Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(48)

“I’d like to schedule the surgery for the week after next,” said Doc Halloran, looking at me.

What could I say? No? It’s too expensive? I don’t have the cash to save my mother’s life?

Suddenly all my self-righteous arguments about why I couldn’t marry Jackson Boudreaux for money seemed as flimsy as a fart in the wind.

So I squeezed my mother’s hand and forced a smile. “Do it.”

When I got home that afternoon, I picked up the phone, called Jackson, and asked him if his offer was still on the table.





EIGHTEEN

JACKSON

“Sir,” said Rayford, “you’re gonna wear out the rug.”

“I’ll buy another one,” I growled, turning around and pacing back the direction I came. I couldn’t keep still, and Rayford nagging me about it wasn’t helping.

The two of us were waiting inside the foyer for Bianca to arrive. Rayford was his usual tranquil self. I, however, felt like a nuclear reactor on the edge of a meltdown.

I was going to get married.

Bianca Hardwick was going to be my wife.

At least that’s what it appeared would happen. She had called me yesterday and asked me if my offer was still on the table, and I nearly fell out of my chair. We’d agreed to meet today to discuss it further.

I slept all of fifteen minutes last night. I spent an hour getting ready, showering, taming my hair, and obsessing over which clothes to wear. I even shaved again because I knew she liked it, even though the sight of those fucking scars on my face made me want to punch the mirror. She was due to arrive any minute, and the possibility that Rayford would open the door and I’d drop dead of a massive heart attack the moment I spotted her was pretty solid.

I hadn’t been this nervous in . . . ever.

“Maybe you should have a drink,” Rayford suggested, watching me pace. “So you don’t scare the poor girl off with all this”—he waved a disapproving hand in the air—“energy.”

“My energy’s fine,” I snapped, flexing my hands.

Rayford snorted. “Sure, if you’re gearin’ up to ride into battle on your war horse and lop off some heads with an axe.”

I shot him a murderous glare, which made him smile.

He said, “Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when I open the door and Miss Bianca sees the state you’re in and turns around and runs off.”

“She’s not the running-off type,” I said. “She’s more the light-you-on-fire-and-walk-calmly-away-while-you-burn-to-ashes type.”

Rayford chuckled. “This is gonna be fun.”

I stopped pacing and stared at him. “Fun? This is the most bizarre and unbelievably serious thing I’ve done in my life, and you’re talking about it being fun?”

He smiled. “I meant for me, sir.”

Before I could reply, the doorbell rang.

Rayford said brightly, “And here’s the fire starter now!” and opened the door.

Bianca stood on the marble front step of my home wearing a red dress and a grim, resolute expression like she was arriving for an audit with the IRS. In spite of her obvious discomfort, she was breathtaking.

This was the first time I’d seen her out of her chef’s clothes, and my eyes greedily drank her in. The term hourglass figure was invented for women like her. Her waist was narrow, her hips were generous, and her legs were long and bare. And her breasts . . . I almost groaned out loud.

The dress had a neckline obviously designed to devastate men. It was cut low enough to give a glimpse of cleavage while still being classy, wide enough to reveal the upper swell of a pair of breasts that appeared to have been molded by God himself.

If she wore that with a mind to negotiate for more money, she’d won. I’d willingly hand over my entire trust if I’d be allowed to look at her wearing that dress for more than five minutes.

My God, her skin was flawless. Fucking flawless, like—

“Are you going to invite me in, or would you prefer we talked in the front yard?” asked Bianca tartly.

My gaze snapped up to her face.

Rayford coughed into his fist to hide his laugh.

And I went red to the roots of my hair.

“Yes,” I said too loudly, flustered. “Come in.” Then I turned around and stalked toward the library, mortified I’d been caught ogling her chest like the enamored, sexually frustrated Neanderthal that I was.

Over the roar in my ears, I heard her sigh, heard Rayford’s murmured words of hello, heard the front door close. I decided to take Rayford’s advice and pour myself a drink to take the edge off, so as soon as I entered the library I made a beeline for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured myself a glass.