I appreciated that Sienna hadn’t responded with something like, What’s the big deal? Haven’t you been topless in a movie? That was the typical response I received whenever I expressed concerns about being less than fully clothed in any situation. Like, since I’d shown my breasts in a movie once I no longer had the right to cover myself. I’d somehow forfeited control over how much skin I wished to share and with whom and when.
If I’d known in my early twenties when I’d filmed my first and only topless scene how it would be forever after, I never would’ve taken the role.
“It’s not unusual for members of the community to show up at the station with treats and goodies for a particular deputy. You should bring him sour cherry pie.” Sienna nodded at her own idea.
“Pie? Really?”
“In Green Valley, pie is always the answer.” She paused for a moment and frowned thoughtfully. “Or so I’m told. Anyway, we’ll reserve one from Daisy’s Nut House, you’ll pick it up and take it to him tomorrow, just before dinner.”
“How do you know he’ll be at the station?”
“While you’ve been in your fortress of solitude these last few days, I called Jessica—his sister—and asked what Jackson’s favorite kind of pie was, as well as if she knew his schedule this week. She said he has Wednesdays off but usually goes to the station to catch up on paperwork. He’ll be there.”
“He has the day off, but he works anyway?” Consistently working on his day off likely meant he didn’t have a healthy work-life balance. So why was this news about him such a turn-on? Hmm.
Plan settled, I left Sienna’s porch soon after and spent that evening and the next morning considering my perplexing interest in Jackson James. Why did I hungrily inhale every ounce of information Sienna had shared? Why was I so attracted to him, this responsible and diligent pillar of the community who clearly worked too much, a man I’d only met once? I mean, other than the obvious: body, face, voice, accent, the skill with which he wielded his kraken tongue.
But as I reflected (i.e. obsessed) on the issue, it wasn’t just his exterior (or his tongue) that had elevated him to the level of man-legend in my mind. That night we’d been together years ago, Jackson had been . . .
A gentleman.
He’d been a gentleman. Thoughtful, considerate, unselfish. He’d given me his coat because it was a cold night, before I’d even shivered. He’d wanted to make sure I was fed since we’d left the reception before dinner. He’d opened my door. He’d said please and thank you. He’d asked me what I wanted, and he’d never asked for a single thing in return.
Had I ever met anyone like him?
A resounding no echoed between my ears as I pulled into the county sheriff’s station Wednesday afternoon, the sour cherry pie Sienna had reserved from Daisy’s Nut House on the front passenger seat of my loaner car.
Oh! Speaking of the loaner, I must tell you all about it. Sienna arranged a verra nice car for me to use in my quest. Verra, verra nice. A vintage, souped-up dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe down the hood and over the trunk. When I’d stepped out of the carriage house, I’d found it parked directly out front with a note on the windshield:
This is the loaner for Ms. Ezra, keys are in the ignition. Please return to Winston Bros. Auto Shop whenever you’re done using her. By the way, she likes premium. Give her premium. –CBW
I figured the W at the end stood for Winston, and CBW had to be one of Sienna’s brothers-in-law. Jethro had mentioned over dinner that two of his brothers owned an auto repair shop nearby.
Clearly restored with a great deal of attention and love, I felt uncomfortable using it without paying for the privilege and didn’t like accepting freebies on principle. Staying at Sienna’s carriage house without reimbursing her in some way felt squicky enough. I decided I’d leave an envelope of $5000 cash in the loaner Mustang’s glove box when I returned the glorious car to the auto shop next Friday before my flight back to Los Angeles.
Ugh. I heaved a sigh at the thought, glancing at my reflection in the Mustang’s rearview mirror and smoothing a frown from my face. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Los Angeles. I loved Southern California. I loved the beach and water, the sun and the temperate climate. But I didn’t—currently—love the idea of returning to my high-security golden cage, cloistered like a nun, and picking up my pretend life right where I’d left off.
You still have a week . . .
Technically, I had nine and a half days left in Green Valley. I intended to make each moment count, starting with this afternoon.
Resolutely picking up the pie from the passenger seat, I exited the car and pulled in a deep breath for courage.
Do you want to know something (perhaps) surprising? I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman who has never asked out a guy, never initiated a conversation with someone I’m attracted to, never flirted with someone who hadn’t already made a pass at me.
Jackson James would be my first.
I approached the double doors to the station and inspected my reflection in the glass. I looked . . . good. I think. My long hair was down and fell around to my lower back in glossy waves. It had taken me almost a full hour to dry and wrestle and arrange. I had my Italian and Cuban ancestry to thank for the dark brown color, wavy texture, and heavy thickness.
I also had them to thank for my every three-week waxing appointment, particularly the Italian in me. My Cuban grandmother never had facial hair issues—that I knew about—but my mother always had a faint mustache since I could remember. But she wore it proudly, along with the dark hair on her arms, armpits, and legs, and especially when she interacted with my dad. I think it was one of her big F-U’s to his preoccupation with how women were supposed to look and act and behave.
My eyes moved to the makeup I’d applied around my eyes and then lower to the thin-ish black tank top and cutoff shorts. Hmm. I reminded myself that it was—indeed—quite hot. Sienna had promised me that the outfit did not make me look desperate. I’d decided to believe her at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Maybe because I feel a little desperate?
The door opened before I could debate the level of my desperation or the Converse sneakers on my feet, and a woman walked out, fiddling with her purse, and doing a double take as she passed me. I rushed forward, not wanting to be distracted from my mission. I struggled to silence my doubts and stop second-guessing the plan.
But . . . what if Sienna was wrong and Jackson wasn’t even here? What would I do? Leave the pie? What if he was here but was too busy to see me? What if he didn’t want to see me? What if he did see me and laughed at my request? What if he was insulted by it? What if he didn’t remember me and—
“Raquel Ezra?” A voice that was somehow both sharp and breathless pulled me out of my worry cascade. An older woman with dark brown eyes and short graying hair stood behind a circular desk, her hands clasped beneath her chin. The desk was placed in the center of what looked like a combination lobby and waiting room.
I pasted a smile on my face, darting a glance to the empty chairs lining the far wall before settling my attention on the woman’s expectant expression. “Hi?”
Had Sienna called ahead? Was Jackson expecting me? That wasn’t the plan!