Forgiving Jackson (29 page)

Then, the front door opened and a moment later she heard barely audible footsteps moving across the floor. She turned and watched through one partially open eye as he crept into the bedroom, his shoes in his hand.

She ought to send him away but she wouldn’t. It was too late for that head start now. He was unbuttoning his shirt and she was already gone.

She sat up and yawned. “Hi.”

He unzipped his jeans and sat on the side of the bed to remove them. “Sorry for waking you. I texted because I didn’t want to frighten you. When you didn’t answer I was walking back to the big house but I decided if you could sleep through two text messages, I could come to bed without waking you. I guess that’s not true.”

“It’s fine.”

He came under the covers with a weary little moan and pulled her into his arms.

“Remind me never to go off with Gabe again without the means to get myself home under my own power. I thought about getting a taxi but that’s one of those things that would have made everybody uncomfortable.”

He hadn’t wanted to be there! He had wanted to be here. Elated, she brought her mouth to his and they tasted each other a good long time. There was more sweetness there than passion and that was a nice.

“You taste like bourbon,” she said when they parted.

“That’s because I’ve been drinking bourbon. Turns out Tasha’s pregnant and wasn’t drinking. She told me to go ahead, that she’d drive back. Don’t think I didn’t need it.” He settled her head on his chest and stroked her hair.

“So you didn’t have a good time at all?” To her surprise, she was sorry about that. Sort of.

“I did,” he said hesitantly. “Up to a point. We ate at the Capitol Grille. Have you eaten there?”

“No.”
I don’t go to Nashville. Remember?

“Gwen would have loved it. The chef grows his own vegetables and they tell you on the menu who raised the cow.” He idly let his hand slide down until it rested on her bottom.

“That’s all the rage,” she said.

“Yeah. Maybe Billy Joe and Robin ought to do that on their lunch menu. I can see it now. ‘Macaroni and cheese. Ronco, Velveeta.’”

“What else did you do tonight?”

“Oh, hell. You just don’t know. Except for Jamal and Tasha, none of them had ever been to Nashville. So they wanted to go to the music spots. Some of those women watch
Nashville,
the TV show, so we had to start out at The Bluebird Café and then move on to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. After that, we went to every place on Honky Tonk Row—at least the nonsmoking ones. We’d probably still be there if smoke didn’t make Tasha sick. We went to a couple of new places that I didn’t even know.”

“But they knew you, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they did.”

“Did you sing?”

“Oh, yeah, on a full stomach with no guitar of my own. I was awful. And I hate running an act off the stage.”

“I’m sure you made it all right for them, just like you did at the Café Down On The Corner. And there’s nothing that’ll make me believe you were awful.”

“I tried. You know what? I think maybe Gabe brought one of those women here to hook up with me.”

“You think so?” She tried to keep her tone neutral.

“Yeah. Courtney?”

“No. Courtney is with Gabe.” And she owned up in her head to what she’d known all along—she knew exactly who was who. “Carmen is with Troy—or thinks she is. I don’t know which. So that leaves Cameron, the one with the lightest highlights.”

“Highlights? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I can hack Gabe’s Facebook page and pull some pictures of the C-Squad off and make you a dossier.”

“I don’t need it,” he said around a yawn. Then he laughed. “C-Squad. That’s funny. Tasha calls them the C-Notes. I didn’t understand. My first thought was musical notes. She meant, as in hundred-dollar bills, because they’re all looking for a meal ticket. Except for maybe the one who’s a model. Which one is that?”

Suddenly, Emory liked Tasha. “I don’t know. They all look pretty good.”

“Mmmm.” That could mean, yes, no, or that he’d lost interest.

“You’re exhausted.” Emory stroked his brow. “You should go to sleep.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

She thought he’d slipped away but then he covered her hand with his and spoke again.

“Emory, I went to see Audrey Crawford today—when I went to Nashville to look at the Broadcaster.”

“Audrey Crawford? I don’t know—”

“Right. Audrey is Trace’s wife … well, widow.”

That’s why he’d come home distracted and acting odd.

