Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(71)

I pouted and kicked off my heels. I’d worn a dress, one of the few I owned, and fiddled with the little gold buttons on the bodice, hoping they didn’t look cheap.

“I already told you you look beautiful,” said Jackson, still staring out the window. “Stop fussing.”

I liked him telling me I looked beautiful. Every time he said it, I felt like a cat stroked down its back.

“Yes, but do I look wifely?” I was still worried about making a good impression on his parents. I wasn’t thinking of me. I was thinking of him, and how he’d die of exposure from the elements within a week if he became homeless and had to live under a bridge.

Jackson sent me a searing sideways glance. His voice came out rough. “I told you not to worry.”

I sighed. “Yes, you did. So helpful, by the way. So informative. Really settles my nerves.” I sent him a pointed look.

“All right, Bianca, since you asked—no, you don’t look wifely.”

I stared at him, strangely hurt.

His voice softer, he said, “I’ve never seen anyone’s wife who looks as good as you do. You’re a fucking wet dream. Now stop fishing for compliments and buckle your lap belt, we’re about to take off.”

My heart was about to take off, too, blasting right out of my chest like a rocket. You’re a fucking wet dream.

Dear Lord, I might have to take that pulsing spray-wash toilet for a spin.

Hyperventilating, I fumbled with the lap belt for far longer than it should have taken, until my fingers regained the ability to complete simple tasks and the buckle snapped into place. Then I sat back and expended a lot of energy trying to appear like a normal human being and not the mental patient bouncing off padded walls that I felt like.

A stewardess appeared from the front of the cabin. She looked like one of the girls who recited poetry to the cow my chair was made of. I’d never seen someone that pretty up close. She leaned over Jackson’s chair, exposing acres of creamy cleavage.

“May I get you something to eat or drink, sir?”

Her husky voice indicated she was on the menu, too.

Without even looking in her direction, Jackson flicked his fingers dismissively at her. I wanted to punch the air and do a touchdown dance. Instead I smiled graciously when she turned to me, because it wasn’t polite to gloat.

“Something for you, miss?”

“Water, please,” I said.

She floated away, hips swaying, Miss Disney Princess circa 1952. I sighed, watching her and her eighteen-inch waist go.

“What was that wistful sigh for?” asked Jackson, glancing at the retreating stewardess.

I waved a hand in the air to dismiss the subject, but he said, “Nice try. Answer the question.”

“Why do I have to answer questions, and you don’t?”

He just stared at me, waiting.

“Ugh. Fine. I was just thinking that woman looks exactly how I’ve always wanted to look.”

Jackson’s brows pulled together. “What?”

“You know. All-American Malibu Barbie. Big boobs, blonde hair, lots of shiny teeth.”

He looked at me like I was insane. “Why the fuck would you want to look like that when you look like this?” He waved an angry hand up and down, indicating my figure.

After a long time, I said, “Are you deliberately trying to butter me up so I’ll feel more confident about meeting your parents?”

He looked at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, like he was asking for divine intervention in dealing with me. “No, Bianca. I am not. Trying. To butter you. Up.”

So creamy, leggy blondes weren’t his thing. Interesting.

“Well,” I said, flustered. “Thank you. You’re not half bad yourself.”

I knew as soon as I uttered those words I was in for it. He leaned forward like a predator leaning over a fresh kill.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” I said, aiming for disinterested cool. I lifted my hand and inspected my manicure. “I was just thinking the other day that you aren’t entirely unfortunate looking.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but Malibu Barbie was back with my water.

“Here you are, miss.” Her smile almost blinded me.

“Thank you.”

The stewardess retreated with a lingering glance sent Jackson’s way. That apparently reminded him of something, because he didn’t press me for more details about our interrupted conversation and instead started patting his jacket.

I uncapped the plastic bottle of water and took a big swig.

“Before I forget,” he said, “I have something for you.” He pulled a black velvet ring box from his pocket and set it on my knee.

I spit out the water in my mouth in a spray that went halfway down the aisle. I started to cough, my eyes watering.