Should I be worried? Because I think I’m half in love with Jackson.

I think I should be, but can’t work up the energy.

The day had been the absolute best and I’m a kind of lazy, happy, boneless tired I haven’t been in a million years. The kind that only comes from living fully in the present and soaking it all in. We’re back at the bar, and I’m sitting on the stool in the empty kitchen, drinking red wine and watching Jackson roll out handmade pasta. The muscles in his arms flex under the huge rolling pin and I’m fascinated with his every movement.

I could watch him for hours and never get tired.

This day has given me hope because I know his secret now. He cares. He misses it.

We’d spent the rest of the afternoon throwing ourselves off the bluff, and taking a nap on the blanket in the hot Louisiana sun before packing up and heading over to a market. We walked through the rows of vendors many of whom knew Jackson, telling me that while he might not be cooking for a five star restaurant, food is important to him. While it gave me hope, I made no mention of my restaurant plans or my goal to obtain him for my very own.

He has to know what he’s revealed to me, it’s not an accident, but it’s not the time to push. Pushing will make him retreat, and I want to build his trust. I want him to know his secrets are safe with me and that I’ll hold them close and treat them as the gift they are.

Because what he’s sharing with me is rare.

So instead of business, I give myself the day to enjoy the sheer pleasure of being with him.

And it is a pleasure.

I’d had more fun picking out ingredients with him than I’d had in forever. We’d debated cheeses, oils, vinegars, cuts of meat. The list went on and on, and it was fantastic.

Out there on that bluff, when he said we are equals, he was right. In more ways than one, and my blood sings every time I go toe to toe with him without fear.

After much arguing we decided to trade off courses. I’d made the appetizer course, Blue Crab Beignets in honor of his heritage, and he showed all the proper enthusiasm. I cook for a living, I designed every item on my menu, but there’s something different about cooking for a man. Cooking for Jackson.

Now we were in the pasta course that he claimed for his own, not letting me help.

So here I sit, watching him, drinking my wine and lusting after him.

He’d bought lobster and by the way he rolled out the dough I’m guessing he’s making me something stuffed and delicious. It’s hard to decide what I want more, his food or his mouth. After the incident on the beach where he’d brought me to the near edge of orgasm, we haven’t touched much. Not trusting ourselves to keep it in check, and tension shimmers hot and intoxicating between us.

I nibble on my bottom lip and dare to ask the question I already know the answer to, but has nagged at me for most of the afternoon. “Do you miss it?”

He raises his head and his whiskey eyes meet mine. A shadow passes over his features and I watch as the internal struggle plays over his expression. I’ve only known him for a couple of days but I understand this about him: Jackson is hiding something, what I’m not sure, but something. Whatever it is keeps him from pursuing his passion for cooking. I also know he doesn’t let anyone in, but that I’m pushing at his boundaries. I’m getting to him as much as he’s getting to me. The question is, will he let me in? Will he admit to me what’s plain as day?

I wait, not rushing to fill the silence.

His hands are still on the rolling pin, his shoulders bunched tight. Finally he relaxes. “Yeah, I do.”

I didn’t expect the admission and it makes me happy. I dare another question. “Do you want to tell me why you left?”

“No.” He goes back to rolling.

Apparently that’s as much as I’m going to get today and I’m smart enough to let it go. “I read an article that said your food was the best thing the writer had ever put in her mouth.” I cock a grin at him. “So I guess she didn’t sleep with you, huh?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, she did, but she wrote the article first.”

I crumple up a napkin and throw it at his head. “I can’t believe I’m attracted to such a manwhore.”

“And I can’t believe I’m attracted to a woman who’s made it her personal quest to stalk me.”

“Better a stalker than a manwhore.”

He’s apparently satisfied with the thickness of his dough, which is meticulously even in a way only a perfectionist could achieve. He picks up the pizza cutter. “I’m always honest. I tell anyone I sleep with upfront that they have no future with me and give them the opportunity to walk away.”

I’m sure he does, he’s the kind of man that manages all attachments and would rather go without sex than risk entanglement. Sex with him is going to be a risk, I’m almost certain I’m going to get hurt, and I decide I don’t care. I’ve never been risk adverse and I’m not about to start now. Besides the chemistry I feel with him comes along once in a lifetime, I’m not going to waste it by playing it safe.

I’ll deal with the consequences later.

