Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(62)

Son? I sank into the nearest chair and concentrated hard on staying upright.

“This is for you, ma’am,” said Jackson politely, parking himself next to Mama in a chair that was woefully undersized for his sprawl. He held out the plant.

The flowers Trace brought the other day had mysteriously vanished.

“Oh.” Mama touched a hand to her throat. She stared at the violets in amazement. “Why, African violets are my favorite! I haven’t seen these in years!” She turned her gaze to me. It was glittering. “Bianca, did you think of this?”

Before I could answer, Jackson said smoothly, “Your daughter is always thinking of you, ma’am.” When his gaze slid to mine, I wanted to cry.

Why was he doing this, coming here to meet my mother? He didn’t have to do this. I’d already agreed to sign the contract. This was unnecessary.

Mama held the plant in her hands and beamed at it. “What a lovely surprise. You’ve just made my day.” Cradling the violets in her lap like a small, treasured dog, she turned her beam onto Jackson. “What can I offer you to drink, Mr. Boudreaux? Coffee? Water? Something stronger, maybe, an Absinthe Suissesse?”

“Nothing for me, thank you, ma’am. And please, call me Jackson.”

The two of them grinned at each other while I looked on, utterly confused.

Jackson said, “I understand Bianca gets her talent in the kitchen from you, Mrs. Hardwick.”

Mama batted her eyes, coy as sin. “Oh, I taught her a thing or two, but she’s got talents I never had. Creativity, that’s the mark of a true artist! Like the spring menu she put together for her restaurant, for example.” She shot me a proud glance. “Wouldn’t you say that was a stroke of genius, Jackson, all those recipes featuring Boudreaux Bourbon?”

Very gravely, Jackson replied, “The menu is incredible, but I think her true genius is actually with people.” His eyes found mine. His voice changed. “She knows how to make them feel like they matter.”

With his intense gaze burning into mine, I lost the power of language. My tongue sat in my mouth like a lump of soft cheese. I was going to have to take sign language classes to communicate from here on out.

Mama looked back and forth between us for a moment, then sighed.

It was a satisfied sound, filled with relief and pleasure, like when you find something precious you’ve been searching all over for that you thought you’d lost.

Flustered, I looked down at my hands twisting together in my lap.

“Bianca,” said Mama. I looked up to find her giving me make yourself scarce eyes. “Would you mind putting these in my bathroom and giving them a drink?” She held out the violets. “And see if you can find that old photo album from your school days; I want to show Jackson those pictures from when you won the spelling bee in the fifth grade.” Her smile was conspiratorial. “You might have to rummage around in those bookcases in the office for a while, I can’t remember exactly where I put it.”

Stifling the groan that I knew would gain me nothing but a rebuke, I stood and dutifully took the violets. I left them chatting, their voices becoming indistinct as I made my way down the hall into Mama’s bedroom.

I dribbled water into the plant from the bathroom faucet. I set it on the sink and fussed with the tissue paper, smoothing out any stray wrinkles, pursing my lips in consternation. I’d grill Jackson later about how he’d known these were Mama’s favorite flowers, but for now I was still in a mild state of shock that he was even here.

I’d been dreading this. I didn’t want to tell Mama I really was getting married, it wasn’t just some bad joke Eeny had witnessed. Mama’s nose was sharper than a bloodhound’s. She’d guess right away something smelled funny.

But maybe I could put it off until after her surgery. Yes, that’s what I’d do, I decided. No need to run headlong toward disaster. I could ease her into it a little bit.

Then I remembered I’d be living with Jackson before I even got my next period. There was no easing anything at this point.

“Slap, slap, kiss,” I said to the mirror. “And make it sound believable, Bianca!”

My reflection didn’t look very convinced it would work.

I dawdled as long as I could without being obvious, then reentered the parlor with a warning cough. Mama and Jackson were leaning toward each other, deep in conversation, but broke off when I appeared.

Like an old-fashioned gentleman, Jackson stood as I walked into the room.

It made me flush. Mama’s slight, approving head nod made me flush even more.

“Couldn’t find the photo album,” I lied, sitting on the sofa. “It’s probably in the garage.”