Jackson stirred, making me regret my movements. I thought about quickly resuming my position, placing my head back on his chest and pretending to still be asleep so we could snuggle a while longer, but his eyes opened. He blinked at me. And he smiled.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said, my fingers moving into the thick tuft of blond hair on top of his gorgeous head. “This truck has an impressively huge bench seat. I love it. Did you sleep well?”
“Definitely.” His gaze felt dreamy, and not just from sleep inertia. “But probably not enough. I love this truck too. And this seat.”
I grinned, instinct telling me to memorize this sight of him as my heart pinged with regret. If I’d stayed all those years ago, I would’ve seen him like this. Hazy and loose, just waking up.
Jackson’s hands lifted and slid from my hips to my waist. “Do you want some coffee?”
I placed my hands on his chest to keep him from getting up. “You have coffee? How is this possible?”
“I stopped by a drive-through and had them fill my thermos.” He turned his head to one side, talking around a yawn.
“When was this?”
“Hours ago.” He shook his head, facing me again, his eyes glassy. “But it stays hot in there.”
“It sounds magical.”
His mouth hitched on one side, his attention traveling over my face in a way that made the uncertainty butterflies erupt. “You’re magical,” he muttered.
Pleasure and warmth and happiness and sugar and spice tackled me, making my breath catch. I wanted to tell him that he was magical. I wanted to tell him I must’ve been crazy, because I was absolutely crazy about him.
But a vise of emotion closed around my vocal cords while the interior of the truck seemed to heat abruptly. My attention dropped to his lips, and I swallowed against a rising tide of urgency and want.
Oh no. We are going to kiss again.
On the other hand, AWWW YEEEEAH! WE ARE GOING TO KISS AGAIN!
But we didn’t, because Jackson’s hands moved from my waist to my shoulders and gently lifted me, his attention moving all around the truck but never settling in one spot.
“Let me see if I can find that coffee. . . “ His voice was roughened with sleep, but there was something more there too. A thickness, like he found speaking difficult.
I watched him dumbly, feeling like I’d been set away, feeling like the two and a half feet he’d placed between us represented a vast expanse, warning of additional prickly rejection should I attempt to cross it.
But . . . hadn’t he just called me magical?
This felt like mixed messages, and I was confused. So confused. He knew I’d be in town for a while. We’d just spent hours last night talking, getting to know each other better, laughing, sharing companionable silence. So why was I being pushed away now?
Ask.
Was it that simple?
Yes. How many times do I have to tell you this? JUST ASK FOR WHAT YOU WANT.
So I asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
His attention flickered to me and then away. “No. Not at all.”
“Then why am I over here and you’re over there?”
Jackson pulled a tall coffee carafe from behind his seat and unscrewed the lid. “Because.”
I threw my hands up, then crossed my arms over my chest. “Here we go again with the ‘because.’”
His smile was quick and struck me as a little sad. “Because, Rae. We’re friends.”
“Yes, and?”
“And, like I said last night, we need everyone to believe that, not just for my benefit but also to save Charlotte from the tongue waggers and folks in town.”
Ignoring the obvious double entendre I wanted to make about tongue waggers, I turned my head left and then right, making a show of scanning the trees that surrounded us. “Are the townsfolk also the trees? Are you people Ents? Is that the secret of the Smoky Mountains?”
Jackson laughed again, and this time it was full of humor. “No.”
“Oh. Wait. Is Smokey Bear actually a bear-shifter? And these woods are full of bear-shifters?”
“Yes. I’m so glad you saved me from that awkward conversation.”
Now I laughed and he laughed and we laughed.
But then—grrrr—he said while grinning adorably and taking a sip of coffee, “Rae, I think we should try to be just friends.”
He offered me the carafe, holding the side his mouth hadn’t touched toward me. I shook my head. “No thank you. Is that what you want?”
“I think it’s best.”
“We’re going to be friends? Just friends?”
“Yes.” He screwed the lid back on and returned the carafe to its place behind his seat.
I nodded distractedly, even though the idea of putting the word just in front of any description related to Jackson James felt wrong on a visceral level and made me feel like organizing a protest. With signs.
As I stewed in my discontent, I randomly remembered a story Nico Moretti—you know, the comedian?—had once related to me in the greenroom at his talk show. We didn’t see each other often, but I’d always felt comfortable with Nico. Whenever we talked, the subjects were always real and deep and personal, never chitchat. Perhaps we’d connected because we both shared Italian ancestry. Or perhaps Nico was just one of those people who excelled at getting others to open up. I don’t know.
Anyway, we’d been discussing boundaries, and he told me about how he’d carried a torch for a woman. She’d said she wanted to be just friends with him. So he’d asked her, “Where do your friends kiss you?” Because he wanted to kiss her everywhere, but also wanted to ensure he didn’t cross any of her boundaries. They’re married now, and I think they have at least one kid.
That story gave me an idea. “Then let’s talk about how this works.”
“How what works?”
“Being friends. As you may recall, I told you I don’t have many.”
“I remember.” He looked me over, like he found this information unlikely.
“You and I, we’ll be friends . . . who are hot for each other?”
He shifted in his seat but continued to meet my eyes. “Something like that.”
“Then take me through friend touches.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“As friends who are hot for each other, it may be difficult for me to read your physical cues, and I don’t want to cross any boundaries. Your boundaries might not be the same as my boundaries.”
He seemed to think about this for a few seconds, and then nodded slowly. “Okay. Go on.”
“I think we should review what is and isn’t appropriate friend touching.” Without thinking too much about it, I pulled my legs under me and knelt on the bench seat. Then I skootched closer to Jackson, placing my hand on his broad shoulder. “Is this a friend touch?”
His lips twitched and his eyes danced. “Yes. That is a friend touch, Rae.”
“Okay. What if I put my hand on your chest?” I did. I placed my hand over his heart.
He nodded, his eyes still on mine, still amused.
“How about your stomach?” Trailing my hand lower, my fingertips brushed downward along the front of his T-shirt to his abdomen, and lower—