Burn for You

When the door shut behind him, a huge breath left my chest in a rush. I felt like I might collapse into a heap, all my bones made of rubber.

Mama patted my hand. “I owe you an apology, Bianca.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, truly confused.

She searched my eyes. “I overheard what Trace said to you the other day, out on the sidewalk after you both left. I was wrong about him.”

“Oh, Mama,” I breathed, sorry she’d had to hear that wretched skirt chaser call me a terrible name.

Then she said, “I heard what you told him, too,” and all the blood drained from my face.

That asshole is my fiancé! I’d shouted into his face, loud enough for the whole block to hear.

“I thought you were just being spiteful, which he deserved, don’t get me wrong. But Jackson Boudreaux just asked for my permission to marry you.”

My whole body went numb. So that’s why he wanted to meet my mother. He wanted to ask her for my hand.

I wasn’t sure which would happen first, the fainting or the vomiting.

She smiled. “Don’t look so traumatized, baby, I said yes. It seems awful fast, but who am I to judge? It was the same way for me and your daddy. And you’ve always had your head screwed on straight. I know you wouldn’t want to marry him unless you were in love, even if you have been tight-lipped about it.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she dared me to contradict her.

Like a deer in the headlights, I froze. I blurted, “Slap, slap, kiss.”

She looked confused for a moment, then her face cleared. “You mean the old romance trope where two total opposites fight like cats and dogs until they suddenly realize they’re crazy about each other?”

After a second of shock so profound it felt like a cannonball had blown through me, I started to laugh. I laughed so hard I started crying. “Exactly!” I howled.

She shrugged. “Makes perfect sense to me.”

And just like that, it was done.

TWENTY-THREE

JACKSON

Though she only lived a few blocks away from her mother, Bianca was in no shape to walk home. I wouldn’t have let her walk anyway, not when I had a car, but she had a blank, stunned look when she came out of the house that made me think she’d stumble aimlessly around the neighborhood for hours before finally realizing she was lost and lying down in the gutter for a nap.

I’ve seen someone hit in the head with a shovel who had more presence of mind than she was displaying.

I held the car door open for her. She inserted herself into the seat with the grace of a zombie, all jerking legs and stiff arms, the opposite of the way she normally moved.

“I didn’t think having me meet your mother would be so traumatizing for you,” I said once I was seated behind the wheel.

Bianca laughed. It was the noise a dog made when you stepped on its tail. “You asked my mother for permission to marry me,” she said.

“I did.”

She looked at me with eyes so wide the whites showed all around her irises. “What would you have done if she’d said no?”

I answered truthfully. “Become one of those panhandlers on the boulevard you said I reminded you of.”

“We wouldn’t get married?”

I wanted to attribute her horrified tone to desperate disappointment that I wouldn’t be her husband, but I knew what she was thinking. And it wasn’t about me.

“I would’ve paid for your mother’s surgery, and then I would’ve found a nice, comfortable bridge to live under.” I started the car and drove off, feeling her eyes on me like laser beams.

After a long time, she asked, “Why?”

Because I’d do anything to have you look at me the way you looked at me when I kissed you, even if it was only for one more time.

Aloud I said, “No one should have to die because they’re broke.”

She studied me in silence as we drove. I liked it, having her attention focused on me like that. It felt natural to have her riding beside me, sharing the same air. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, but didn’t want to push my luck. Instead I turned on the radio.

A song came on. “Like A Virgin.” Madonna crooned, “Feels so good inside.”

I turned the radio off.

“Wait.” Bianca looked out the window in confusion. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“No. We’re going home.”

“But my home is—”

“We’re going to our home,” I said. “I want you to pick out your room before we leave this weekend. We need to get you settled. And I don’t want to have to lie to my parents when they ask if we’re living together.”

She made a small, strangled noise in her throat, then rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

“You’re terrible for my ego,” I said drily.

“I’m sorry. This is all just so . . . surreal.”

Her voice was muted. When I sent her a surreptitious glance, I saw that her face was pale and her knee was bouncing up and down. She really was traumatized.

Had I been a less selfish man, I would’ve turned around, driven her home, paid for her mother’s surgery, and ripped up our contract. But now—aside from the fact that I dearly loved my house and my car collection and all the things my father’s money bought me—I had to admit that the thought of us living under the same roof had me as excited as a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

I’d get to see those long-lashed doe eyes every day. I’d get to hear that voice, a jazz singer’s honeyed, husky timbre. I’d get the indescribable pleasure of watching her move among my things, warming all the cold marble surfaces with her fire and her laugh and her vibrancy.

In short, I’d be the luckiest fucking man on earth. I wasn’t giving that up over a simple thing like decency.

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

After a moment, she sat up straighter and blew out a breath. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s me who’s acting silly. You were right, this is a business deal that we’re both benefiting from.” She sent me a weak smile. “I’m grateful to you.”

Now I really felt like a louse.

We drove the rest of the way in silence, lost in our thoughts. When I stopped in front of the house, Rayford opened the door and bounded out, smiling from ear to ear. I wondered how long he’d been standing inside waiting for us to show up, peering out the windows like an anxious mother.

“Miss Bianca!” he said, opening the passenger door. He grinned at her with his entire body. “So good to see you again!”

For once I was glad of Rayford’s indestructible cheer. It visibly lifted Bianca’s spirits.

“Rayford.” She took his extended hand and allowed him to help her out of the car. Then she hugged him.

He looked as surprised as I felt.

“Why, Miss Bianca,” he said, chuckling and patting her back. “You’ll make an old man blush.”

She said something to him that I didn’t catch, then pulled away. I got out of the car as fast as I could, convinced I’d miss something important, but Rayford simply took her hand and put it into the crook of his arm and led her into the house.

I frowned at his back. The old goat just usurped me!

“So tell me how it went with your mama and Mr. Boudreaux,” said Rayford, gazing down at Bianca affectionately as they walked down the hall and I followed behind like an obedient dog, trying not to sniff too closely at her heels.