Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(107)

I punched in the number with frantic stabbing motions. I waited breathlessly for the line to connect, but his cell phone went straight to voice mail. Panicked, I called the house.

Rayford picked up with a smooth, “Good evening, Boudreaux residence.”

I began to holler incoherently. “Rayford it’s Bianca I need to speak with Jackson please put him on the phone!”

Rayford paused before answering. “Mr. Boudreaux is . . . occupied at the moment,” he said in a strange, ominous tone. “May I take a message?”

My heart pounded so hard I was out of breath. “Occupied? No, Rayford, you don’t understand, it’s very important that I speak with him—”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” he said briskly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Rayford had never been remote like this with me before. He was acting like we’d never even met. This smelled to high heaven.

Something was seriously wrong.

“Rayford,” I said, controlling the hysteria in my voice as best I could, “what’s going on?”

Another pause, like he was considering whether or not to answer, then he made a little embarrassed cough. “Mr. Boudreaux has a guest. I’ll be happy to tell him you called, however. Have a nice evening.”

The phone went dead in my hand. I stared at it in amazement. Then, with a shock like I’d stuck my finger into a power outlet, I knew.

Eeny said, “Well?”

Cold with horror, I said, “What day is it, Eeny?”

She frowned at me. “It’s Tuesday.”

“No, the date!” I shouted, flailing my hands. “What’s the date?”

“The sixteenth. Why?”

The sixteenth. Dear Lord. Today is Jackson’s birthday.

He had to get married by his birthday or lose his inheritance. He couldn’t come to the phone because he was occupied with a “guest.”

I dropped the phone and left it dangling from its cord as I tore down the hall to the bedroom to get a pair of shoes, screaming at Eeny over my shoulder to call me a taxi and put it on super emergency rush.

I had to go stop a wedding.





THIRTY-EIGHT

JACKSON

Rayford quietly hung up the library phone. I didn’t look up from the paperwork I’d been perusing when I asked, “Who was that?”

“Telemarketer,” he said. “Annual fund-raising for the local police.”

Now I did look up, surprised. “I wonder why the chief didn’t call me himself? He knows I don’t like to talk to telemarketers.” I thought for a moment. “Didn’t they just have the police fund-raiser a few months ago?”

Rayford’s expression was bland. “You write so many checks for fund-raisers, sir, I can never remember which one’s which.” From the corner of my desk he picked up my crystal decanter, tilted it over my empty glass, and smiled. “Refill?”

I sighed heavily. I knew I’d been drinking too much lately, but it was the only thing getting me through the nights. “Yes. Thanks.”

He poured me a generous measure, then turned to the young woman in a navy pantsuit and sensible shoes seated across the desk from me. “Miss Taylor, would you care for a drop?”

Her mouth pinched. Which was a feat, because her mouth was already so small it looked like a tiny puckered butthole. Her choice of brown lipstick was an unfortunate one that only added to the effect. Every time I looked at her, I had to bite the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh.

“No,” she said, like she was offended by the question. “I don’t drink.”

Rayford and I shared a glace. My heavy sigh came again.

“Call me if you need anything else, sir,” said Rayford. He nodded at Taylor, then excused himself, leaving the library doors open behind him.

Miss Taylor didn’t waste a moment getting back to the subject at hand. “Section four D could be problematic. I think it’s too vague.”

My head pounded. We’d been reviewing the paperwork for almost two hours, and every time I thought we were close to finishing, she found something else she deemed problematic.

The crick in my neck was problematic. The cramp in my lower back was problematic. The raw ache in the place in my chest where my heart was supposed to be beating was also problematic, but I wasn’t thinking about that.

It makes no sense to dwell on things that are out of your control.

I took another big swig of bourbon instead.

“Four D,” I repeated, flipping through the document. “Right.” I stared at the page. Legal terms swam up into my vision. I poured more booze down my throat.

How is she? What’s she doing right now? Is she thinking about me?