Jackson stepped closer, his gaze now significantly more open than before. “Thank you.”
“What?” Oh no. I worried that I’d just told him how handsome he was out loud instead of just thinking it.
“Thank you for the pie.” His lips twitched, and the look he wore told me he thought I was both weird and cute. The deputy’s gaze traveled over my face deliberately, perhaps reacquainting himself with the shape of it, or committing it to memory, or simply just enjoying it.
“I was told it was your favorite,” I said truthfully, disarmed by how he was looking at me as I handed the pie over.
He stepped even closer, not looking at the dessert as he accepted the container, our fingers brushing. The contact sent an aching, tingling thrill down my spine—first contact!
“Sour cherry? From Daisy’s? You didn’t.”
“I did.” For some reason, I hadn’t yet let go of the pie.
He grinned, his voice dropping to a deep rumble. “How’d you know?”
“I have my sources.”
“Sources?” His eyebrows ticked up. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“You weren’t before?”
“Oh, I was. But now I’m even more intrigued.”
“Are you?” I was helpless against the urge to smile.
“I am. Not many people know what my favorites are.”
“And now I do.”
Those bedroom eyes seemed to heat and darken as they lowered to my lips. “Yes. You certainly—”
“Jackson James!”
I flinched, and so did he. We both turned our heads in unison toward the woman at my right. My escort. The woman who’d loved my movies and was a big fan until approximately two minutes ago.
That’s when I remembered where I—where we—still were.
“I do believe you have an appointment with the Mitchells to prep for,” she snapped, appearing to be . . . not exactly angry. Accusatory maybe? Indignant?
I felt Jackson retreat, the pie slipping out of my hands as he took it with him and placed it on the desk. By the time my eyes returned to his, he was looking everywhere but at me.
“Yes. I know that, Florence.” He wore what could only be described as a grim smile, his eyes darting around the room while a faint hint of pink colored his cheeks above his close-cut beard. “Thank you for the pie, Ms. Ezra. It’s also my momma’s favorite, so I’ll be sure to send her your regards.”
Then and only then did he lift his gaze to mine. If I thought he’d looked shuttered and distant before, his stare seemed ten times more guarded and aloof now.
My stomach sank.
Oh no. I’d embarrassed him. At his job. In front of everyone he worked with. I’d made a scene. Me making unintentional scenes by merely showing up someplace was why my mother had asked me to stop visiting her. Absentmindedly, I rubbed my thumb over the center stone of my evil-eye bracelet.
You’re a mess, Rae. And this was a mistake.
I managed to force a light tone—to pretend—as I shoved my empty hands in the pockets of my shorts, taking a step back. “Technically, the pie is from Sienna, so please make sure Mrs. James thanks the right person. Anyway, I’ll be going. So . . .” I nodded to him and tore my eyes away, the act physically painful.
I nodded to the stern-looking Florence lady. “I’ll just show myself out.”
“I’ll walk you,” came her curt reply. “Don’t want you getting lost.”
“Absolutely. Thank you.” My pretend smile increased for the benefit of everyone watching.
She marched me down the perimeter aisle, and I kept my eyes forward, a pleasant, unconcerned expression on my features. I nodded politely to the one or two deputies who were looking at my eyes instead of my chest. Soon we were through the double doors, and Florence stopped just in front of them, crossing her arms and standing tall as though barricading the way.
“I think you can see yourself out from here.” There was no mistaking her snide tone as anything but disapproving.
I countered her attitude with another pretend warm grin tossed over my shoulder, and I unhurriedly walked to the exit, even though I wanted to run. “Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”
Maintaining the façade, I walked to my awesome loaner car, got in, and started the engine. I then turned my phone on, intent on pulling up Google Maps for directions so I could get back to the carriage house ASAP. And then I would hide under the covers until my flight next Friday afternoon.
That’s a good plan. The other plan? The plan to approach, bribe with pie, and proposition Deputy Dreamy? That was a bad plan. That was a—
The feel of my phone buzzing along with the accompanying chimes announcing text messages had me frowning at the screen. I’d turned my phone off for most of my stay in Green Valley. Sasha had been texting me nonstop since Saturday, and I didn’t want to listen to the cell chime every ten minutes. Frustrated and sad—yes, I was a little sad at how sublimely I’d crashed and burned with Deputy James—I prepared to fire off a text to Sasha, telling her to chill out, when my eyes snagged on the sender of the latest string of texts. Sienna.
Frowning, I unlocked my phone and read her text messages:
Sienna: Stop! I have information. Do not approach Jackson James, do not procure a pie, do not pass go. Call me!
Sienna: Please tell me you haven’t gone to the station yet.
Sienna: PLEASE CALL ME ASAP. URGENT ALERT URGENT!
Sienna: Oh no. You’ve gone, haven’t you? You’ve seen him. I’m so sorry. I am responsible. This is my fault.
Sienna: Prayers have been said. Call me when it’s over.
I read through her messages a second and a third time, trying to make sense of them, then I hurriedly called her. Pushing the AC vent to blow more directly on my neck, I brought the phone to my ear.
Almost immediately she picked up. “Rae? Did you see him? Or did I stop you in time?”
“I saw him.”
She groaned. “God, I’m so stupid. And I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve talked to Jet about it before you went over there, and that’s my fault. I never know who is dating who, I can’t keep up, but he’s got the inside track on all the gossip in town. When I told him where you were, he told me about Jackson and Charlotte, and now I feel like I led you astray and—”
“Wait, wait. Stop. Charlotte? Charlotte who?”
“Charlotte Mitchell.” Sienna’s voice was small and apologetic.
Mitchell. . .
MITCHELL!
My escort had said that Jackson was late for a meeting with the Mitchells. She must’ve meant his girlfriend, Charlotte Mitchell. “Oh snap.”
“But I swear I had no idea when I sent you over there. They’ve been together for a few months.”
I stared out the windshield, the scenery beyond blurry while her words soaked into my brain. Together for a few months. He was dating someone. He had a girlfriend.
He’s dating someone, and you brought him your pie to eat?!
“Ugh.” I placed a hand over my stomach, feeling ill. “I am such a dick-twat.” No wonder Florence-the-former-fan had looked at me like I was scum.
And no wonder Jackson didn’t want my pie.
“No. You are not a dick-twat.”
“Are you kidding? I went in there to proposition someone else’s boyfriend! I am a dick-twat.”