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Save a horse, ride a cowboy,is her new favorite motto.
For God’s sake, even Caroline blushes at the mere mention of the man.
Squeezing my thigh, Jackson promises,“We'll be there soon.”
He sounds weird. He'sbeingweird. Acting all nervous. Shifty-eyed and twitchy. Stealing my move and tapping his fingers haphazardly against the steering wheel.
It's freaking me out more than a little, especially because the only thing coming to my mind that explains why the fuck he's acting this way is honestly fucking terrifying.
“Are you proposing?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, and Jackson jolts in his seat. “Jackson, I love you, but I swear to God if you're proposing when I haven't gotten my nails done in almost a month-”
“Relax.” I’m not sure if he laughs or chokes. “I'm not proposing.”
“Then why are you being all weird?”
“I'm not-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Just wait, okay?”
Wait.
Hm.
I’ve never been particularly good at that.
What feels like an hour but is realistically no more than a few minutes later, our surroundings become more recognizable.
The lookout point where I told him I loved him for the first time looks as beautiful as it did last year, except there's something remarkably different about it.
What once was an empty clearing is now what looks to be the beginnings of a construction site. There's nothing but a raised foundation and some wooden framing, but I can tell it's the shell of a house.
What. The. Fuck.
“Jackson,” I breathe shakily, feet a little unsteady as I clamber out of the car. “What the hell is this?”
“My house.” Shaky voice? Check. A touch of determination? Also check. “Well, it will be. When it's built. I only finished the designs last month so it won't be ready for a while.”
I blink at the enormous unfinished structure decorating what’s arguably my favorite spot on the ranch, and then I blink at its owner. “You designed this?”
He nods, lips tipping up in a boyish grin. “Can't quite build houses but I draw them pretty well.”
So you build houses?
God, I remember that like it was yesterday. Seeing him in the art store and being so damn flustered, I blurted out the most dumbass question.
I knew what a goddamn architect was. I knew they didn’tbuildhouses. But, for the first time of many in Jackson’s presence, I panicked and my inner bimbo eagerly rose to the surface.
But then his mouth stretched in a smile, the first proper one I ever got from him, and my embarrassment dissipated. I remember thinking, damn, I'd embarrass myself every day of my life for the rest of my life if I got that smile as a consolation prize.
It’s the same smile he wears now as I stare blankly at him, my mind working overtime sifting through a million questions.
“Your grandparents let you build here?” I wouldn't think they'd let him do anything that doesn't directly benefit them and building a house on a prime location for some new touristy shit doesn't seem very beneficial.
“Uh, not exactly.” That nervous energy returns full-force, making him shift from one leg to the other, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. “They don't own the ranch anymore. I do.”
There's a pause. A long-ass pause in which those two words repeat on a loop in my head until they lose all meaning. “You do.”
Jackson barely nods.
“You own the ranch.”
