BIANCA
Before you judge me, let me just say in my defense that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders on account of the sexual tension between Jackson and me in the kitchen, fright over how erratically he’d been driving, making him laugh (a beautiful, unexpected sound), having his big, warm hand settle on my shoulder in a gentle yet distinctly possessive grip, and seeing Trace standing on my front porch in the middle of the night.
So yes. I kissed Jackson.
Hard.
That wasn’t the bad part. His lips were soft, his face was smooth, and he smelled even better up close. The bad part was that he didn’t kiss me back.
When it became clear after several long moments that he wasn’t opening his mouth, and had in fact frozen stiff as a corpse left out in the snow, I withdrew a few inches and sheepishly looked at him.
He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?”
I said, “Um.”
We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid and set on fire.
He lifted his hand and slowly brushed his thumb over my lower lip. His voice an octave lower, he said, “You caught me off guard. Let’s try it again. And this time put your hand on my chest so it looks more authentic.”
I grumbled, “Lord, you’re bossy—”
But then I shut up because Jackson took my mouth and I couldn’t think, let alone speak.
He tasted like bourbon and secrets and frustrated desire and kissed like he was starving. It started out slow, his tongue gently parting my lips, his big hands cradling my head, but quickly turned hot and greedy. When I curled my hand into his hair and pulled him closer, he made a low, masculine sound deep in his throat that might have been the sexiest noise I’d heard in my entire life.
After what felt like forever, he pulled away first. We were both breathing hard.
I opened my eyes and looked at him and became concerned that my panties might spontaneously combust from the look he was giving me.
He whispered, “God, I hope you have a lot of exes you want to make jealous.”
Intensely aroused and equally shocked by my behavior—I don’t have a habit of randomly attack-kissing men—I sat back and smoothed my hands over my hair. I said, “Only the one, unfortunately.”
He jumped on that faster than a hot knife goes through butter. “Unfortunately?”
Face flaming, I groaned.
Then there was a sharp knock on my window.
Trace leaned over and looked into the car. “Uh, Bianca? You gonna sit out here all night or are you coming in?”
I should’ve guessed Trace wouldn’t be threatened by the sight of me kissing another man. His ego was bigger than the state of Louisiana. I said, “It’s none of your business what I do, Trace Adams!”
Trace pouted. “I need to talk to you, bumble bee.”
Jackson asked me, “Do you want to talk to him, Bianca?”
“No! Not now, not ever!”
Trace said, “Of course you do. You’re just being stubborn.”
Jackson growled, opened his door, and exited the car.
I said to no one in particular, “Uh-oh.”
Across the top of the car, Jackson said to Trace, “You have ten seconds to get the fuck away from that window before I make you a fist sandwich and shove it down your throat, my friend.”
Slowly Trace straightened. All I could see on either side of me was half a man’s body, torsos and legs and muscular arms, hands curled to fists.
Trace said to Jackson, “I don’t know who you are, asshole, but nobody talks to me like that.”
Jackson said, “And nobody calls me ‘asshole.’”
“Oh,” said Trace, “ain’t you an asshole? Because from where I’m standing, you sure look like one.”
Deadly soft, Jackson replied, “And from where I’m standing, you’re looking like you’re one dumb remark away from a visit to the emergency room.”
Okay, I thought. Time to intervene before we’re on the morning news.
I unlocked my door and popped out of the car, missing Trace’s crotch by a hair as I swung the door open. I looked up at him and said crossly, “Excuse me, person who claims to have found God, but your ratty old soul is showing!”
Trace said cajolingly, “Bumble bee—”
“Don’t you ‘bumble bee’ me! I told you the last time I saw you to leave me alone! I never want to see you again!”
Trace folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me with a smug expression. Before he even said it, I knew what was going to come out of his mouth.
He drawled, “Your mama told me different.”
I’m not a violent person, but my palm sure did itch to make contact with the side of his pretty, self-satisfied face. I said, “Just because trash can be recycled doesn’t mean you deserve another chance.”
Behind me, Jackson snorted.
Trace flicked his gaze to Jackson, glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to me. “Fine,” he said. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable in front the asshole. So why don’t you give me a call when he isn’t around.”
Then he dismissively jerked his chin at Jackson and turned around and sauntered away down the sidewalk.
Jackson watched him go with a tense, coiled readiness, dangerous as a cobra about to strike.
Trace hopped on a motorcycle parked at the curb two houses down, gunned it to life, then burned rubber and roared off down the street.
“Ooh,” I said, watching him go. “How manly.” I made a retching noise and headed for the house.
I retrieved my spare key from the hide-a-key that looked like a rock hidden under a shrub next to the patio, then climbed the steps and unlocked the front door. When I turned around, Jackson was slowly climbing the porch steps, flexing his hands like he was trying to release tension from them.
I said, “I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.”
Jackson stopped a few feet from the open door. He looked down the street in the direction Trace had gone, his gaze dark. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you want me to sit out here awhile, make sure he doesn’t come back?”
That threw me for a loop. Jackson Boudreaux was willing to sit on my front porch in the middle of the night like my own personal watchdog?
Maybe he liked that kiss as much as I did.
“Thank you for offering, but Trace won’t come back tonight. He’ll need to go lick his wounds in some woman’s bed for a night or two before he works up the nerve to show his face to me again.”
I sighed, suddenly bone-tired. “Believe me, I’ve seen it a million times. It’s just too bad I didn’t bring my pocketbook with me today, because I’ve got a little present for him in it that will definitely keep him away longer.”
Jackson leaned against the doorjamb and looked down at me. “A present?”
“Pepper spray.”
