Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(70)

He blew out a hard breath through his nose. The entire car vibrated with his tension. I didn’t dare say anything else.

In a few minutes we arrived at a nondescript office building. When we went inside, a tall man in a suit was waiting for us with a folder of documents.

“Mr. Boudreaux,” he said, enthusiastically pumping Jackson’s hand and bowing so low he almost bent in half.

The man—whom Jackson did not introduce—showed us into an opulent office. We all sat around his desk. He opened the folder, flipped through a few pages of the stapled documents, turned the pages around to me, and pointed to a line at the bottom.

“Sign here, please.”

From the top drawer of his desk he produced a stamp and a ledger book.

“What’s this?” I asked Jackson, perplexed.

“The trust has to be notarized,” he answered, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.” I flipped to the front of the document and scanned the pages until I found the words one million dollars. Satisfied, I signed my name with a flourish on the line where the man in the blue suit had indicated. Then he presented me with his ledger book, which I also had to sign and affix my thumbprint to with ink that wiped off my skin without a trace.

Blue Suit Man stamped underneath where I had signed, closed his ledger, and put the stamp and ledger back in the desk drawer. He slid the documents into the folder.

Then he said something about a tax ID number and a certified copy for the bank and my attorney, and we were done.

Jackson ushered me out to the car with his hand under my elbow like he was leading an invalid. Once we were settled back in our seats, he seemed a bit less tense and even offered me a small smile.

He said, “You look beautiful.”

I said, “I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

“What if your parents hate me?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’m worried about it!”

He ground his molars together. “No matter what happens, you’re going to be fine,” he said ominously, then closed his eyes and went to sleep.

He spent the rest of the ride to the airport sleeping, while I stared at his profile and wondered how many more layers I’d have to peel back before I uncovered the true heart of the walking contradiction that was Jackson Walker Boudreaux.





TWENTY-FIVE

BIANCA

At the airport we drove directly out to the jet waiting on the tarmac. While Rayford unloaded the luggage, we went through “security,” which consisted of a cheerful woman in a sweater vest and a badge glancing at our IDs. We were seated on the plane in less time than it usually takes to find parking for a commercial flight.

This being rich business was certainly convenient.

Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?”

Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.”

“Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.”

“Wait until you go to the bathroom.”

I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.”

“No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled, if you prefer your ass chilled while you take care of business. Then afterward, you have your choice of oscillating or pulsing spray wash, followed by a lovely air dry. It’s very civilized.”

I had other words for getting your butt treated like it was enjoying a spa day, but declined to share. “So how long is this flight, anyway?”

“Hour and forty-five, give or take.”

“And are you going to spend it pretend sleeping, or are we going to talk?”

One corner of Jackson’s mouth turned up. He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark shadow on his jaw was masculine and appealing. The scruff also served to partially hide his scars. I wondered if that was its purpose.

“Are you going to be like this after we’re married?”

“Like what?” I asked, the picture of innocence. “Charming and sociable? No, you’re right, I should be surly and taciturn; it makes everything so much more fun.”

He was trying to scowl at me and doing a poor job of it.

I sent him a coy smile, complete with batted lashes. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

I decided to take a different tack. “You’re more prickly than a porcupine who wandered into barbed wire. Want to talk about it? Get it off your chest before you see mumsy and daddy?”

“No,” he snapped.

As if that wasn’t predictable.