BIANCA
I chose a corner bedroom that had windows on two walls and a built-in bookcase on a third that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The room was about the same size as my entire house.
“If you need to change the temperature, close the drapes, or turn the lights on and off, everything is operated from this screen.” Jackson made spokesmodel hands at a square touch screen on the wall by the door. “And if you’re not near the door, you can just speak your command aloud and Alexa will execute it.”
“Who’s Alexa?” I asked, worried someone was about to burst out from under the bed.
He pointed to a small black cylinder lurking on the bedside table. “It’s a voice assistant. It can also read your audiobooks, check the weather, and let you buy things online just by using your voice. The whole house is wired.”
Rayford wasn’t kidding about Jackson’s technology obsession. I looked at the black cylinder with trepidation. “Will it watch me sleep?”
Jackson chuckled. “No. But there is a video option on the touch pad so you can FaceTime with anyone in any room in the house.”
When I looked alarmed, he chuckled again. “You have to accept the incoming call before the video feed activates. No spying.”
I smiled and said, “Of course not,” but the first thing I was going to do was tack up a piece of black cloth over that contraption. And Alexa was getting unplugged.
Jackson looked around the room. It was large and beautifully furnished, done in shades of cream and celadon with an elaborate four-poster bed that would have looked at home in Buckingham Palace. He frowned at the bed.
“We can change out any of this stuff you don’t like,” he began, but stopped when I laughed.
“What?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I said. “This makes the bedroom at my house look like a homeless shelter. I love it.”
I’d never spent time or money decorating my house because I had so little of either. I was always working, at Mama’s, or asleep. In comparison, this was the Taj Mahal.
Maybe living here for a few years wasn’t going to be all bad.
“Good,” said Jackson, obviously pleased but acting businesslike and nonchalant. I tried not to notice how adorable that was.
“I do have a lot of books, though,” I warned, looking pointedly at the bookshelves, which were only half-full.
“Bring them. I want you to be comfortable here. Bring anything that makes you feel at home.”
He smiled at me. A flutter started deep in my stomach. I looked away. “So. What’s next?”
He moved across the room, headed for the soaring windows, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. Gazing out into the bright morning sky, he said, “Packing. Moving in. Kentucky.” He turned his head and looked at me, his face now serious. “We fly out tomorrow.”
The flutter in my stomach turned into a sick feeling, like I was being marched to the gallows. “Oh. But I don’t have a ticket yet—”
“My father’s sending his private jet.”
His private jet. Of course. I blew out a nervous little breath, trying to quell the hysterical laugh lurking behind my teeth. “I see. What time are we leaving?”
“Five o’clock.”
Exactly when I would normally be getting ready for the first guests to arrive at the restaurant. My heart did a dying-fish flop under my sternum. “When will we get back?”
“Sunday night.”
“Okay,” I squeaked, praying to God that Eeny and Pepper could manage for three days without me.
Jackson said, “I’ve hired a home health-care firm for your mother. They’re going to send someone to her house tomorrow to help out while you’re gone for the weekend. If you like the girl, you can keep her on indefinitely, but you can also interview other candidates next week . . .”
He stopped when he saw my expression. “Was that wrong?”
I sank into the nearest chair, overwhelmed. “No. That’s wonderful. Thank you. I asked Eeny if she could check in on Mama while I was gone, but this is . . . better.” I cleared my throat, determined to get a grip on myself. Today was turning out to be a strangely emotional one for me.
Jackson said quietly, “Would you like a moment to yourself?”
I passed a hand over my face. Then I looked up at him and forced a smile. “No. I’ve brought the contract. I suppose we should sign it now. And a bourbon wouldn’t go unappreciated.”
Jackson looked concerned. “It’s not even noon.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere. And you know how I love your family’s bourbon.”
Jackson crossed to me and held out his hand. “Since you’re marrying into the family,” he murmured, gazing down at me with burning eyes, “bourbon it is.”
We signed our marriage contract over snifters of Boudreaux Black Label at the formal dining room table. Rayford witnessed and then beat a hasty retreat. Then we put aside the fountain pens and raised our glasses in a toast.
“To five years of wedded bliss,” said Jackson solemnly.
“To not killing each other in our sleep,” I said, and guzzled the bourbon.
When I finished, Jackson was staring at me with a cocked eyebrow and a sour twist to his lips. “You’re a true romantic, you know that?”
“To the marrow of my bones. What kind of clothes should I bring for this weekend?”
Jackson smirked. “Ones that cover your lady bits?”