“Oh, Jackson.” She hugged him to her and noticed how tense he was. “That must have been so hard.”

“Yeah. But it was good, too. I wasn’t acting like much of a man. I needed to do it. I like myself a little better now.”

“Then I’m glad.”

“She thinks … that is, she said, that it can’t be just me at the concert. I have to call the guys.”

No, you aren’t ready. I don’t know how I know that, but that’s what my gut tells me.
You need to do this one step at a time.

“What do
you
think?” she asked.

“I think it’ll be hard to go on stage with them again, with someone else playing drums and rhythm. But it might be best for everyone. That’s what Audrey said. Either way, it’s what I
am
going to do. I wanted to tell you.”

“Jackson, you don’t have to—”

“Shh.” And he silenced her with a kiss. This time it was more passionate than sweet. “How tired are you?” he whispered.

“Not all that tired.” She’d be dead on her feet tomorrow but these times were numbered and precious. She could sleep when he was gone.

Within seconds they were naked and desperately stroking and tasting each other. This was frenzied, frantic love.

“Sorry.” Breathless and trembling, he pulled back. “I’ll slow it down.”

“No.” She stroked his penis and he groaned. “I like this speed just fine.”

“Thank the Lord!”

When he rolled onto his back and would have pulled her on top of him, she stopped him.

“No.” She moved to her back and held out her arms. “I’m still not ready for everything, but come to me like this.” He had never been in the dominant position with her but that was a step she was ready to take.

In the moonlight she saw his brow wrinkle. “Are you sure, baby?”

“Yes. I know you would never hurt me.” Not physically, anyway.

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

He tentatively and tenderly eased on top of her, so careful and so apprehensive. It was sweet, but tentativeness, tenderness, and apprehension weren’t what she wanted right now—though she loved him for it. Of course, she loved him for everything, for every reason.

She loved him? No!
She couldn’t think about that right now; she could
never
think about that! But she had to stop that sweet, worried look in his eyes and she knew how.

She lifted her hips, seeking his throbbing penis. When she couldn’t get it close enough, she reached between them, stroked it, and brought it to rest between her folds.

And that did it. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. With that, raw passion chased away any former thoughts he might have had of trepidation.

He pulsed and stroked against her, sometimes going still, while pressing hard and letting her move against him.

“So good,” he whispered against her ear. “Yes. Move like that again. Again!”

He kept her on the edge forever; never had it been this good. The edge was an incredible place to live.

When she could stand it no more, she moved her hands from where they had been stroking the nape of his neck, across his back, and down his sides, and let them rest on the places that were always his complete undoing—on his hipbones.

With that, he lifted high and hard against her and made sounds that might have been moans and might have been words of praise to heaven or curses to hell; it didn’t matter because she was falling apart, piece by piece, as a hot jet of liquid burst against her most sensitive spot, heightening the feeling and making her cry out his name again and again until the tears came.

He moved off her and brushed the tears away. She knew that by now, he had come to expect them.

“I’ll get a towel,” he said.

But she pulled him hard against her. “No. I don’t need a towel. I just need you. It’s not long until I have to get up.”
Or long until you’ll be gone for good.

The clock told her if she went to sleep right now, she’d get one hour and forty-two minutes of sleep.

And she did.

Jackson made his way from the carriage house to the dining room in the family wing. It was closer to lunchtime than breakfast but breakfast was still laid out on the buffet, being kept hot with chafing dishes and warming trays. It hadn’t been touched. Small wonder, everyone was still in bed.

Jackson picked up a plate and helped himself to egg casserole, cheese grits, and fried pork tenderloin. There were five different newspapers on the side table, no doubt Emory’s doing. He leafed through them but decided if there was any news he needed to know, someone would tell him.

He’d wakened at ten o’clock and could have easily gone back to sleep if he hadn’t felt guilty. He didn’t know what time Emory had left the bed but he was pretty sure she’d been long gone for a while. What had he been thinking last night? He knew she would have to get up early but he’d barreled right into her bed and jumped on her like a horny fifteen-year-old.

