I’m just about to hit send on an email to a graphic designer when Jackson lets himself into the guesthouse.

“You’re late, Skippy,” I tell him, but there’s no heat behind it. It’s been a few days since my disastrous date with Brandon, days where I threw myself into both of my jobs and scoured apartment listings in Boston. Eyes on the prize, I kept reminding myself every time I topped off my coffee cup with a fresh jolt of caffeine. Eyes on the prize, I said as I contacted landlords in a few buildings.

Jackson sets his bag down on the table. “I got caught up outside.” When he doesn’t automatically sit down next to me, I look up at him. Jackson’s wearing low-riding jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt that hints at the muscles just underneath, but what catch my eye are his shoulders, drawn up with tension. His mouth is a flat line.

“You okay there, champ?” I tease. “The lube life wearing you down? Or is it the bar life?”

“Actually, that was Mrs. Keaton outside. She had some interesting things to say.”

“I’m sure she did.” I feign nonchalance on the off chance she decided to blab about the great Papa Gino’s pepperoni scandal instead of my date. Maybe, maybe this can all blow away.

I turn back to my computer and hit send. Hopefully this designer will help make Penchant a logo and a label for our bottle. I’m going for an upscale look—minimal and classy. Every bottle I’ve come across in my research has packaging that makes me feel like I’m in seventies porn. Bow chicka wow wow. A sleek, sophisticated bottle will definitely set us apart.

“So was she right that you were out with some guy this weekend?”

I cringe, my jaw clamping so tight my temples pound. I wouldn’t have put it past Mrs. Loose Lips Keaton to tell Jackson something that was none of his business, but I can’t believe Jackson is calling me out on it, too.

I glare over my shoulder at him. “We’re listening to Mrs. Keaton now, are we?” I should have never gone on that date to begin with. I should have known that every little thing I did would get scrutinized and broadcast to the masses.

“Did you?”

“I had dinner with a member of the male species, yes.”

A muscle in Jackson’s jaw ticks. “Was it your ex?”

I laugh at the idea. I can’t imagine Matthew in Swan’s Hollow, or anywhere outside of the order of his routine in Boston, really. “No, Jackson, not with Matthew.” I feel my forehead crease. “What else was Mrs. Keaton saying about me? That I was wearing an indecently short dress?”

His jaw ticks again. “Were you wearing an indecently short dress?”

“That’s not the point!”

“But you were on a date.”

Enough with the grilling. Jackson doesn’t need to know it sucked. I waggle my eyebrows at him. “Delilah Overbrook was.”

Jackson’s shoulders stiffen and his hands curl into loose fists. His green eyes narrow, glints of light flashing at me from their depths. So much for Jackson’s easygoing reputation. “You can’t do that.”

Heat rises to my skin. “Excuse me?” I stand up and face Jackson. How did this conversation go so sideways? “I can’t go on a date? Since when are you so big-brother protective?”

“I’m not being protective.” His growl scrapes across my ears like the revving of an engine. “You can’t pretend to be Delilah Overbrook. It could be bad press.”

I snort. “Bad press for a business that doesn’t exist yet?” Anger flares inside my chest and I feel my shoulders tense. “That’s a bullshit answer, Jackson. And you don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t date.” Jackson doesn’t get a say in my personal life. Not since he stopped being part of it. Not since he showed me so clearly that he and I were never going to be a thing.

I spin, my hair whipping out behind me, and stomp toward the coffee pot on my counter. I’m too furious to even drink anything but I need a way to make space between us. Sure it’s been nice working with Jackson and having someone to laugh with, but he definitely, definitely doesn’t get to yell at me about this.

I only make it three steps before Jackson catches my wrist and turns me around. “Why did you even go?”

Is he serious right now? I glare at him. “I don’t know, because I’m a human who has feelings?”

“You say that like I don’t.” I ignore his wounded face. I don’t know what makes me more angry—that I’m defending my date when it was miserable, or that he’s asking like it’s his business.

I yank a hand through my hair. “What do you want me to say, Jackson? That I tried to do something nice for myself and instead of having fun the guy was only interested in me because he thought selling lube meant I was a slut? You want me to say every part of that night was shitty?”

The sound of my own breath is so loud in my ears that I almost miss his quiet confession.

“Yes,” he says, sure and calm.

It takes me a second, all the anger fizzling out of me. “Wait—what?”

“You should have been with me.”

My heart pounds against my ribs at the sight of his green eyes, possessive and sparking with desire. My breath catches in my throat and every nerve in my body prickles with attention. Jackson’s not mad—he’s jealous. Oh god, he’s jealous. And before I have another second to think, he crushes his lips against mine.