Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(39)

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.