready to take a break,” I swallow my disappointment. “And appreciate this glorious sunset.”
Which would have been more glorious, if he had actually kissed me.
“It really is spectacular,” he agrees, darting a hand out to tentatively move a strand of my hair. He brushes it back quickly, like someone passing a finger through a flame. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Do you think you’ll be ready to go to dinner in an hour?”
“You don’t actually have to eat dinner with me, Jackson,” I say. “I did appreciate you running interference with Marco, but I’m fine with grabbing a plate at one of the buffets and bringing it back to the room.”
“I made a reservation at The Rooftop for us for eight o’clock,” he says, mentioning the resort's fanciest table-service restaurant. “Maybe we could chat a little more about our thoughts on the show and the matches we chose? So we can present a united front?”
“Okay, sure,” I say, studying him for a moment.
He’s not making eye contact anymore. His eyes seem hooded. Avoidant. The wind blows past him, toward me, mingling his scent with the sea breeze. I brace for the next overwhelming wave of attraction to crash on the shores of my overactive imagination.
“I’m just going to go shower. Can I get my SIM card back from you?”
The moment has passed, and Jackson slides the door to the suite open.
jackson
“The tricky thing is learning to trust your gut. It’s so easy to decide you’re just imagining things. The harder you are working to convince yourself that it’s just your imagination, the less likely it is that it’s just your imagination.”
~Isla Fairfax, Playing With Matches Confessionals
The maitre d’shows us to a table on the outer ring of the candlelit rooftop terrace. The night air smells like gardenias and mimosas, sand, salt, coconut, and ocean. I close my eyes, inhale, and try to capture it, making a memory.
“I’d love a vodka soda,” Isla tells the waitress when she shows up to take our drink orders.
