Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(75)

In the arched doorway that led to the great room beyond the foyer stood a man. I’d never seen anyone in real life wearing an ascot with a smoking jacket, but now I had. He was Jackson’s twin, except older and grayer, with laugh lines around his blue eyes.

“Father,” said Jackson, confirming my guess.

They stared at each other. It wasn’t unfriendly—more assessing than anything—but if I hadn’t seen my mother in four years, you can bet our reunion   would look nothing like this.

The elder Mr. Boudreaux turned his gaze to me. “And you must be Bianca,” he said with much more robust enthusiasm than he’d addressed his son. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His gaze flashed to my left hand. A faint smile lifted his lips.

Oh my stars. This was gonna get messy.

I mentally put my big girl panties on and sent my future father-in-law a smile that was so sweet it practically dripped honey. “Mr. Boudreaux. I’m so happy to meet you.”

Then, just to shake off the general sense of doom, I went over and gave the man a hug.

Imagine throwing your arms around a marble statue, and you’ll get the idea of how my friendly overture was met. Red-faced, I stepped back and tried to ignore the way Jackson’s jaw was hanging all the way to the floor.

Mr. Boudreaux was red in the face, too. He said, “Oh. Dear. You’ll have to excuse me, Bianca, I don’t think I’ve been hugged by anyone in about fifty years.”

But he kind of liked it, I could tell. Encouraged, I smiled at him again. “Sorry to be so forward, but we’re big huggers in my family, Mr. Boudreaux. My mama always told me there are few things a good hug can’t cure, and those things are what bourbon’s for.”

Mr. Boudreaux stared at me for a moment, then his face broke into a grin. “Call me Brig, Bianca. If you’re gonna be family, we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

Jackson made a soft choking noise that sounded like maybe he was going to faint.

And we’re off to a rip-roaring start.

I said, “Thank you, Brig. That’s awfully nice of you.”

Brig looked back at his son. His grin faltered. “Well. You must be tired after your journey. I’ll let you freshen up before dinner. It’s at eight.” With a nod in my direction, he turned and left. The dogs followed at his heels.

When he was gone, my relief was overwhelming. I said, “Whew! I think that went pretty well, don’t you?” I turned to find Jackson staring at me like I was a stranger. “What?” I said, instantly worried I’d made some terrible gaffe.

But he only shook his head in wonder. “You hugged my father,” he said softly, his eyes shining. “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or totally insane.”

I beamed at him. “That’s easy. I’m a genius.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “I’m beginning to think so.”

Then, still shaking his head, he took my arm and led me away.



There wasn’t enough time for a tour of the “house” before dinner, so we went straight up to Jackson’s room via one of the elevators he informed me were scattered all over the place like gopher holes. Once inside the door, I stopped dead.

“I can see why you’d hate it so much here,” I said, gazing around. “This is really beyond the limits of human tolerance.”

More oil paintings, more soaring ceilings, more priceless antiques. But the thing that truly made this room so beautiful was the massive wall of windows that gave way to the view of the gardens and lake, and woodlands beyond. A fire crackled in the huge stone hearth on one end of the room. On the other end a door stood slightly open, giving a peek of what looked to be an Olympic-size bathtub in the en suite bathroom.

Jackson went straight to the enormous bed centered under the windows and flopped facedown onto the silk duvet cover, where he remained unmoving.

Which is when I realized we’d never had a talk about the sleeping arrangements for this weekend.

Big sofa over there, I thought, eyeing a tufted, peacock-blue couch in the corner, opposite a pair of straight-backed chairs. Or whatever that thing is, I thought, catching sight of a long piece of furniture against the wall. It had no back, only cigar-shaped pillows at each end, but was obviously designed for seating. A divan or some such that garnished wealthy people’s homes. The pillows looked wicked uncomfortable, but Jackson would probably let me steal one from the bed—

“You’re thinking again.” Jackson’s voice was muffled in the comforter. He raised his head and glared at me. “Stop it.”

“Is this . . . are we . . .”