“Thank you. That means a lot.” And it did. My father was a man of few words, he didn’t often use them to compliment or praise.
“I see you’re finally taking yourself seriously outside of work too. Using your time wisely, building something lasting with a fine young woman. But . . .”
A short laugh erupted out of me. “There’s a but?”
“You’re a good son. You’re a good man too. But women—most women—don’t always w-want a-a man to be-to be good.”
I let him see how confused his words made me. “What does that mean? Should I. . . Are you saying Charlotte didn’t want me to fix her sink? Should I have said no?”
He seemed to struggle. Eventually, he placed his elbow on the table and his forehead fell to his hand. “Your momma and I, we should’ve had more kids.”
I flinched at that, dropping my eyes to my coffee cup and trying my best not to see his words as a reference as to how I might be lacking. This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned wanting to have more than just me and Jess, but he’d never elaborated, and I’d never asked.
A saying my momma favored—and one I’d learned well over the course of my life—was, Never ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer.
Chapter 5
*Raquel*
“If being a sex symbol means you have lots of sex, then I am glad to be a sex symbol. But in real life I’m not. That doesn’t happen.”
Diego Luna
The “carriage house,” as Sienna called it, was awesome. She’d described it as a two-bedroom cottage, but it had an enormous chef’s kitchen, a huge family room with a fireplace, and a substantial living area lined with shelves, every inch of which were stuffed with books and magazines. Set back, as it was, from the circular driveway and the main house, it was the first time I’d experienced anything resembling real privacy in ages.
The easily defensible twelve-room mansion I’d bought in Hollywood Hills felt more like a high-security dorm than a home on most days. The only place where I had any privacy was in my bedroom, and not all the time. Someone was always knocking, asking me a question, needing me for some reason.
After two lazy days on Sienna’s property spent in virtual solitude, reading books, ignoring my phone, social media, and email, taking walks in thick wildflower fields and green forests, I debated asking if she’d been serious about me staying all summer.
But if you stay longer, then you will have to return Sasha’s calls and ask her to bring more clothes.
I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t explain the depth of my aversion to the idea but inviting my personal assistant or any member of my team to visit here—even for a brief afternoon—felt wrong on a visceral level. Like an invasion. Or an infection.
I made do with the three outfits, three pairs of underwear, and one pair of pj’s I’d hastily shoved into a backpack before leaving California for Tennessee three days ago. That meant only two clothing options existed for Operation Deputy Distraction, which was what Sienna eventually nicknamed our plan to approach Jackson James. One that would hopefully end with him enthusiastically agreeing to being photographed making out with me.
Convinced he would agree to my proposition, Sienna originally proposed Operation Flaxen Action as the code name for our plan, I guess because he had blond hair?
“Or what about Operation Saxon Angler? Because you’re trying to catch him and reel him in, and Jackson rhymes with Saxon. You know he’s got to be of Saxon ancestry with his coloring.”
I made a face even as I laughed. We were sitting on her porch after a delicious dinner she’d cooked, the first meal I’d shared with anyone since the whiskey flight on Saturday. They’d stocked my fridge in the carriage house but left me alone until just this evening, sending their oldest over earlier in the afternoon with a no-pressure invitation.
“Saxon? If anything, he looks German.” I poured myself a third glass of wine, thoroughly enjoying the looseness in my limbs, the mild summer evening symphony of crickets and frogs, and the fullness of my belly. I hadn’t indulged in a real home-cooked meal in what felt like ages.
Don’t get me wrong, my chef in LA made my strict plant-based diet more delicious than it had a right to be, but there’s just something about home cooking, a meal made with love meant to nourish more than just the body. And then there’s the actual eating of the meal, gathering around a table, saying grace, asking someone to pass a dish, listening to chaotic conversation, being a part of something so simple and mundane, and yet so wholesome and authentic. Something real.
“That’s what I said. Anglo-Saxons are descended from three different Germanic tribes—the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.” Sienna took the bottle of wine from me and refilled her own glass.
I laughed harder, looking at her like she was crazy. “How do you even know this?”
“My sister-in-law’s sister-in-law knows all the random facts. Hey, how’d you like to hail from the Jute peoples? That’s a fun sounding word. Oi! Jute! Oh, wait. That rhymes with flute! We could call it Operation Jute Flute, because a flute is sorta shaped like a long—”
“No!” I erupted with more laughter, the intensity of which was likely aided by the two glasses of wine I’d already finished. “You have to stop. I’m going to pee my pants.” God, it felt so good to laugh. I’d needed this.
We spent the next forty-five minutes debating the name while her husband did the dishes and worked on getting the boys down for bed. Sienna had waited until we were alone to bring up Jackson and didn’t want me to ask Jethro his opinion, nor did she want me telling Jethro that I was interested in Jackson.
“It’s a long story,” she said, sipping her wine. “I don’t even know the whole thing, but Jackson and Jethro have never gotten along even though sometimes I think they do. Maybe?”
“They don’t? Why?”
“Eh.” She shrugged. “I like Jackson, but Jet only sporadically likes him. Jackson has babysat for us before, and he did a great job. I don’t understand the dynamic there.”
“Jethro doesn’t like Jackson but is okay with him babysitting the boys?”
“It’s hard to—it’s a long story. Long, long story. Longer and more tedious than The English Patient, despite Ralph Fiennes living up to how his last name sounds phonetically.”
I decided if Deputy Dreamy agreed to my proposition, I would ask him why he and Jethro didn’t get along. They both seemed so laid back and nice. My curiosity burned like the Duke did for Daphne.
Ultimately, since Deputy James and Sienna’s husband didn’t get along all the time, inviting Jackson over for dinner was out of the question. We decided I would have to seek him out at the sheriff’s station.
“You will wear those shorts”—Sienna gestured to the cutoff jean shorts I wore—“and your black tank top. It’s supposed to be hotter tomorrow than it’s been all week, skimpy clothes will be understandable.”
“You don’t think I’ll look desperate? Showing up dressed like that?”
“Once he sees you, he’ll be feeling too desperate to care.”