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“Ready for what?”
Swinging my tote over his shoulder, Jackson dials his smile up a notch until it’s borderline blinding. “I'm collecting on that date you promised me.”
It lasts a fraction of a second, my hesitation, but it’s enough for Jackson to notice. He crouches again, in front of me this time, megawatt smile becoming nothing short of wicked as he smooths his hands up my thighs. “You need a reminder?”
Needa reminder? Nope—that experience is ingrained in my mind, probably for the rest of time, like a non-stop porny home movie reel.
Wantinga reminder, however, is a different story.
I don’t admit that, though.
I do have a shred of self control.
“No,” I lie, shucking away his hands so I can think a little clearer, “but I’m not dressed for a date.”
Ripped jeans, a white tank, and a fuzzy pink cardigan aren't exactly what I envisioned wearing on my first date. I definitely imagined something with a little easier access. Jeans are cumbersome; too tight, too many buttons, too much material.
“We can swing by your place first.”
I hum a non-answer, fidgeting with the ring on my finger as I try to come up with another excuse. It’s not that I don’t want to go. I’m just… nervous, I guess. Unsure what I’m in for, and I fuckinghatebeing unsure. I've never exactly been wined and dined or whatever Jackson has planned before. I'm more of a hit and run kind of girl.
Knuckles graze my cheek before fingers comb through my hair until they reach the curve of my neck, holding firm. “Luna,” he says my name low and slow, dragging out the two syllables. “I wasn’t asking. Get your pretty little ass up and let's go.”
Jackson doesn’t wait for a response before hauling me to my feet. A good thing, too, because he probably wasn't going to get one; any and all words I try to speak die in my suddenly parched throat. He places a single chaste kiss on my lips, perfectly appropriate for a library, entirely too appropriate for my liking. I feel his self-satisfied smirk, and I nip at his bottom lip before he pulls away.
Smug bastard.
* * *
You know, there was a time I thought Jackson might’ve been a bit of a pushover. I blame the quiet, nice guy stereotype; they’re notoriously easy to bend to your will.
A single real conversation with him changed my mind about that, and when I spend the entire ride to my apartment unsuccessfully grilling him for information, I learn how truly wrong I was.
I don’t like it. Both being wrong and not being in-the-know. I like being right almost as much as I like being prepared.
And I can’t exactly pick an appropriate outfit when I have no idea where we’re going.
“It’s dinner, right?” I insist for at least the third time.
For at least the third time, Jackson forgoes answering in favor of continuing to hum along to the music playing from the radio.
“Dinner and a movie,” I say more to myself than him. “It’s gotta be. I hear that’s a classic first date.”
“You hear?” Jackson side-eyes me, and suddenly it’s my turn not to respond.
Shrugging, I lean forward to turn up the radio, hoping it will drown out the impending conversation.
Jackson turns it back down. “Luna, have you never been on a date before?”
For unfathomable, inconsequential reasons, heat assaults my cheeks. “Definedate.”
The man behind the wheel waits until we’re safely parked outside my apartment building before shifting to face me, brows high and mouth agape. “How is that possible?”
I almost lie. I should lie. But that implies shame and my dating history, or lack thereof, is undoubtedly the least shameful thing about me. “No one’s ever asked.”
“I find that really hard to believe.”
It’s cute, the look of utter shock on Jackson’s face. Good for a girl’s ego. But the conversation is a little too serious for my liking, his line of questioning a little too curious.
