Gravel crunches under the wheel of Jackson’s car as he eases the car into park. I look out the front window and my breath catches in my throat.

“Is this okay?” Jackson covers my fingers with his warm, large hand. Out of the corner of my eye I can feel him search my face.

I haven’t seen Jackson’s home in years, and the world tilts ever so slightly as I take it in: the tree house where he crawled into my life, the neat, even row of his mother’s zinnias, the house I grew up in just next door.

“Taking me home to meet Mom?” I raise an eyebrow at Jackson. “If I didn’t know her already I might accuse you of being more serious than we discussed.” I grin so he knows I’m teasing, but part of me wonders if it isn’t true.

“So it’s a good surprise?”

I decide to trust the part of me that wants exactly this. A smile spreads across my face. “The best surprise.” This is precisely what I needed tonight. A rush of gratitude warms my chest and before I can think twice I launch myself over the emergency brake. I want him. Hell, I need him.

I land halfway in Jackson’s lap, his body hard under mine, and his heartbeat picks up under my palms. I breathe in the smell of him, shampoo and spice. Tonight he’s my Jackson, delectable and warm.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Note to self: more visits home?”

“Mhmm.”

Jackson’s eyes wink under the streetlights. “Are you going to just look at me or are you going to kiss me?”

I blush, biting my bottom lip.

“It drives me crazy when you do that.”

I giggle. “When I bite my lip?” He nods. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

“Good crazy.” He reaches for the back of my head and pulls me to him. His lips brush mine, gently at first, and heat zings straight between my legs. God, he’s good at this.

Jackson tugs my lip into his mouth, sucking until I moan in pleasure. “Very good crazy,” he amends. He deepens the kiss, tangling his tongue with mine. Shivers run up my arms and I gasp against his mouth.

Yes, please. More, thank you.

Pressure builds inside me and I rock against Jackson, hoping for relief. He grips me tighter, dragging me more solidly onto his lap. The fabric of his pants does little to hide the ridge of his desire.

That’s for me. I moan against his neck.

Suddenly the porch light flashes on, highlighting all the interesting angles of Jackson’s face. Dammit. I pull back and rest my forehead against his. Jackson’s breath sounds ragged in my ears.

I smooth my hands over the tangle of my clothes. Somehow my shirt’s twisted into my bra. “If we don’t go in we’re going to have an audience.”

Jackson groans. “Or we could stay here.”

“You brought me to see your mom, right?” A shrug. “Then we should go.”

He clears his throat and shifts me off his lap. “Can’t concentrate with you sitting right there.”

I giggle again.

Jackson reaches across the seat to tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. “You should do that more often.”

“Make out with you?”

“Well, that. And laugh. I like the sound of your laughter.”

I do, too, Jackson. I do, too.

After another beat Jackson pulls a single stem from the bouquet and hands it to me. Then he grabs the rest of the flowers and we climb out of the car.

When she opens the front door, Jackson’s mom presses a hand to her mouth. “Natalie!” She pulls me into her arms as if I’m her own daughter. It’s only when the fabric of her Ann Taylor blouse sticks damp against my cheek that I realize I’m crying.

“Welcome home, chickie.” She smiles and rubs away my tears with the edge of her sleeve.

Mrs. Wirth is absolutely my second mother—the one who snapped prom pictures of me and who always saved me the corner pieces from a tray of brownies because she knew I liked them best. Leaving Swan’s Hollow and leaving Jackson meant leaving her, too, and I never knew how much that meant until she tucks me in at her table to eat her famous spaghetti and meatballs. I sit, wedged between two Wirths again, and it feels like coming home.

Mrs. Wirth shaves fresh Parmesan onto her pasta. “I feel like I got back two thirds of my kids. I just wish Conor was here.”

I take a bite of spaghetti and it’s as amazing as I remember it—all basil and oregano and tomatoes off the vine. “What’s he doing in Europe, again?”

“Backpacking,” she answers at the same time Jackson says, “Getting a taste of the local flavor.”

His mom swats at Jackson and he winks at me.

Mrs. Wirth turns back to me. “So, I hear you two are working together.”

He’s told her about me being back, then. I glance at Jackson, trying to gauge exactly what he’s said to her, but his lips are sealed. He’s giving me free rein on this one.

“Yeah, he’s helping me flesh out some business ideas.”

Jackson smirks at my choice of words and I kick him under the table. It only makes him grin wider.

“Being a business owner’s not easy,” Jackson’s mom says wistfully. My heart cracks a little, thinking about the general store and Mr. Wirth and the debt he’d tried to keep secret. “Just keep at it and you’ll do great. I’m just glad you’re home.”

Home.

For the past few months all I’ve been able to think about has been getting back to Boston. I want to prove that Matthew’s rejection didn’t take everything away from me. That the city can come alive for me, whether or not I have anyone there to share it with. And it still feels like that. Only, when Mrs. Wirth says home, a tiny part inside of me pays attention. There’s no denying that Swan’s Hollow has all my history, that it’s the place where I began. And sure, I’ve wanted to leave this small town ever since I arrived, but I liked having an option, at least, to stay. Even though I’m headed back to Boston, Gayle kicking me out was on her terms, not mine. It makes a bigger difference than I’d thought.

After dinner, Mrs. Wirth shoos me and Jackson away from the dishes and we head to the living room to drink a cup of coffee. There, between a jade plant and a bookshelf, sits a total monstrosity of a chair. Mr. Wirth’s.

I freeze when I see the recliner. I know, logically, that when people die their stuff doesn’t just vanish into thin air. But his chair is here and he’s not and everything about that is wrong.

Mr. Wirth had ordered this thing—this hideous two thousand dollar massaging, reclining chair—and gave it pride of place in the living room. It clashed with Mrs. Wirth’s elegant wingback sofa but nothing and no one could make him move it. Because, damn it, the chair massaged you.

It was outrageous and whimsical, just like Mr. Wirth himself, and everyone ate their words when they finally sat down and realized just how good the thing actually felt. A week after the chair appeared, Conor and Jackson started a never-ending battle over who would get to sit in it during movie nights. The chair’s still a monstrosity, but there are so many good memories tied to it.

Jackson gestures at me now and I take my mug and sit in the almighty massaging chair. I settle against the cushions with a groan. “I missed this thing.”

Jackson leans down low, close to my ear. “If you wanted a massage, I would have given you one.” I sense more than see his smile. “Maybe later.” The promise in his voice makes everything in my body tighten in anticipation.

If that porch light hadn’t come on, how much further would I have let things go in Jackson’s car? Would I have let him reach a hand under my shirt, stroke his fingers between my legs? There’s no such thing as decency and decorum when it comes to Jackson Wirth.

It’s just my libido working its voodoo magic on me, I tell myself later, when I’m back in the guesthouse, warm and not nearly tired enough to sleep. Not Jackson, easing his way into my heart. Definitely not.