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I’mgoing to need to get used to creaking noises because every floorboard and every door here creaks as soon asItouch it.Everythingin this house is old and creaky.Andas charming as the rest ofWesternSpringsis,Jackson’sfamily kitchen is like if every whiteNancyMeyersrom com kitchen had a baby with theFarmer’sAlmanac.Whitewalls that could stand a fresh coat of paint are covered with miles and miles of butter yellow cabinets.Butcherblock countertops, beaten and worn with years of loving use, cover every available surface.Andchickens of all kinds run wild everywhere.
Onthe counters.Onthe walls.Stenciledonto a few of the cupboard doors.Atrio of wildly colored chicken statues sit on the windowsill above the copper sink.Castiron chickens wrapped in filigree march along the top of the pot rack hanging from the ceiling above the big kitchen table, sitting in the middle of the kitchen.Thishouse is way too old for kitchen islands and bar stools.AndIlove every single thing about it.Therewas a photo ofJackson’sparents next to his dad’s bed at the hospital.Ican pictureJuneWatersin an apron covered with chickens and standing in this kitchen, whipping up bread for her boys as if she was standing right in front of me.Thekitchen might be less used now that she’s gone, but it’s still teeming with love.It’san honor to get to cook in this kitchen.
Afterwashing a day spent in a hospital off of my hands,Ipoke around the fridge and freezer, and then the pantryIdiscover behind oversized cabinet doors.There’sno doubt thatMr.Watersdoesn’t cook much.Thelack of food in the pantry confirms it.Butthere’s enough here thatIcan pull something together.Bakingmay be my specialty, butI’mno slouch in the cooking department, either.WhateverIpull together isdefinitelynot going to comply withJackson’srigid nutrition plan, that’s for sure.
* * *
“Thanksfor this.Forcooking.Forcoming here with me.Foreverything,”Jacksonsays as he pushes his plate away from him.
Iwanted to eat dinner out on the porch swing, butJacksoninsisted there was somewhere better.Heshoved a corkscrew in his pocket, picked up a bottle of red wine from the pantry, took his plate of pasta and marched out into the dark night, calling over his shoulder to bring the glasses.
Followinghis instructions,Igrabbed two wine glasses upside down by the stems, picked my plate up off the counter, and hustled after him.Andthat is howIended up having the most romantic,fakedinner date of my life, drinking wine and eating pasta on bales of hay under the stars.
We’renearly two hours fromVancouver, and it feels like every single star in the sky is shining down on us.There’sno haze orL.A. smog, or even the light pollution of being in a big city.Andtonight is a perfect, cloudless night.Milesof navy sky lies overhead with stars twinkling like diamonds.
“Ofcourse.I’mhappy to be here.Well,Imean,Iwish it was under better circumstances.Butbeing here is whatfriends… andfakegirlfriends are for.”
“Selena,”Jacksonpractically growls at me.
Oops. “Right, right.Notfake.Justgirlfriends.Justcompletely normal girlfriends.”
“That’sbetter.Andthanks.”Jacksontakes a drink of red wine. “Ithought you were supposed to be a terrible liar.Badat accents.Incapableof being a spy.”
Myeyebrows pull together. “Iam.Why?”
“Well,Iwas a little surprised to hear you tellLilyandGunnarwhat a complete stallionIam in the bedroom today.”
“Youweresurprised?”Myjaw drops, and thenIbite my lip, considering him. “MaybeIoversold the experience?”
“Youdidn’t.”Jacksonlets out a deep laugh. “Butsince you haven’t actually had the pleasure…Iwas surprised by that, is all.”
“Well,Ihad to say something!AndIwould imagine that you’re, at least, you know… competent in that area.So,Iwent with it.LilyandGunnarseemed very impressed.You’rewelcome!”
Jackson’seyes crease as he fights off a smile. “Competent?”
“Well, how many women have you dated?Allthose models and actresses?”
Hiseyebrows pull together. “You’vebeen looking into my dating history?”
“No, it’s just…I’mnot blind, andIcan’t help but see stuff in the grocery store line-up.”
“Howmuch time have you been spending in that grocery store line-up?Soundslike you’re pretty familiar with this topic.”
“Ispend a… completelynormalamount of time in the grocery store line-up.AndIam a completely normal level of familiar withAmerica’ssexiest man alive’s sex life.”
“Fingerscrossed for this year.It’llbe a hat trick.”Jacksonflashes me a smug grin.
Ishake my head to clear it.Iget that he’s hot.Ican’t not see it.Isee exactly how hot he is every minute thatIspend with him.Butdoes he really have to be this cocky?It’sreallynotattractive.Oh, who amIkidding?Itmakes him even hotter.Grrr.ButIdon’t care how hot it is.Thisinsane cockiness cannot stand!
“Beautyis so subjective.Andwhat makes people attractive is so much more than skin-deep.It’sbrains and chemistry.Pheromones.It’sscience.Likebaking.Notjust pretty faces.”
“So, you thinkIhave a pretty face?”
“Ithink you have a smug face?Isthat good enough?”
Heshakes his head as he smiles his movie star smile at me. “That’snot quite the same thing.”
“Hmmm, it’s not?”Istare straight at his smug face and take a big sip of my wine. “Iguess your face isokay.”