But that still doesn’t mean I’ll let him off the hook. I cup my goblet. “Do you think that makes it okay?”

He looks up from his work. “Don’t know if I ever thought much about it.”

My hair is down, wavy from the water and sun, and I run my fingers through it. “You have to know they think they’ll be the exception.”

He shrugs. “That’s not my problem. I tell them the truth it’s not my fault if they don’t believe it.”

I meet his gaze, direct and steady. “Jackson.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to be your exception.” This is a bold statement and I don’t care. I don’t believe I’m going to change him, or that we’ll end up with some fairytale romance like Jillian and Leo.

It will end. It’s the only thing I’m certain of.

Whatever his ties to this place, they are strong, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to sway him, but I’m still going to give it my all.

I never quit until it’s the only option left.

And while I’m pretty sure what the end result will be, I will leave my mark on him.

He narrows his eyes. “Said with the faith of a woman that’s never failed at anything in her life.”

To this I take offense and I straighten on the stool. “Hey, I’ve failed.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

I wrinkle my nose. I don’t like to think about my failures, but they are still there, still part of my path. Just like anyone who’s ever been successful in life. “When I was just out of culinary school I went to work at a trendy new restaurant as a sous chef in San Francisco. I thought I was hot shit, and like any kid right out of school I thought I had all the answers. I moved all my stuff out there and got fired in two weeks for telling the head chef he didn’t know how to properly make a soufflé.”

He chuckles. “Not your smartest move.”

“No, really?” I smile fondly at my younger, more arrogant self. “Enter job number two, this time a little less prestigious. I lasted a month there before I made the head chef what I thought was an excellent and creative dish and he refused to put it on the menu. I objected. He fired me.”

Jackson shakes his head, rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and starts his methodical cuts.

“I decided San Francisco wasn’t for me and took a job in LA, once again packing up and moving and taking a job at an Italian restaurant down there under a chef named Alessandro. He was an older guy and he said I reminded him of his granddaughter so he had a bit more patience. There he taught me everything I know about running a kitchen. He taught me to pay my dues. To stop being an entitled North Shore princess. Taught me that the world wasn’t like my daddy who’d given me everything I wanted in life, and that talent only takes you so far. That the culinary world is small, and success is about the relationships you build as much as your food. This time, I got smart; I put my head down, learned my lessons and soaked up every piece of knowledge he imparted on me. I loved him and he loved me. I spent two years under him until he died of a heart attack. I was devastated.” I pause, thinking about the man that was my mentor and missing him like I always did. “After, I decided two things: I missed home and I wanted to be my own boss.”

Jackson has cut the dough into squares and grabs a bowl filled with a mixture of lobster and something creamy and delicious. “Is that when you started your restaurant?”

I shake my head. “My dad is pretty wealthy, he’s a partner in a law firm, and he said he’d give me the money to start my own place but I didn’t want that. I wanted to do it all on my own, so I took every cent I had saved and started a food truck. It was the start of that craze and it seemed the thing to do.”

He grins. “A food truck, huh?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Serving gourmet tacos.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it wasn’t my love and it did okay at first, not great, but okay until winter hit. Tacos and the Chicago winter don’t really mix and it died a sudden death before I gave up and sold the truck. I was disillusioned, restless and not sure what I wanted or what path I should take. So instead of jumping right into something I moved back in with my parents and did some soul searching, figuring out what made me happy. I went to every restaurant in Chicago, planned, schemed, made contacts and experimented with dishes while my mom complained she’d gained ten pounds from my cooking. I found the place I wanted, in the perfect location, and this time I took my dad’s money as a loan. That’s how I opened my place. I paid him back in two years. Giving him that last check was one of the best days of my life.” I hold up my hands. “So see, I failed plenty. I wasn’t a genius right out the gate like you were.”

He meets my gaze and nods. “I stand corrected.”

The air hangs suspended between us, becoming hot and tangled before he returns to his work. He starts to put small scoops of his concoction into the center of the dough. “You’re an impressive woman.”

“Thank you.” I pick up a napkin and fiddle with it. “By the way, how old are you? I don’t know.”

“Thirty-three. You?”

“Thirty-one.” I clear my throat. “So how did you grow up?”

His spoon stalls midair and his shoulders bunch. “We have an old family plantation with a lot of land.”

“A plantation? Really?” I’m having a hard time picturing it.

“Yeah. It came down from my mom’s family.” A muscle in his jaw clenches. “Now, Wyatt uses the land as a distillery and Cat helps run the business.”

