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Jackson greeted me with a charming smile and a laugh that made me feel things it shouldn’t have. After three years of this charade, Cheryl is well aware I have a crush on her brother.
I wasn’t the first of her friends to feel puppy love for him. Apart from some teasing here and there, she’s kept that information to herself and we remain the closest of friends.
Thank God. I love her like family, and I don’t know what I would do without her. Without any of them really. She became the sister I never had while we were in college. As far as I’m concerned, this town and these people adopted me.
Which is why I’ll never cross that line with Jackson.
Back then, when she first introduced us, I thought: he’s not into me like that, and he’s not going to be hanging out with us all the time anyway. So I need to get the idea of the two of us out of my head.
Only he did keep coming around, and those feelings kept growing. I didn’t realize just how tight knit this town is.
Over the following months, I realized I couldn’t deny what I felt. So I did the right thing, I ended the three-month relationship I had so I could confess to Jackson how I felt. But when I went to the bar, in that spot across from me, right where Jackson is sitting now, there was a cute little redhead by the name of Mallory attached to his hip. And she made him smile, so I couldn’t hate her.
Back and forth for years, one of us was always taken. I’d convinced myself it was meant to be that way because as time went on, he became my rock for so many things. Just like Cheryl.
“You want a root beer float?” a masculine voice murmurs close to the shell of my ear. My body heats with a flush that I’m sure is visible. And that baritone cadence elicits an ache of desire between my thighs.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. The cocky grin on his handsome face tells me so as he stands back upright, a hand on the back of the booth. He towers over me in blue jeans and a simple plaid button-down.
“We could get one with beer and ice cream?” Jackson offers, lifting his glass in mock cheers before taking a sip. The bar erupts as our team scores, yet the noise seems to fade and blur behind him. Even with the scent of beer in the air, I know exactly how he smells. It’s like amber and woods, mixed with a hint of freshness.
Instead of saying anything at all that’s on my mind, I answer as I should, in a teasing, nonserious manner. “You want beer with ice cream?” I shake my head gently, a crease between my furrowed brow as I add, “What is wrong with you?”
He lets out a laugh and motions for me to slide down the booth so he can sit next to me.
The leather is still warm from where Michelle was sitting as I scoot back. It’s quiet back here, slightly more private but not really.
“So you don’t want to split ice cream with me?” he questions, a touch of his Southern drawl coming through, along with feigned vulnerability in his puppy dog eyes.
Yes. Jackson knows exactly what he’s doing when he flirts with me.
And I know what I’m doing when I flirt back. “If by ‘split’ you mean I get a whole three bites before you devour it, then sure.” I shrug and pull a leg up onto the seat so I can wrap my arm around it. My black leggings and baggy gray knit sweater keep my appearance casual. Although I did spend time on my makeup, keeping it relatively natural but with a hint of pink. Heavy mascara and a braid down my left shoulder were the finishing touches.
His hand runs down the side of his chiseled, stubbled jaw as he chuckles. “I asked you last time we split a dessert if you wanted more,” he protests. Leaning closer he adds, “If I knew you were going to hold it against me, I wouldn’t have touched your half.” He’s close enough now that I can feel his heat, I can smell him too and it’s just like I knew it would be.
Before I can answer, a balled-up napkin hits Jackson square on his nose. “Get a room,” a grinning Cheryl calls out from across the booth. Nate and Anne are laughing, and the couple behind them in the booth adjacent to ours is laughing too. Not at us, thankfully. They don’t seem to notice and with a smile, Cheryl’s already left the table. With a bit of a tipsy sway, she’s headed to the bar before either Jackson or I can answer.
