So yes. I kissed Jackson.
Hard.
That wasn’t the bad part. His lips were soft, his face was smooth, and he smelled even better up close. The bad part was that he didn’t kiss me back.
When it became clear after several long moments that he wasn’t opening his mouth, and had in fact frozen stiff as a corpse left out in the snow, I withdrew a few inches and sheepishly looked at him.
He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?”
I said, “Um.”
We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid and set on fire.
He lifted his hand and slowly brushed his thumb over my lower lip. His voice an octave lower, he said, “You caught me off guard. Let’s try it again. And this time put your hand on my chest so it looks more authentic.”
I grumbled, “Lord, you’re bossy—”
But then I shut up because Jackson took my mouth and I couldn’t think, let alone speak.
He tasted like bourbon and secrets and frustrated desire and kissed like he was starving. It started out slow, his tongue gently parting my lips, his big hands cradling my head, but quickly turned hot and greedy. When I curled my hand into his hair and pulled him closer, he made a low, masculine sound deep in his throat that might have been the sexiest noise I’d heard in my entire life.
After what felt like forever, he pulled away first. We were both breathing hard.
I opened my eyes and looked at him and became concerned that my panties might spontaneously combust from the look he was giving me.
He whispered, “God, I hope you have a lot of exes you want to make jealous.”
Intensely aroused and equally shocked by my behavior—I don’t have a habit of randomly attack-kissing men—I sat back and smoothed my hands over my hair. I said, “Only the one, unfortunately.”
He jumped on that faster than a hot knife goes through butter. “Unfortunately?”
Face flaming, I groaned.
Then there was a sharp knock on my window.
Trace leaned over and looked into the car. “Uh, Bianca? You gonna sit out here all night or are you coming in?”
I should’ve guessed Trace wouldn’t be threatened by the sight of me kissing another man. His ego was bigger than the state of Louisiana. I said, “It’s none of your business what I do, Trace Adams!”
Trace pouted. “I need to talk to you, bumble bee.”
Jackson asked me, “Do you want to talk to him, Bianca?”
“No! Not now, not ever!”
Trace said, “Of course you do. You’re just being stubborn.”
Jackson growled, opened his door, and exited the car.
I said to no one in particular, “Uh-oh.”
Across the top of the car, Jackson said to Trace, “You have ten seconds to get the fuck away from that window before I make you a fist sandwich and shove it down your throat, my friend.”
Slowly Trace straightened. All I could see on either side of me was half a man’s body, torsos and legs and muscular arms, hands curled to fists.
Trace said to Jackson, “I don’t know who you are, asshole, but nobody talks to me like that.”
Jackson said, “And nobody calls me ‘asshole.’”
“Oh,” said Trace, “ain’t you an asshole? Because from where I’m standing, you sure look like one.”
Deadly soft, Jackson replied, “And from where I’m standing, you’re looking like you’re one dumb remark away from a visit to the emergency room.”
Okay, I thought. Time to intervene before we’re on the morning news.
I unlocked my door and popped out of the car, missing Trace’s crotch by a hair as I swung the door open. I looked up at him and said crossly, “Excuse me, person who claims to have found God, but your ratty old soul is showing!”
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.”