Page 18 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
I narrow my eyes. “You’re just thinking about the Fancy video again.”
“Guilty,” he grins.
From my speaker, George Jones starts crooning about love gone wrong. Jaxon softly hums along.
“You know the lyrics?” I ask, surprised.
He doesn’t look at me, just keeps drying. “Every last one.”
I study him from the corner of my eye, wondering how many other things I don’t know about the man I’ve despised for years.
I reflect on how surreal this is. Twenty-four hours ago, I was preparing for a quiet weekend alone. Now I’m snowed in with Jaxon, debating country music legends while washing dishes together, after spending the night in his arms. And it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should.
Later, I watch from the window as he joins other men from the building, shoveling the entrance clear of snow. When he catches me watching, I quickly step away from the glass.
The power doesn’t return that day. Or the next.
By the third day of our unexpected cohabitation, we’ve fallen into a strange rhythm. Jaxon becomes the keeper of candles, strategically placing them throughout the apartment to maximize light while minimizing fire hazards. I become the manager of food, rationing our supplies and creating increasingly creative meals.
“This is great,” Jaxon says on night four, spooning up the last of my improvised pasta dish—a concoction made from the random contents of my pantry.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply. “In my next life, I plan to be a chef.”
We pass the time with board games, seated across from each other at my small dining table. I accuse him of cheating at Monopoly. He claims I’m making up words in Scrabble. Between turns, we hum along to Kenny Rogers, off-key and confident, like we’re auditioning for a honky-tonk revival.
“That’s not a real word,” he insists, pointing at my tiles.
“‘Qi’ is absolutely a word. Check the dictionary.”
“Fine,” he concedes after verification, his eyes lingering on mine a beat too long. “But I’m watching you.”
At night, I construct a fortress of pillows, strategically placed for maximum separation. It never lasts. Somehow, by morning, I always wake up tangled with the enemy.
On day five, the water pressure drops.
“Perfect,” I mutter, jiggling the kitchen faucet as the stream reduces to a pathetic trickle. “Just what we needed.”
Jaxon reaches around me to check for himself, his chest briefly pressing against my back. I step away, ignoring the electricity from momentary contact.
“Winter Bay’s infrastructure can handle frostbite but not a full-out blizzard blackout,” he explains, maintaining the new distance between us. “Pumps are probably failing.”
“How long do you think this will last? The whole situation?”
He glances toward the window where snow continues to fall steadily. “Hard to say. I’ve never seen a storm this persistent in April.”
That night, I lay rigidly on my side of the bed, the pillow barrier firmly in place. But as the temperature drops to its lowest point yet, I find myself unable to stop shivering.
“This is ridiculous,” Jaxon mutters from his side. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine,” I insist through chattering teeth.
I pull the blankets tighter. It doesn’t help. I curl into myself. Still cold.
Jaxon shifts closer, then slides his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest. I lock up. But then his warmth seeps through my clothes and melts my resistance one degree at a time.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“Of course not.”
