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Every time I asked for more information, he would tell me not to worry about it. That I’m a natural and I should just relax. Easier said than done.
My sisters flank me down the hall. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you out.” Harley slips her arm through mine.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why?”
“Because we’re just as curious as you.” Harley smiles up at me and bats her lashes innocently.
“You just want to check out Jackson.”
“We absolutely do,” Avery agrees.
“You get to spend most of the day with him. We should at least get a hit of the eye candy,” Harley agrees.
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Are we really, though? Declan will always be a ten in my book, but I feel like it should rain glitter every time Jackson enters a room.” Coming from Avery, that’s high praise. She hates glitter and thinks the sun rises and sets on Declan.
We step out onto the front porch just as the driver’s side door of a very nice hybrid SUV opens and out steps Jackson’s driver. His nametag reads Clint, and he greets me as Ms. Spark and opens the rear passenger door. Jackson’s head appears, followed by the rest of him.
“Good grief, he’s yummy,” Harley mutters.
“It should be illegal to be that delicious,” Avery murmurs.
“Okay! Time for me to go!” I say in a high-pitched squeaky voice more fitting to the mice in Cinderella. Which is sort of how I feel right now—not like the mouse, but more like Cinderella. Except I’m being swept off to a meeting in an environmentally friendly SUV, not a pumpkin-turned-horse-drawn carriage. And I’m not wearing a ball gown either.
My sisters wave hello to Jackson, hug me again, and tell me to have fun and knock ’em dead. I cross the driveway and greet Jackson with a nervous smile and a stomach full of excited hummingbirds.
“Sorry about the change of plans.” Jackson smiles and slips his finger under the strap of my purse, lifting it from my shoulder.
“It’s fine. Is everything okay?”
His gaze moves over my face, and I feel it like gentle fingers brushing over my skin. “Everything’s fine.” He passes my bag to Clint and offers me his hand.
This time, I anticipate the jolt of energy that passes through my body when I slip my fingers into his palm. In fact, I breathe out an inaudible sigh at the contact. It’s like drinking liquid chocolate—a double dose of caffeine and sinful sweetness.
“I’ll see you later!” I call out as I duck into the SUV.
“Don’t rush back!” Avery says with a wide grin.
“Take care of London for us!” Harley shouts.
I shake my head and shimmy over to make room for Jackson. The SUV has double bench seats. Jackson slides in and takes the seat opposite me, so we’re facing each other.
I buckle in and brace myself as Clint sets my purse on the seat beside me and closes the door, shutting me into the confined space with Jackson.
“Does the change of plans happen to include another estate sale?” I smooth my hands over my thighs and cross my legs.
“I’m afraid not, but I promise this should be just as much fun.”
His smile makes my insides feel like a gooey toasted marshmallow. I really need to get a handle on this teen girl style crush I have going on.
Clint turns the SUV around, and we head down the driveway, turning right onto the road leading toward Denver.
I try my best not to fidget, or stare at Jackson, or inhale too deeply. His cologne is mouthwateringly delicious, his crisp dark suit tailored to fit him like a classy second skin, and his dark hair is parted at the side and styled perfectly. Not a hair out of place. Everything about him screams sophistication.
What I like most about him, though, is that under that very polished exterior is a man who likes to genuinely have fun. Estate sales have always been something I enjoy, but with Jackson, it was that much more of an adventure. He’s an adventure. I’d forgotten what it was like to authentically enjoy spending time with someone who wasn’t one of my sisters. It feels effortless, natural. Which makes the fact that we’re stuck in the business associate friend zone that much crappier. Maybe it’s better that way, because my romantic relationships tend to fizzle like sparklers in the rain.
We make idle chitchat, with me waiting for an opportunity to ask him to explain what the change in plans are and why he picked me up instead of me driving to Denver.
“Oh, I don’t think you ever responded, but the flower arrangement made to look like a soccer ball seems to be perfect for Avery’s wedding,” he says.
Jackson and I routinely message each other when we’re working in our Google Doc. I find it’s the one place where I don’t feel all awkward about our conversations, and we can have easy chats, and I can poke fun at him with comments about our lists. This morning, he sent me a picture of a bouquet that looks like a soccer ball.
