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“As opposed to bulk-buying eggs?”
“That’s mad-person behavior.” In every sense of the word. “So? Funeral? Wedding? Baptism?”
“Grandparents visit.”
Huh. I didn’t know visits from your grandparents required such formal wear but hey, what do I know? Not like I have any for reference.
I do, however, have many, many references for the uncomfortable tension suddenly holding Jackson taut. And, like so many things tonight, I don’t like it.
So, I let my gaze rake over him, slow and purposeful, noting every detail and I hum. “It’s not a baseball uniform but you look pretty good.”
It’s an interesting juxtaposition, the doubtful wrinkles of his forehead combined with the upward tilt of his mouth, the bashful shade of red staining his cheeks and the wisecrack he murmurs. “You got a thing for baseball uniforms?”
“Everyone has a thing for baseball uniforms.”
It’s not a joke but he laughs, a familiar, quiet chuckle that I’m beginning to think might be the most comforting sound in the world. As comforting as his smile and his eyes, locked on mine with the focus of someone who’s actually seeing. He doesn't stare. He… Jesus Christ, fuck me for saying this but hegazes.
I’m not sure who exactly moves closer. Both of us, maybe. All I know is one second, there’s a decent gap between us and the next, we’re practically sharing breath. He’s right fucking there. So close I can truly appreciate the depth to those dark brown eyes. The sun-bleached streaks in long, wavy hair. The uneven lips, the bottom fuller than the top.
In any other circumstance, with any other person, I’d be kissing those lips by now. I’d be kissing the hell out of them and hopefully, he’d be kissing the hell back.
But I think it’s been established Jackson is not any other person.
He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t even try. He does what could be the very opposite; he sits up, shoulders heaving as he breathes deep, and scoots to the edge of the truck bed, basically as far away from me as he can possibly get.
“Wow,” I tease quietly, blatantly ogling the muscles covered by white cotton, letting the sight of them soothe the teeny tiny sting of rejection. “I think that was a record for the whole eye-contact thing.”
Broad shoulders rise and fall dramatically once more before Jackson turns, obviously nervous yet oddly determined. “Do you have plans on Halloween?” he blurts, not giving me a chance to respond before continuing, “Because there’s a party at my place. My roommates are throwing it. And me, obviously since it’s my house too.” He laughs awkwardly, a hand rising to rake through his hair. “It should be fun and, uh, you can come.”
Propping myself up on my elbow, I cock my head. “I can?”
Jackson swallows hard enough for me to see the bob of his throat. “If you want.”
I try so very hard not to grin like a big fool, and I fail so very spectacularly. “If I want.”
He nods.
“Doyouwant me to come?”
“If you want,” he repeats, and that’s just not good enough for me.
My grin becomes a teasing smirk. Joining him at the truck’s edge, I elbow him gently. “It’s a yes or no question, Jackson.”
His lack of hesitation is as surprising as it is needed. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Humming in satisfaction, I allow myself another indulgent second with the warmth of him bleeding into me before hopping to my feet.
Jackson follows my lead. Leaning against his truck with his hands in his pockets and an indecipherable expression on his face, he watches as I straighten myself out. “So,” he coughs. “You’re coming?”
Biting down my smile, I shrug.
Jackson shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and coughs again. This time, when he speaks, his voice is a decibel louder, a hint deeper. “It was a yes or no question, Luna.”
I pause my oh-so-casual adjustment of my ponytail.
Interesting.
“I was always coming,” I admit, not the least bit embarrassed. “But it’s nice to have an invite from the big man himself.”
