Page 60 of Middle Ground
I lay a hand on his arm. The move shocks me almost as much as it shocks him. “Just tell me what’s going on. Are you sick? I promise I’ll leave you alone. I’m just…worried.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. It’s Cherie’s birthday today, and I thought I could handle it. Operate like normal. Evidently, that’s not the case.”
That stops me in my tracks. In all the years I had known Jackson’s grandmother, I don’t think I ever learned when her birthday was. I’m not sure my mother even knows. The last thing Cherie would have wanted is us making a fuss over it.
She wouldn’t want Jackson to be alone today either.
“Alright,” I say as an idea begins to form. “You have five minutes.”
“Five minutes? For what?”
“To get ready.” I gesture to his room behind him. “Come on, hurry up. I need your help with something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not really in the mood, Meyer.”
“Well, tough.” I cross my arms. “We can’t let Cherie’s birthday go by without making her favourite dessert. She’d find a reason to haunt us.”
This earns me a small grin. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“She absolutely would. So get beautified, Hotshot, and then let’s go.”
Baking with Jackson was a mistake.
First, he doesn’t know his teaspoons from histablespoons, so he severely over-measured the salt for the pie crust. Then he almost choked me with the amount of flour that flew around my kitchen. After having to scrap everything for a third time, I finally relegated him to cleanup while I started over with the crust, then the filling.
As the shell bakes, Jackson leans against the island, watching while I slice the tops off a basket of strawberries. He reaches over and plucks one from the bowl, popping it in his mouth.
“Hey.” I poke him in the side. “Those are not for eating.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what they’re intended for,” he replies.
I bite my tongue as I take a steadying breath.Be nice, Meyer. He’s having a hard day. Though he seems to be in much better spirits now. I’d like to think I had a hand in that. I took a shot in the dark by forcing him from his room earlier.
Shaking my head, I say, “You sound like Atticus.”
When I look over at him, I see a soft smile pulling at his lips. My heart does a little backflip. Ever since the day we were at the strawberry patch, Atticus has been obsessed with Jackson, even more than he was before. Atticus loves his uncle, but I think having another guy around has been good for him. Good for Jackson, too, it seems.
“He really likes you,” I add.
“I really like him, too,” he replies. “He’s a good kid.”
He was wrong earlier, when he said I didn’t know him. Without my permission, I’ve become familiar with parts of Jackson I had no intention of knowing. When he’s not being a gigantic pain in my ass, and I forget about the inn, he’sactually…nice to be around. A fact I don’t care to admit out loud, especially to him.
I’ve known he’s attractive since I first set eyes on him back in April. But slowly, he’s been challenging all of the preconceived notions I had about him.
Jackson reaches for another strawberry, but I pluck it from his grasp before he can eat it. My other hand presses against his chest, holding him back.
“This,” I say, holding the berry between my thumb and forefinger, “is not for you.”
I go to put the berry back in the bowl, but he grabs my wrist. When my eyes flit to meet his, something in them has changed. His gaze snares me, and I am held captive in the honey pools of his eyes. He pulls my hand toward him, and then he’s taking a bite out of the strawberry.
Lips parted, I watch him swallow. The air in the room feels charged, like we’re one second away from some kind of explosion. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice the temperature shifting, but it’s suddenly very hot in here.
I have no idea what’s happening, but I am powerless to stop it.
Jackson drops my wrist, but he presses closer. My chest rises and falls with each strangled breath I take. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out. I swear I’m not breathing as his brows lower, his attention then focused on his hand. Barely, at first, and then with more confidence, his thumb sweeps in an arch across my cheekbone.
“You had some flour there,” he croaks, his throat tightening.