A shade of tension eased from Jackson’s body. He even managed a small smile. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
I rubbed my temples. I had a nasty headache coming on. “I don’t know about a bad side, but I do know that a man has to choose me or lose me. I’m not a backup plan.”
Jackson was silent. When I glanced at him, he was giving me that burning look again, the one that made me feel like I might ignite.
He murmured, “He’s an idiot. But he’s a lucky idiot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because for a while, he had you.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. Flustered by the unexpected compliment, I changed the subject. “Can I ask a personal question?”
Without hesitating, he said, “Yes.”
I gestured to his arm. “Why do you have a semicolon tattooed on your wrist? I noticed it when we were in the kitchen.”
Jackson turned his left hand up and gazed down at the simple black tattoo on the inside of his wrist. He was silent for a long time, then looked up and met my eyes.
He said, “You’re an avid reader. You know the meaning of a semicolon.”
I frowned. “It’s when the author could have ended a sentence but chose not to.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jackson looked deep into my eyes. His smile might have been the saddest thing I’d ever seen. He said softly, “I’m the author, and the sentence is my life.”
Oh my God.
My heart fell at my feet. I whispered, “Jackson . . .”
He pushed away from the doorframe, dragged a hand through his hair, then looked at his car. “It’s been a long day. I’ll let you get some rest.”
He seemed distant now. Depressed, too, like my question had brought back all kinds of bad memories and now he couldn’t wait to get away from me, and them.
Feeling like a fool and not knowing how to erase this new awkwardness, I said, “Thank you for the Heritage Thirty Year. That was a treat.”
The sad little smile still hovered around the corners of Jackson’s lips. I didn’t know what he was thinking, and he didn’t enlighten me. All he did was tip his head and turn to leave.
When he got to the curb I called out, “Jackson?”
He turned to look at me.
I said, “I’m sorry about the kiss.”
He stared at me with a look of such longing and loneliness it took my breath away. He said, “I’m not. It’s going to get me through the next four years.”
Then he got in his Porsche and drove away, leaving me standing in my open front door wondering why he’d put an emphasis on the word next.
And what had made him get that semicolon tattoo.
And why I suddenly wanted to know everything about him.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I didn’t toss and turn, either. I just lay on my back in the dark staring up at my bedroom ceiling, my mind a merry-go-round that wouldn’t stop spinning.
Who was the real Jackson Boudreaux? The Beast that snarled and snapped? The suave sophisticate at ease in front of crowds? Or the sad, lonely man with a mysterious tattoo and eyes full of bad memories?
He was a puzzle. A puzzle I ached to figure out, but the charity benefit was over. And with all that had happened last night, I doubted Jackson had any desire to see me again.
I wanted to kick myself for using him to try to make Trace jealous. It was a selfish, childish thing to do. Though it seemed we’d both enjoyed that kiss, if the tables were turned and I’d been the one being used for revenge, I wouldn’t have been happy about it.
Whatever Jackson’s opinion of me had been before, after last night it must be lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.
In the morning, I stopped by Mama’s as usual. I found her in bed, drenched in sweat, miserable with nausea.
Her pillow was covered in hair, which had started to fall out of her head in clumps.
“How did the event go, chère?” she whispered, wincing when I turned on the bedroom light.
Fighting back tears at how bad she looked, I sat on the bed next to her and held her hand. It felt clammy and frail. “It went fine, Mama. Great, in fact. Everyone loved the food.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “Of course they did. You’re the best cook in Louisiana.”
“Next to you.”
Her smile was faint. “And how did you get along with the infamous Mr. Boudreaux? Was he as ornery as usual?”
I thought about how to answer that, about how Rayford had said of Jackson If you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one. And something my father had once told me that had stuck with me for years. Fate is just the sum of all our bad decisions. And something Jackson himself had told me.
That was before I became such a disappointment.
I said, “I think sometimes it’s easier for a man to be the worst version of himself than to let the world keep breaking his heart.”
Mama cracked open an eye. “You been hittin’ the sauce this morning, baby?”
I sighed deeply, fighting exhaustion. “I wish. A nice little soul-numbing habit would go a long way on a day like this. But never mind me, what can I get you to eat?”
At the mention of food, her complexion turned faintly green. “Lord, please don’t talk to me about food.”
“You have to eat something, Mama,” I insisted. “You need your strength. How about some applesauce or white rice? A bit of boiled chicken?”
Mama weakly waved me away. “Nothing. I couldn’t keep it down, baby. Just let me sleep for a bit, I’ll feel better later.”
But I knew she wouldn’t. I knew this was going to be one of the bad days, the days when she’d never even make it out of bed.
I put a fresh pillow under her head, kissed her cheek, and turned off the light on my way out of the room. I knew I couldn’t leave her alone all day. I’d have to come back before first seating at the restaurant to check on her. Her doctor had mentioned the possibility of having a home health-care nurse stop by a few times a week during the day to help out, and that was looking like a good idea.
I’d thought I could take care of everything myself—running the restaurant and whatever Mama needed in terms of support and daily care—but I was beginning to have my doubts.
The second round of chemo started in a few days. If it was anywhere near as bad as the first, I was going to need an army of help.
I boiled a chicken breast and some plain white rice and left it in the fridge with a note in case she felt a little better later. When I was about to leave, an envelope on the kitchen table caught my eye.
It was from the hospital. It hadn’t been opened.
I slid my finger under the glued flap, removed the folded piece of paper, and all the blood drained from my face.
INVOICE. Big, blocky letters screamed from the upper right-hand corner.
When I read the amount due at the bottom, I sank into the kitchen chair.
Then I had myself a good, long cry.