“Your brother and sister?”

He nods.

“Are you close?” The tension rolling off him sends tingles along the back of my neck but it doesn’t stop me from asking the question.

“Yeah.” He continues with his filling. “What about you?”

Talking about his family is clearly something he’s not wanting to go into detail about, and I let him divert the subject back to me. I smile. “I have two younger sisters.”

“Are they as pretty as you?”

“I think so, but they don’t.” I shrug. “They’re blue-eyed blondes. I take after my dad’s side of the family and they take after my mom’s.” I pick up my phone. “Want to see a picture?”

He blinks, like this is the oddest thing he’s ever heard, but he nods.

I swipe through my pics until I come to the most recent one of the three of us. I’m standing in the middle, and they are my little bookends. All three of us are smiling and pretty, the Chicago wind whipping our hair like a shampoo commercial. It was taken on a yacht tour my dad hosts every year for his best clients. I hand it to him.

He wipes his palm on the towel resting next to him and takes my phone to study the picture. He shakes his head. “I feel bad for your dad.”

I laugh. “I know, right? Everyone says that.”

“Not a bad gene in your family, huh?”

“There’s no response I can give you that won’t make me sound incredibly vain.”

He glances up at me. “I like that you don’t pretend you’re not drop-you-to-your-knees gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” I push my hair back. “My mom, who’s quite a looker herself, always taught us that personality is what matters and I don’t feel right complaining about something just because I’m supposed to. Besides, it’s not like I can take much credit for it, because, you know, genetics.”

He grins at me. “Your sisters are stunners, but I have to side with them, and agree you’re the prettiest.”

I roll my eyes. “Because you want to sleep with me.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

My phone beeps and I hold my breath, knowing the message preview has flashed across the top of my screen. I hope it’s from my mom or my grandma.

When his brows rise up his forehead I know that’s not the case. He tilts his head to the side. “Someone named Jillian asked if you’ve fucked me yet.”

A flush crawls up my neck and I bury my face in my hands and let out a scream. “I’m going to kill her!”

He chuckles and starts typing, reading his message aloud, “This is Jackson. Not yet, but her answer will be different tomorrow morning so check back for further details.”

I screech, trying to snatch the phone from him but he holds it away from me and pushes send.

I can only stare in horror when the phone rings fifteen seconds later and he answers in that slow, Southern drawl. “This is Jackson.”

Gwen is giving me death glares and making slashing motions across her neck while yelling, “Give me my phone!”

Her friend, Jillian, laughs, rich and feminine, over the phone before she clucks. “Oh my, someone is not happy.”

Gwen lunges for me.

I catch her around the waist, holding her back against my front in a vicelike grip. “Nope.”

Gwen screams. “I’m going to kill you, Jillian Santoro.”

“I’m in trouble, so you’d better make this worth my while.” Jillian’s voice is pretty with a Chicago twang to it.

“I’ll do my best.” I chuckle.

“Hang up right this instant, Jillian, or our friendship is over!” Gwen demands, struggling against me.

I hold her still. Her ass pressing against my cock makes me hard.

“So what are your intentions for my best friend in the whole world?” Jillian asks, obviously ignoring her friend’s outrage.

“Don’t answer her.” Gwen digs her nails into my skin.

I grip her tighter. Christ, she is fun. “I believe I stated my intentions in my text message.”

“She’s going to give me all the details,” Jillian says, her tone amused.

“I figured.” I’m fine with details because I’m going to rock Gwen’s world.

Gwen tries to break free to stop her, I lean down and kiss her neck, open mouthed, my tongue sliding over her skin. She sucks in her breath.

Jillian says, “I feel duty bound to warn you my husband is a homicide detective and carries a gun.”

“I will consider myself warned.” I swipe my thumb on the underside of Gwen’s breasts. “I’ll treat her real nice.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” I cup Gwen’s breast and stroke across her nipple, remembering the feel of it in my hands earlier today.

Jillian pauses and when she speaks her voice has lost its amusement. “Please be careful with her.”

My chest gives a hard thump. Is this a promise I can keep? Because it’s been forty-eight hours and Gwen’s already scaring the hell out of me. It won’t be long until the panic wins out and I have to cut this off. But until then, I’ll try. “I’ll do my best.”

“Fair enough,” Jillian says. “Can I talk to her?”