He trembled at the memory. Who could have guessed that the best sex of his life wasn’t even real sex? But damn, who cared? It had been nothing short of magnificent—for both of them. And there was a reason for that. Not completing the act had made him a better lover because he’d had to reach, think, and be creative. Not that he didn’t want to complete the act. He wanted it, all right. But when that time came, he promised himself he would never lose sight of giving Emory the very best of himself for the rest of his life.

Wait.
Rest of his life?
No. He didn’t mean that; he was just exhausted. Coffee was what he needed. He set his plate on the table and filled a mug from the big coffee urn. That’s when he noticed the assorted creamers. She needed coffee worse than he did. He filled another mug, but only two-thirds full, to leave room for the cream. After sweetening it, he starting adding creamers—mocha, hazelnut, amaretto, French vanilla, Irish cream, caramel. He put a little of it all. Maybe she needed something to eat, too. He’d seen her eat English muffins so he took one of those and put some egg and bacon inside. He eyed the grits, considering. Why not? Everybody put dressing on a turkey sandwich the day after Thanksgiving. It was the same principle. He added a spoonful of grits, wrapped the whole thing in a napkin, and headed out.

He didn’t have to go far. She was standing outside the kitchen door waving goodbye as a van with
Eat Cake
painted on the side pulled away.

She smiled—and it was
that
smile, the one that promised that everything was right with the world. It was a good thing she didn’t smile like that all the time or he’d never look at anything else.

“You’re going to have to do your part to help me keep these people away from you,” she said.

“I’m Jason Jackson, cousin to Jackson Beauford, who can’t play anything but the radio.” He held out the sandwich and coffee. “I brought you some breakfast. I invented it myself. I figured you wouldn’t have time to come in and eat with me.”

“You figured right. The bridal party will be here any minute.” She opened her sandwich. “Did you put
grits
on this sandwich?”

“Going to be the next big thing. I plan on telling Billy Joe about it. It might put The Café Down On The Corner on the map.”

“I think you did that a while back.” She took a bite and looked surprised. “This is really good.”

“Think it needs anything else? Onions? Jalapeños?”

“It’s perfect like it is. And I’m starving.” She took another bite. Then she took a sip of her coffee and looked startled.

“Good, huh? I invented that, too. I mixed all the flavors.”

“It’s a masterpiece, for sure.” The walkie-talkie clipped to her dress pocket buzzed and she pressed the button on her headset. “Thanks. Yeah. I’ll come right around.”

“Duty?”

“Bride’s here.” She was walking away. “Thanks for the food and coffee.”

“Wait. Can’t a Jackson Beauford impersonator and grits-sandwich maker get a kiss?”

She laughed and she was still laughing when he pressed his lips to hers. Then he watched her disappear into the kitchen before he went back to the family wing dining room.

“Hi.” Gabe was seated at the table alone with a plate piled with enough food to feed six people.

Jackson poured a fresh cup of coffee and joined Gabe at the table. “Are you going to eat all that?” He gestured to Gabe’s mountain of food.

Gabe smirked and gestured to the window with his fork. “Are you going to kiss all the women on this plantation? Like you used to try to kiss all the girls at charm school?”

“No. I hadn’t thought to. Though you did seem to bring me a candidate without consulting me.”

“Cameron?” Gabe shoveled a piece of watermelon into his mouth. What was that? Had he gotten the gravy on the watermelon by accident or on purpose? “Whatever. I wouldn’t have brought her if I’d known you were having a thing with Emory.”

“I am not having
a thing
with Emory—whatever that is.”

“If you don’t know what it is, how do you know you’re not having it?”

“I just know. Why are you all of a sudden trying to define everything and give it a name? Are you a woman?” Jackson ate a bite of tenderloin.

“Nope. Ask Courtney. I came to your rooms last night. You weren’t there.”

“What? Gabriel, we got home at
three thirty
. What were you doing roaming the halls at that time of morning?”

“I wasn’t roaming the halls.” He split a biscuit and stuffed it with a sausage patty, a piece of county ham, and two pieces of bacon. “Roaming the halls would mean I was knocking on random doors, which I did not do. I was only looking for my brother.”