Page 19 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“And the pillow barrier returns tomorrow,” I add, needing to establish this is a onetime concession, not a precedent.
But as I drift off to sleep, the efficiency of this arrangement becomes harder to deny. Perhaps some solutions don’t need to be complicated. Perhaps, just this once, the simplest answer is the right one.
Jaxon
“You’re burning it.”
JJ struggles with the makeshift oil lamp she’s created from cooking oil and a strip of t-shirt. The flame sputters dangerously high, threatening to scorch the jar she’s using as a base.
I should let her struggle, let her prove whatever point she’s trying to make. But watching her fight with something as simple as a wick, when I could fix it in seconds, grates on me.
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
“Clearly,” I drawl, leaning against the kitchen counter.
The temperature has dropped significantly with nightfall, our breath visible in the air. Day six of being trapped together, and she’s still fighting my every attempt to help.
“Fine.” She steps back from her creation. “Since you’re such an expert.”
My height advantage allows me to stretch past her to grab the lamp, my chest pressing against her back. She stiffens but doesn’t retreat.
“Your wick’s too long,” I say, adjusting it with ease. “Burns too hot and wastes fuel. Basic survival, JJ. Thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Basic survival, huh? And here I thought you only excelled at overpriced whiskey tastings and corporate power plays.”
“I’m multi-talented. Try to keep up.”
“Oh, I’m keeping up just fine. I was just letting you have your moment.”
“Letting me?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s cute.”
JJ snatches the wick from my hand, trimming it herself. “See? I had it handled.”
“After almost setting your kitchen on fire.”
She lights the lamp and it flickers to life just as Reba’s voice cuts through the quiet, twanging through JJ’s tablet on the shelf.
“Where’d you learn this, anyway?” she asks, turning the jar to inspect my handiwork.
“My grandfather.”
“I don’t think I ever met him.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “He didn’t live in Winter Bay and died two years before my mom. He was... intense.”
She gives me a curious look. “Intense how?”
“Survivalist. Conspiracy theorist. The world is always one bad day away from collapse kind of guy.” I smile. “He had a bunker before bunkers were a trend.”
“Wait. Are you telling me you were trained by a full-blown doomsday prepper?”
“Oh, trained is an understatement,” I say dryly. “By the time I was ten, I could filter water through charcoal, catch and clean a rabbit, and recite every major economic collapse of the last century.”
She stares at me like I’ve just confessed to being raised by wolves. “That explains so much.”
“Relax, JJ. I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid.”
Something in my voice must betray the weight of my emotions, because her expression shifts.