I hand the phone to Gwen. “She wants to talk to you.”

She snatches the cell out of my hand. “I am going to get you back for this.”

Through the line Jillian laughs. “I couldn’t resist.”

My hands free, I roam over Gwen’s stomach, up her ribs. She presses against me, putting her head on my shoulder. I circle her nipples and return to her neck, unable to resist the offering. My lips skim her soft skin, tongue flicking over her rapid pulse. I press into it, sucking a little at the fluttering flesh.

Through the phone I hear Jillian say, “Girl, with that voice you are in trouble.”

I smile against her skin and snake under her top. I’ve been resisting her all day, but the second she’s in my arms I can’t help myself. I want her so fucking bad I’m nearly mad with it.

Gwen reaches up and tangles her fingers in my hair, closing her eyes and arching up. “I know. He’s the worst.”

I untie her bikini top and her breasts fill my hands. I pinch her nipples until she lets out a soft moan.

“Is he distracting you?” Jillian asks.

I tug, pulling the hard buds until she arches and gasps out. “Yes.”

“Should I let you go?”

I raise my head and say into the phone. “You should let her go.”

Another chuckle. “Okay then, I’ll call tomorrow.”

I squeeze and all Gwen does is moan into the phone before dropping it to the counter.

I release her and she turns in my arms.

Our mouths come together, hot, demanding.

It’s like an explosion.

I slant my head, gripping her hair, fisting it in my hand to hold her steady for my onslaught.

Her arms come around my waist and she pulls me close, practically climbing up my body in an effort to get closer.

Our kiss turns vicious. Brutal. Our breathing a rapid, harsh pant as we fight our way closer. Closer. And it’s still not fucking close enough.

All I want is to get inside her. I had a plan, feed her dinner, take her to her motel room and pound into her, but I’m not going to make it.

For the first time my need overwhelms my self-control.

And we’re alone. Nobody is going to stop us.

I rip my mouth away.

She protests.

I yank her top up, pushing aside her bikini top, and cover her nipple with my lips, sucking the puckered flesh until her fingers dig into my scalp. I use every trick in my considerable book, licking and biting and sucking until she’s moaning and rocking against my thigh. I push her hips down and grind her pussy ruthlessly along my leg.

She cries out, “Please stop.”

“No.” I move to the other breast to deliver the same treatment.

“I’m going to come.” She whimpers and rides my thigh.

“Christ.” I pull away and claim her mouth, snaking my fingers down her shorts and into her bikini bottoms. She’s so slick. I nip at her bottom lip and circle her clit. “So wet.”

“Yes.”

I pull away, take her hand and start pulling her toward the office.

“Where are we going?” she asks in her breathless, husky voice.

“Couch.” The word is clipped.

She squeezes my hand and lets me drag her down the hall until we reach the office. I open the door, push her inside, and click the lock, just in case someone decides to pay the bar a visit. She turns and looks at me, and I swear to god she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. All tan legs, and hair, long and thick. She’s still wearing her shorts and top from this afternoon, still has on her bathing suit.

She takes a step back.

I advance. “The pasta is going to be dry now.”

“I don’t care.” Her calves hit the sofa.

My gaze travels the entire length of her. “I can’t decide what to do first. Should I fuck you or lick your cunt?”

Her expression flashes and she gasps.

I come to stand right in front of her and I slide my fingers through her hair. “We’ll have to do slow and civil later.”

She licks her lips. “I don’t want civil.”

My gaze dips to her mouth. “That was probably a pipe dream anyway.”

She presses close. “What are you waiting for?”

What am I waiting for?

I realize I’m afraid.

I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want Gwen and in forty-eight hours I’m already questioning how to let her go. And I don’t think that way.

I lean down and brush my mouth over hers. “You’re already the exception.”

She curls her arms around my waist and presses her lips to my neck, sending a shock wave through my system. “You’re mine too.”

I skim a path up her shoulder. “Once I start I’m not going to be able to stop. I’m going to fuck you and it’s going to be rough, hot, and out of control.”

“Do your worst.” Her voice is tinged with lust. “I’m not going to stop you.”

I groan, meet her eyes, and something passes between us I don’t want to think about, so I claim her mouth.

The second her lips meet mine I’m lost, and I let it all go. My life, what’s waiting for me at home, all my responsibilities like an albatross around my neck.

I push it all away and kiss Gwen like she’s my fucking salvation.