Burn for You

Trace said cajolingly, “Bumble bee—”

“Don’t you ‘bumble bee’ me! I told you the last time I saw you to leave me alone! I never want to see you again!”

Trace folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me with a smug expression. Before he even said it, I knew what was going to come out of his mouth.

He drawled, “Your mama told me different.”

I’m not a violent person, but my palm sure did itch to make contact with the side of his pretty, self-satisfied face. I said, “Just because trash can be recycled doesn’t mean you deserve another chance.”

Behind me, Jackson snorted.

Trace flicked his gaze to Jackson, glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to me. “Fine,” he said. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable in front the asshole. So why don’t you give me a call when he isn’t around.”

Then he dismissively jerked his chin at Jackson and turned around and sauntered away down the sidewalk.

Jackson watched him go with a tense, coiled readiness, dangerous as a cobra about to strike.

Trace hopped on a motorcycle parked at the curb two houses down, gunned it to life, then burned rubber and roared off down the street.

“Ooh,” I said, watching him go. “How manly.” I made a retching noise and headed for the house.

I retrieved my spare key from the hide-a-key that looked like a rock hidden under a shrub next to the patio, then climbed the steps and unlocked the front door. When I turned around, Jackson was slowly climbing the porch steps, flexing his hands like he was trying to release tension from them.

I said, “I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.”

Jackson stopped a few feet from the open door. He looked down the street in the direction Trace had gone, his gaze dark. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you want me to sit out here awhile, make sure he doesn’t come back?”

That threw me for a loop. Jackson Boudreaux was willing to sit on my front porch in the middle of the night like my own personal watchdog?

Maybe he liked that kiss as much as I did.

“Thank you for offering, but Trace won’t come back tonight. He’ll need to go lick his wounds in some woman’s bed for a night or two before he works up the nerve to show his face to me again.”

I sighed, suddenly bone-tired. “Believe me, I’ve seen it a million times. It’s just too bad I didn’t bring my pocketbook with me today, because I’ve got a little present for him in it that will definitely keep him away longer.”

Jackson leaned against the doorjamb and looked down at me. “A present?”

“Pepper spray.”

A shade of tension eased from Jackson’s body. He even managed a small smile. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I rubbed my temples. I had a nasty headache coming on. “I don’t know about a bad side, but I do know that a man has to choose me or lose me. I’m not a backup plan.”

Jackson was silent. When I glanced at him, he was giving me that burning look again, the one that made me feel like I might ignite.

He murmured, “He’s an idiot. But he’s a lucky idiot.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because for a while, he had you.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. Flustered by the unexpected compliment, I changed the subject. “Can I ask a personal question?”

Without hesitating, he said, “Yes.”

I gestured to his arm. “Why do you have a semicolon tattooed on your wrist? I noticed it when we were in the kitchen.”

Jackson turned his left hand up and gazed down at the simple black tattoo on the inside of his wrist. He was silent for a long time, then looked up and met my eyes.

He said, “You’re an avid reader. You know the meaning of a semicolon.”

I frowned. “It’s when the author could have ended a sentence but chose not to.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jackson looked deep into my eyes. His smile might have been the saddest thing I’d ever seen. He said softly, “I’m the author, and the sentence is my life.”

Oh my God.

My heart fell at my feet. I whispered, “Jackson . . .”

He pushed away from the doorframe, dragged a hand through his hair, then looked at his car. “It’s been a long day. I’ll let you get some rest.”

He seemed distant now. Depressed, too, like my question had brought back all kinds of bad memories and now he couldn’t wait to get away from me, and them.

Feeling like a fool and not knowing how to erase this new awkwardness, I said, “Thank you for the Heritage Thirty Year. That was a treat.”

The sad little smile still hovered around the corners of Jackson’s lips. I didn’t know what he was thinking, and he didn’t enlighten me. All he did was tip his head and turn to leave.

When he got to the curb I called out, “Jackson?”

He turned to look at me.

I said, “I’m sorry about the kiss.”

He stared at me with a look of such longing and loneliness it took my breath away. He said, “I’m not. It’s going to get me through the next four years.”

Then he got in his Porsche and drove away, leaving me standing in my open front door wondering why he’d put an emphasis on the word next.

And what had made him get that semicolon tattoo.

And why I suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I didn’t toss and turn, either. I just lay on my back in the dark staring up at my bedroom ceiling, my mind a merry-go-round that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Who was the real Jackson Boudreaux? The Beast that snarled and snapped? The suave sophisticate at ease in front of crowds? Or the sad, lonely man with a mysterious tattoo and eyes full of bad memories?

He was a puzzle. A puzzle I ached to figure out, but the charity benefit was over. And with all that had happened last night, I doubted Jackson had any desire to see me again.

I wanted to kick myself for using him to try to make Trace jealous. It was a selfish, childish thing to do. Though it seemed we’d both enjoyed that kiss, if the tables were turned and I’d been the one being used for revenge, I wouldn’t have been happy about it.

Whatever Jackson’s opinion of me had been before, after last night it must be lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

In the morning, I stopped by Mama’s as usual. I found her in bed, drenched in sweat, miserable with nausea.

Her pillow was covered in hair, which had started to fall out of her head in clumps.

“How did the event go, chère?” she whispered, wincing when I turned on the bedroom light.

Fighting back tears at how bad she looked, I sat on the bed next to her and held her hand. It felt clammy and frail. “It went fine, Mama. Great, in fact. Everyone loved the food.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Of course they did. You’re the best cook in Louisiana.”

“Next to you.”

Her smile was faint. “And how did you get along with the infamous Mr. Boudreaux? Was he as ornery as usual?”

I thought about how to answer that, about how Rayford had said of Jackson If you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one. And something my father had once told me that had stuck with me for years. Fate is just the sum of all our bad decisions. And something Jackson himself had told me.