Page 85 of And Now, Back to You

He stares up at me, his eyes so blue they look black. “That’s how it’s going to be,” he promises.

He kisses me again, ending the argument. Conversation. Whatever this thing we do with each other is. We kiss and kiss and kiss each other, my hands scrabbling for purchase, the most delicious sounds rumbling from his chest to mine.

He drops his head back with a grunt, his cheeks a bright pink, his glasses crooked on his nose. “Inside,” he says, chest heaving where I’m spread over the top of it. “I need to get you inside.”

I reluctantly peel myself off him and Jackson follows, slower, pressing up to his knees and then his feet while he brushes snow off his coat. I try to help but I only manage three lazy swipes across his torso before he catches my wrist, towing me into him, bending me backward as he kisses me again. I sigh into his mouth, warmth pulsing through my body.

He kisses me so good.

It’s all so good.

I wrench my mouth away, panting into the warm skin of his neck.

“We need to stop.” I laugh a little bit. “I can’t feel my nose.”

Somewhere above me, he nods, then grabs my hand with his.

Jackson tugs us back through the parking lot and into the lobby, the door slamming shut behind us, making me flinch. He steers me to the corner by the elevator and deposits me there, my body more than content to let him lead.

“Be right back,” he says.

I reach for him, hooking one hand in the pocket of his coat. “Where are you going?”

He steps back to me, thumbing gently at my cheek. A reassurance, apparently, that I desperately need.

“Your sled,” he says. “We left it outside. I’ll be right back.”

He leans forward and gives me a quick peck on my nose before striding across the lobby, yanking open the door, and disappearing outside.

The silence is jarring after the roar of the storm, my face and my hands prickling with feeling as the warmth slowly returns. It feels like my brain is doing that too. Sharp, painful bursts of awareness.

You shouldn’t have done that, my brain whispers. You’re sinking deeper into a mess you won’t be able to find your way out of.

Professionally. Personally. Emotionally. There’s no guarantee that any of this works out in my favor.

And isn’t that what I came out here to do? To put myself first, finally. To make the right choices.

Oh god. What have I done?

Jackson reappears, dusted in snow. Hardly a handful of seconds, but enough to have reality creeping in.

“I put it in the van,” he tells me. “Your doughnut is safe.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, distracted. My head is busy doing the calculations, trying to figure out what this means. Putting together the pieces of the equation and coming up with an answer I don’t really like.

He holds out his hand and I slip my palm against his, inexplicably feeling like I want to cry as he tugs us to the elevator. I stare at his shoulders as I walk behind him, then the toes of his boots as we stand awkwardly inside.

I have feelings for Jackson. Real ones.

And Jackson is not an impulsive man. He’s rational. A planner. I’m worried our kisses have tumbled into some sort of . . . exposure therapy for him. If this is another distraction for him while he figures out how fun he can be in the mountains, I’m not sure I want to be a part of it.

He presses the button for our floor, and we don’t say a word to each other. He seems to understand I’m working through something, the only concession the light bump of his thumb over my knuckles. He watches the red numbers slowly tick up and I stare at our blurry reflections in the mirror.

It’s the most unbearable three minutes of my life.

The bell dings and I follow numbly after Jackson, my gloved hand in his. Jackson fumbles with the key card to our room and I try to push away the intrusive thoughts that rise like angry bees.

I have a lifetime of being forced into other people’s too-small boxes. I have scars and bruises across my heart from every time I’ve been underestimated, undervalued. And I’ve made it so easy for Jackson to do the same.