Marilyn Monroe
His eyes shot to mine, wide with shock. “What did you just say?”
I balled my hands into fists, my heart racing, there was no going back now. “It’s just—and I know this might change your mind about me being a good person—but I need to be honest with you. You were honest with me, and now it’s my turn.”
Jackson held perfectly still, like he might be afraid to move.
I reached for a lock of my hair and twisted it around my index finger. “Hollywood can be crazy. Nothing is real. What’s in the papers and all the gossip magazines? Half of it—at least—is the marketing machine, publicists, agents, managers, trying to give their clients a leg up, an advantage.”
“O-kaaay.” His eyes narrowed and lost focus, maybe trying to figure out what the Hollywood machine had to do with us spending another night together.
“Here’s the truth—” I released my hair and clasped my hands in front of me “—I’m not engaged to Harrison.”
“You’re not engaged.”
“No. It’s fake.” Bracing, I fought the urge to close my eyes, but I did scrunch my face while I waited for his verdict. Would he call me crazy like Sienna had?
I tried to take a deep breath, but the air was too thick and heavy, the windows completely fogged over. God, it was hot in here. My clothes were mostly dried of rainwater but were still plastered to my body. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and between my breasts. I scratched at my neck, my fingers coming away damp.
My gaze snagged on his temples again, watching a drop of perspiration roll down his cheekbone and disappear in his beard. Another trailed down his neck and into the white T-shirt he wore under his uniform.
If I was hot, he must’ve been suffocating. And yet, despite the small outward signs he couldn’t hide, he didn’t seem at all bothered by it.
More seconds passed, his gaze now sharp, but a whisper of a smile tugged at his mouth. “You and Harrison Copeland aren’t together? You’re not engaged? Just to be clear, you were never engaged?”
“That’s correct.” I winced. “And I know it sounds crazy—”
“Not that crazy.” Jackson chuckled, facing the fogged-up windshield and rubbing his forehead.
“It’s just how things are there. So many relationships are for the purpose of publicity, to get more attention, more coverage. It was for my career, to raise my profile.” Ugh. The reasoning sounded even more paltry this time.
“I get it.” He nodded. “I really get it. You don’t have to explain.”
“You do?”
“I do.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Now I’m really sorry I said anything about Harrison cheating on you. You must think I’m an ass.”
I grinned, so incredibly relieved, and then I laughed. “No. No, I don’t. Not at all. Not even a little.”
He lifted an eyebrow, and the look on his face was so disbelieving and therefore charming that I laughed harder. “I promise. I wouldn’t have asked you to spend the night with me if I—if I thought you were . . . that.” I swallowed the last word, the nervous flutter of excitement returning ten times ten. And this time, I didn’t feel guilty.
If this conversation were measured in heavy stares, this one would’ve weighed a ton. His deep-set eyes—his bedroom eyes—heated, scorching me with their abrupt intensity and the mystery of all the thoughts they concealed. The interior of the Mustang felt downright cool in comparison.
The tension between us grew unwieldy in the prolonged silence, the humid air thick with electricity. For some reason, a quote from Pythagoras—one of my mother’s favorite philosophers, and something she’d said often to me growing up—floated through my mind, Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.
I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath, this silence intensified and roared, and I became acutely aware of my labored breathing.
Eventually, I couldn’t stand it. I decided I would have to make my words worth more than the silence. “Jackson—”
He shook his head, tearing his gaze from mine and closing his eyes. “God, but you are temptation,” he growled, his jaw tight.
His statement and voice made my lungs feel too small, my heart race, and a sharp twist of an ache in my abdomen had me pressing my legs together in anticipation.
I licked my lips, saying on a rush, “It could be like before, no strings. Once we do the deed, I’ll disappear. And this time I promise I won’t show up at your work with pie. I promise. This time I’ll leave and never come back, I’ll—”
Abruptly, he opened the passenger-side door, stepped out into the pouring rain, then shut the door, leaving both his umbrella and hat behind. I was suddenly and thoroughly overheated. With embarrassment.
That went well, Rae. So much for not coming across as desperate. Gold star.
I was still processing the impressiveness with which I’d crashed and burned when my door opened, revealing a stern—and very wet—Jackson James.
“Grab the umbrella, and please come with me.” His tone was remote, official, and broke no argument.
It took me a moment to work out that he hadn’t left me, and another to process what he’d said. I reached for the umbrella, and he stepped back so I could open it. Leaving the shelter of the car, I shut the door and turned to him.
Glaring over my head, he gestured to the building and ushered me forward. “Let’s go.”
He steered me to the front where there was no longer a line for the ATM. He didn’t join me under the umbrella as we crossed the parking lot, but instead held himself away, the rain pelting his grim face and uniform.
I was so confused. What were we doing? Was he going to escort me to the ATM so I could finish up collecting the cash and then we’d—what? Leave? Go back to his place? My place? Or would he then drive off and leave me?
Before I could open my mouth to ask, we’d made it to the awning. And instead of moving to the ATM, he pulled me toward the double doors leading to the bank’s interior lobby. “The real reason I’m here is because of your ATM withdrawals,” he ground out.
“My . . .” I glanced at the cash machine to our left. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve visited more than ten local banks today and withdrawn the maximum at each ATM. This set off some alarm bells with the banks, and they called the station for us to investigate.” He wiped his face of rain.
“Oh. I see.” I didn’t know how to feel about this information. That must’ve been what he meant when he’d said I’m here for you upon first sliding into the passenger seat.
“Usually, folks walk into a branch if they want to withdraw more than $300 and do it all at once. Multiple visits to ATMs in the area is unusual behavior unless the person has a stolen card.”
“I didn’t want to go into a bank.”
“Why?”
I thought about telling him I’d wanted to give myself a tour of the area and used banks as my excuse but decided against it. Instead, I told him the other reason I hadn’t withdrawn all the money at once. “I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, walking into a bank and taking out thousands of dollars. Am I in trouble?”