Page 79 of And Now, Back to You

I suck in a sharp breath and close my eyes. “All right,” I manage. “If that’s everything, I need to go run some reports for the radio spot. Thanks for your feedback.”

He huffs some unintelligible string of sounds and then he hangs up. I sit in the window for a long time after, watching the lake and the snow that melts easily against it.

DELILAH STEWART: The storm is picking up in force while slowing down in speed. We expect conditions to deteriorate further in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

JACKSON CLARK: That’s the latest on the weather.

DELILAH STEWART: And now, back to you.

CHAPTER 19

DELILAH

My phone alarm goes off at two a.m.

I roll over to my side beneath the thick quilt and silence the buzzing with a tap of my thumb, wedging a yawn in the crook of my elbow. When I crack my eyes open, the room is bathed in a warm orange glow from the fire burning low behind the grate, the pillow wall between Jackson and me still miraculously intact. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I’m sure.

I lie still for one second, two, waiting to see that my alarm didn’t accidentally wake Jackson. Then, when I’m sure Jackson is unaware of my nighttime plans, I slowly slip out of the bed.

Or I try to, anyway. Because as soon as my feet touch the frigid hardwood floor, Jackson’s voice says, “Going somewhere?”

I squeak, twisting quickly, my foot getting tangled in the duvet hanging off the edge of the bed.

Jackson is sitting in front of the fireplace in one of the cozy chairs. He’s got his left arm slung over the back of it, staring at where I’m trying to untangle myself from the bed. His knees are tipped wide, his long body clad in black joggers and a black thermal sweatshirt. There’s a book open against his thigh and a mug at his elbow.

I press my palm to the middle of my chest where it feels like my heart is trying to burst through and fall back into bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling while I try to get control of my breathing. There’s a rustle of fabric, the snap of a book being closed, and then Jackson appears above me, concerned.

“Delilah?” he asks. I wheeze in response. “You okay?”

“You scared me,” I whisper, still feeling like I want to crawl out of my skin. I wasn’t expecting him. The theme of the trip, I’m starting to realize. I wasn’t expecting Jackson at all. “What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep. My mind was running,” he murmurs. Amusement quirks the corners of his mouth. “What are you doing awake?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up.”

“You had an alarm, Delilah.”

I stay stubbornly silent but he arches an eyebrow, waiting for my explanation. I grunt out a sigh, kicking my feet in agitation. He grips my ankle to keep me from hitting him, and a lightning rod of sensation rockets up the back of my thigh. I immediately still, my breath catching for a different reason altogether. I didn’t realize my ankle was the sensual gateway to the rest of my body, but . . . here we are.

“I have my reasons,” I say tightly.

His thumb traces over the curve of my ankle, almost absently. “Which are . . .”

I blow out a breath. I can’t exactly sneak out with him hovering over me. “I want to go outside.”

Jackson stares at me. “Right now?”

I nod.

“At two in the morning,” he continues.

I nod again.

“In the middle of a—” He lifts his head and looks in the direction of the balcony as a particularly ferocious gust of wind bucks at the windows. “Delilah,” he says, “the winds are hitting forty-eight miles per hour right now. They’ve gotten substantially worse since our broadcast.”

“I know,” I defend petulantly. He’s not the only one looking at projections.

His grip firms on my ankle, trailing up until his palm is against the back of my calf. “Was our kiss that bad?” he asks. “That you’re now sacrificing yourself to the storm gods?”