His lips twisted, perhaps hoping to camouflage a smile. “That may be.”
“You are a man of mystery, Jackson James.”
His mouth dropped open, and he quickly turned his head to look at me, like he thought my statement was preposterous. It was super adorable. “Me? Mysterious? I’m an open book.”
“Then read me a page. Tell me about yourself. But first tell me why you don’t find my descriptions of social media management boring.”
“Okay, fine.” He cleared his throat, adjusting in his seat and shifting the placement of his hands on the steering wheel. “I do not find your descriptions of social media management boring for a few reasons. First, I’m interested in the subject. I’d never thought much about how social media might be something to manage. The sheriff’s department has social media pages and accounts, but we don’t really manage them, not like how you’re describing. We don’t worry about engagement; they’re used as a tool to broadcast information. But I’ve been thinking, it might be good to actually manage them, the way you’re talking about.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s about building relationships, isn’t it? That’s what you’re doing with your pages. And relationships need good communication. How can folks know we’re doing a good job, thinking about their safety and welfare, if we’re only posting updates about road closures and bear sightings? Sometimes, I think, when you’re communicating and want to present an accurate account of yourself, you have to brag a little.”
His point was a good one. “Otherwise, how will they know what you’ve done and how much you care?”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm.” I mock-squinted at him. “Okay, what are the other reasons for not thinking I’m boring?”
“You could never be boring.”
“I don’t know. Just wait until I tell you about how we edit our TikTok videos. Spoiler alert, we follow a template.”
He chuckled, ending the short laugh by biting his lip and sending my gaze right there. I wonder if we’ll get a kraken sighting tonight.
“No, that’s one of my reasons,” he said.
“Huh?”
“You could never be boring, that’s reason number two why I don’t find your descriptions of social media management boring. Reason three is, I like your voice.”
“Oh. I see.” I cleared my throat self-consciously, and that pulled another small smile out of him. “Well, I guess—”
“And reason four is because I like hearing you talk about different facets of your work. You’re very . . .”
“Titillating?”
His eyes cut to mine and then away. “I was going to say knowledgeable. Competent.”
“Wait. When have we discussed my work prior to now?”
Jackson seemed to grow very still.
“Jackson?”
“We haven’t. But you give interviews. I’ve seen some.”
This, unsurprisingly, thrilled me. Without thinking too much about it, I poked his arm. “You’ve been watching my interviews?”
He said nothing, just smiled his enigmatic smile. I seemed to recall debating the nature of his smile the first time we met and deciding it wasn’t enigmatic at all but rather shy. I decided now that it was both. And I decided I loved it.
A slow-spreading warmth unfurled in my stomach as I continued staring at his handsome profile—the not-quite straight line of his nose, how the curve of his bottom lip was fuller than the top, the strength of his cleft chin, the angles of his jaw and cheekbone, temple and forehead—thinking I could spend my evenings like this and never tire of it.
Content, silence fell between us with a certain decisiveness. We were done talking.
For now.
The smell of warm, delicious Jackson woke me up. Lifting my head, I peered down at the body I lay completely atop and had to blink to make sure I wasn’t still asleep. Then I pinched myself just to make doubly sure.
But no. I was still here, and he was still here, his features bathed in pale, dwindling starlight and early dawn light.
We’d driven around for a while, engaging in bursts of comfortable conversation followed by periods of comfortable silence. Sometimes we’d flirted. But mostly we’d asked each other questions and volunteered bits and pieces of who we were.
I’d told him why I’d wanted to become an actress—I loved inhabiting the life of someone who wasn’t me, and making people believe fictional stories were real.
He’d told me why he’d become a deputy sheriff—he felt he didn’t have a lot of innate talents except for being patient with both people and process. According to him, law enforcement was all about patience with people and process.
“You don’t think you have a lot of innate talents?” I’d wrinkled my nose at this. “How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. I know what I am, and I know what I lack.”
I’d stared at him, chagrined. Nothing about his statements had struck me as self-pitying, nor had he said the words in order to fish for compliments. Jackson had been all matter-of-fact, that-is-that. But this view of himself irritated me since it was clear he believed what he’d said.
Jackson had then changed the subject before I could push the issue, asking me which of my film roles had been my favorite experience so far.
Starlight Express was the clear answer—I’d enjoyed being involved with the editing—and he’d told me some of his more humorous anecdotes about being in law enforcement, like the time he’d been called to a nudist colony to deal with a petty theft incident. Gross spoiler alert: the woman had placed the money in her no-no hole.
“How did you—I mean, how did you figure it out?” I’d asked, repelled and enraptured.
“We knew it was her. It couldn’t have been anyone else. And there were only so many places she could’ve put it. So through a process of elimination—” He’d shrugged.
“Oh snap! Please tell me that pun was intended.”
He’d thrown his head back and laughed so hard, I thought we were going to have to pull over.
We didn’t. He’d kept driving.
But when the subject had turned to our families, I’d deflected artfully, turning the conversation back to him. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t pushed. It was at this point that I realized how much I appreciated this about Jackson, he never seemed to push me.
Even when he’d brought up Harrison on Thursday, pointing out that I deserved better than someone who cheated on me, he hadn’t pushed.
In my life, so many people pushed me. My mother pushed me to do my best. My father pushed me away. My trainer pushed me toward peak physical fitness. My chef pushed me to eat meticulously. My agent pushed, Harrison pushed, Sasha, Domino, they all pushed. And I pushed myself, to be more successful, to be better at my craft, to be a more giving and generous actor, to stay at the top of my game in all aspects of fame, publicity, marketing, and exposure.
But not Jackson. He seemed content to just let me be.
Comfortable conversations followed by comfortable silences must’ve led to me falling asleep and him pulling over.
With a regretful sigh, I pulled my admiring gaze from Jackson’s sleeping face and looked through the window. I concluded it was close to dawn due to the grayish color of the horizon, but I wasn’t sure where we were. We seemed to be surrounded by trees on all sides.