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The lump in my throat stings as I swallow, my hand shaking as I take Jackson’s hand and let him hoist me up. “I can see that.”
I wish I couldn’t. I might close my eyes to block the sight because who knew the sight of a truck bed could make a girl so emotional? It’s not just pillows and blankets. There’s a bag tucked in the corner, Sour Patch Kids and Warheads spilling over the top the same way they frequently spill out of the bottom drawer of my bedside table. A cooler sits beside it and when I crack the top, I find my favorite drinks lurking inside. The warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest officially turns to suspicion when my gaze snags on a brochure advertising tonight’s movie and, surprise, surprise, it’s my favorite.
I side-eye Jackson. “Who’s the rat?”
“I don’t reveal my sources.”
“So secretive,” I tut teasingly, but there’s an edge to my voice even I recognize.
Clearing my throat, I adopt a smile that’s probably just as awkwardly nervous as Jackson’s and sit. He’s quick to follow my lead, quicker to pull me closer, sharing his warmth. Always so damn warm.
Our closeness is jarring. Weird because we’ve certainly been a hell of a lot closer than this before but it’s different. More… I don’t know. Justmore, and it gives me this weird plummeting feeling. Like I’ve been pushed out of a plane and I'm free falling. Like I'm completely out of my depth. I don't like it, not one bit, but I think that where Jackson's concerned, that feeling is never going to be far behind.
Nerves have me fiddling with the hem of my dress. When Jackson lays a blanket over my bare legs, I fiddle with that instead. I don't know how to act. I don't know what to say. God, who would've thought that the best way to get Luna Evans to shut up would be to bring her on a damn date?
I jolt when Jackson slips his hand under the blanket to grip my thigh. “Luna?”
“Hm?”
Warm breath brushes my temple. “I’m nervous too.”
“I’m notnervous.”
I feel his smirk against my skin. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Reeling back, I narrow my eyes at him. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t speak.”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“Wow.” I draw back, feigning offense. “You’re supposed to beniceon dates.”
Lips lifted in a smile too cheek and endearing for me to handle, Jackson leans in until his forehead nudges mine. “How would you know?”
Screeching indignantly to drown out my bark of laughter, I shove at Jackson’s chest. My attempt to push him away fails before it actually begins; catching me by the wrists, he lifts them to his mouth, his stifled laugh brushing the base of my thumbs as his lips do. “I’m sorry.”
I wrench my hands away but I don’t get very far, two of mine trapped between one of us and held hostage, clasped to his chest. “I feel like I’ve been duped,” I huff, resigning to my fate and slumping against his side. “You were so sweet before. Is that your ploy? Put on the nice guy act long enough to get the girl?”
“Maybe I am just nice.”
“Sounds fake.”
“Didn’t peg you for a cynic, Luna.”
“I don’t think a general distrust of men makes me cynical, Jackson.”
I regret the words—no matter how true they may be—the minute they leave my mouth and something sad twists Jackson’s features. “When I figure out how to earn your trust,” he says, kissing my hands again, “I hope you’ll let me.”
No promises, I say internally, hating myself for it.
On the outside, even though I’m positive he sees right through it, I smile. “You can start by getting me a drink.”
Jackson obliges, if a little hesitantly, as though he wants to say something else but thinks better of it. He drags the cooler over, digging inside to retrieve a peach-flavored Crush, and it’s ridiculous, how gooey and warm I feel over a man knowing my favorite drink and going out of his way to get it.
The gooey warmness, though, takes a backseat to disgust when I catch sight of the flavor Jackson brandishes.
“Grapefruit?” I hiss, grimacing when he actually swallows the foul liquid. “The worst flavor? Seriously?”
The man has thenerveto look indignant. “It’s my favorite.”
