Page 41 of Middle Ground
Here I am, prickly and closed off. While any other man would’ve already written me off as too difficult, Jackson doesn’t look deterred. He looks amused. Glad, even, that my public persona has slipped back into place.
But it doesn’t matter what he thinks of me.
I sigh as I shut the door, lock it, and then flip Jackson the bird for having the utter audacity.
Tonight, my bedtime routine feels like a gruelling workout. By the time I’m done, I’m even more exhausted than I was before, with none of the benefits of exercising.
I settle into bed, a lamp illuminated on the table beside me, Fish curled at my feet. And I don’t sleep a wink.
The next two weeks trudge by slowly. The police get nowhere with tying the spray paint to anyone, much less Reggie, who seems to have skipped town. In the absence of answers, Jackson has taken it upon himself to distract us.
The morning following the vandalism, Jackson brought me a coffee. Whether he thought I needed it or he was trying to butter me up, I’m still not sure. After clarifying it wasn’t poisoned—to which I received an eye roll—I took one sip. And promptly gagged.
“Black?” I sputtered, incredulous.
He hummed, ignoring my question. “Not black, then,” he muttered to himself.
The next day, another coffee awaited me. This one had a splash of cream. It was better than the bitterness from the day before, but again, I gagged.
It didn’t dawn on me until the third day what he was up to. By trial and error, he was figuring out my coffee order. Instead of asking me—though if I’m honest, I wouldn’t tell him—he decided to conduct an experiment. Collect that data he loves so much.
Jackson could easily ask Prachi, the regular barista at the café. Flash her his easy grin and she’d be a puddle of knowledge in no time. He doesn’t do that, though.
I’d be annoyed if it weren’t so nerdy and endearing.
No, I tell myself firmly.Nothing about Jackson Vaughan is endearing.He’s still enemy number one.
“Morning.” A to-go cup, complete with biodegradablesleeve, is placed on top of the report I’m staring at with unseeing eyes. “Your caffeine fix.”
I look up.Damn it. Jackson looks exceptionally good today in a navy suit. He’s ditched the tie, and I’m tempted to ask what that means in his philosophy of suits, but I refrain.
Enemy, Meyer. E-N-E-M-Y.
He brings his own cup to his mouth, takes a sip, and then licks his lips. Over the last two weeks, I’ve managed to forget about our almost moment in the parking lot. At least, I forget about it until he does something like lick his kissable lips. Then, well, my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t.
“Meyer.” My eyes snap up, away from his lips. Jackson’s gaze brims with amusement. “Drink your coffee.”
“I will,” I reply, “but not because you told me to. I’m drinking it because I’m thirsty.”
I take a tentative sip. Jackson eyes me as I let the coffee settle on my tastebuds.Shit. It only took him two weeks to figure it out. I force a look of dissatisfaction so he doesn’t know that he has hit the mark—medium roast with one sugar and a generous dash of hazelnut creamer.
I set my cup back on the desk and clear my throat. Jackson grins, and I internally curse my expressive face.
“That’s it, right?” he asks. “I got it right?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
His own cup can’t hide the self-satisfied smile he wears as he brings it to his lips again. I hate it. Hate that heseesme, even if it’s just something stupid like my coffee order.
Thankfully, I’m saved from Jackson’s gloating when the office door swings open. It reveals an elderly man with greying hair and a practiced scowl.
“Where’s my bench, Meyer?”
I sigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eddie.”
He crosses his arms. “My bench,” he says gruffly. “It’s gone.”
“I didn’t touch your bench. You know I wouldn’t,” I reply, hand placed over my heart in earnest. I turn and raise my brows at Jackson. “Perhaps Mr. Vaughan knows something about it?”