“Ha. I need to know if I’m expected to go horseback riding or ballroom dancing or whatever it is rich people do on weekends.”
His brow crept up another inch. “I see. And you have jodhpurs and ball gowns in your wardrobe?”
I said airily, “Oh, tons. Doesn’t every girl?”
I was amusing him. He pressed the smile from his lips and swallowed his bourbon. “Naturally. But don’t worry about what clothes to bring. I’m taking care of it. Just pack a small bag with your toiletries and underwear.”
I stared at him with a furrow forming between my brows. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds vaguely worrisome.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, swirled his bourbon around in his glass, and leveled me with a smoldering stare that probably ignited the silk flower arrangement on the credenza behind me. He drawled, “Don’t trust me, hmm?”
This felt like dangerous territory. But the contract was already signed, so of course I jumped right in.
“Well, you do have a reputation.” I matched his droll tone and leaned back in my chair as he had. I crossed my legs so our positions were mirrored. I wanted to swirl my bourbon, too, but I’d look ridiculous swirling an empty glass, so I left it on the table.
He stared at me for a long time, studying my face, his expression growing darker by the moment. “Yes,” he said softly. “I certainly do.”
I grew uncomfortable under the dark intensity of his gaze. “Why do I get the impression I just stuck my foot in my mouth?”
He inhaled, restlessly tapped his finger on the side of the snifter, then smiled. It looked like an animal baring its teeth. He said, “If you think my reputation is bad here, Bianca, wait until we get to Kentucky. Then maybe you’ll understand why I never wanted to go back.”
He stood abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, went to the doorway, and hollered down the hall for Rayford. When he appeared, Jackson growled, “Take Bianca home. I have some things I need to take care of.”
He stalked off and disappeared without saying good-bye.
Rayford and I looked at each other. I said, “Just give it to me straight. It’s schizophrenia, isn’t it? I’ve agreed to marry a schizophrenic.”
“At least you won’t be bored,” answered Rayford with a shrug. “Crazy people are awful fun.”
Awful being the operative word, I thought, reaching for the decanter of bourbon Jackson had left in the middle of the table.
I went to the restaurant and worked that night, though I remembered little of it afterward. I came home to cardboard boxes huddled on my back porch like burglars waiting to break in. With the boxes was a note.
Bring what you need, the rest goes into storage. Moving van coming at two p.m. tomorrow. Be ready to leave right after.
It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. I’d recognize that bossy tone anywhere, even on a piece of paper.
The amount of time it took me to pack my few belongings was pathetic. My books took up the most room by far. They were the only thing I collected. No porcelain figurines or needlepoint pillows for me. When I was finished packing I stood in the middle of my living room and looked around.
The squishy brown sofa I bought six years ago from Goodwill. The mirror with the crack in the upper right corner I found next to a dumpster in the alley behind the restaurant. The pair of mismatched guest chairs and the coffee table covered in mysterious stains had been left behind by the previous tenant. Except for pictures of my parents, my clothes, and my books, there was very little of me in this small house.
Which made my melancholy even more stark.
I’d been happy here.
With these simple, worn things and my books to keep me company, I’d enjoyed a good life. I’d wanted for nothing, except maybe someone to love. But tomorrow I’d move into an echoing mansion with a strange, lonely man who scowled more than he smiled, then fly to meet his spectacularly wealthy parents who had the power to undo this bargain we’d made with a flick of one of their pampered wrists.
By some miracle, I slept like the dead. I woke at the crack of dawn with the sense that a guillotine blade was poised over my outstretched neck. I showered and dressed, careful to tame my hair and apply makeup, ate a light breakfast, washed the plate and utensils and put them away. Then I made one last, slow trip around the house, poking through drawers and closets, thankful I’d long ago tossed all the sex toys Trace had bought me so I wouldn’t have to put them out with the trash.
The movers came. It took four men less than an hour to clear everything out.
At three o’clock, the sleek black sedan with the obnoxious hood ornament pulled up in front of the curb. Rayford got out, smiling his carefree smile. “Miss Bianca,” he said, loping up my front steps. He picked up my small suitcase. “You ready to visit Kentucky?”
I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “Ready as I’ll ever be!”
He sent me a sympathetic look, opened the back door for me and helped me get settled, then went to the trunk to put my bag in.
Jackson was sitting on the seat beside me, wearing jeans and his old, scabby leather jacket, the one he’d been wearing the night we met. His greeting was curt. “We have to stop by my attorney’s office on the way to the airport.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
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.