But wait. Why am I looking for positive signs?
What do I want his opening up to be a positive sign of? I don’t entirely know.
Except . . . Jackson makes me want to do things differently. Behave in atypical ways. Is my drive to turn over a new leaf born from the attraction? Or does it stem from something else entirely?
I’d like to know.
I’d like to understand exactly why I did what I did for the last month.
When we reach Sin City and slide into my waiting limo, just the two of us, I’m still trying to sort out this tangled ball of feelings, wishes, and choices.
But one thing is crystal clear—I want Jackson Pearce to know I was a man of my word.
So I tell him.
10
Stone
As the car speeds away from the airport, I take the first step toward sorting out this mess inside my head. “I took what you said to heart.”
Jackson shoots me a curious look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I took a sex sabbatical.”
“I never said you needed to do that.”
I stretch my arms up, drawing a deep breath. “You didn’t say it, but I could read the subtext.”
He laughs. “You’re obsessed with subtext.”
“Aren’t you? Life is subtext, J. Everything is subtext. People don’t say what they mean.”
“Do you say what you mean?”
That’s a good question. And I can answer him with a whole hell of a lot of honesty now—now that my mind is all clear. “I think I do. I usually say what I mean.”
Jackson scratches his head then drags his hand over his jaw like he’s working through a puzzle. “Fine. Say what you mean now. What do you mean about your sex-batical?”
Nerves crawl up my throat, but I say the hard thing anyway. “What I mean is I wanted to prove something to myself.”
As soon as I say that out loud, another thread untangles. I didn’t go sex-free to prove it to him. I wanted to prove it to myself. Because of how I felt when I kissed this man. When I kissed him, I felt something.
I don’t mean emotions or love or any of that shit. But a connection. A need for more than a one-night stand. And I felt he wanted that too. I don’t think he’s the type of guy who wants a one-off.
And for the first time, I don’t want sex to fall into that category.
He takes a beat, like he’s turning over my statement, weighing it. “What did you want to prove?”
“That I could do it.”
“And you did.”
“One month. One long month to reset. I was sex-free, and it was okay.”
He gives a small laugh. “You lasted that long?”
“I jacked off several times a day. Maybe more. Not sure I can count that high.”
Jackson cracks up, shaking his head. “Dude, you’re really going at it that often with your hand?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s sex with someone I love.”
He scoffs, and it turns into a laugh. “You love yourself a lot.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that at all.” He holds out a fist for knocking. I dig the bro gesture, so I return it, knocking back.
Then my expression turns serious. “Listen, I respect what you said about how nothing is going to happen. I’m cool with that. But all those things you said that night about the private party and what I wanted made me think about who I’ve been and what I’ve done, and how I’ve kind of messed around wherever I wanted to. I don’t regret it. I’ve loved every second of it. But you made me think about things in a different way.”
“Knowing yourself is a good thing. Don’t you think?”
The limo turns a corner, the lights of the Strip flickering near us. I don’t want this ride to end. I wonder if he does.
“You made me think about a lot of things.” I take a deep breath and move a little closer, but not too close. “And one of those things is whether I’m paying enough attention to the people around me. That’s why I keep asking you if something is wrong—because you’ve looked like something’s bugging you ever since we got on that plane. So, is something bothering you?”
He leans back, resting his head against the leather seat and trying, I can tell, to school his expression. “Nothing is.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
He shoots me a glance. “I’m sure.”
I give him what I’m sure is an inviting grin. “I’m a good listener.”
His lips curve up. “Are you? A good listener?”
“I can’t believe you’re disparaging my listening skills.”
He laughs, light and easy. It’s a great sound, and I want to hear it again and again. “No,” he says. “Not at all. You’re surprising me. You’re a better listener than I gave you credit for. Hell, you knew I was learning Spanish.” He says something to me in that language.
I wag a finger. “I don’t know how you do it, but it’s still sexy, because everything you say is sexy.”
“That’s not true. People say that when they’re infatuated.”
I arch a brow all the way to the moon. “Ohhhhh. Is that how we’re doing this? You think I’m infatuated with you?”
Jackson shakes his head furiously. “No, that’s not it. That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean? I just poured my heart and soul out to you. I told you what I meant. Now, tell me what you meant. I’ve earned it. Haven’t I?”
“You have.”
He doesn’t say another word—just looks at me, lips tight, jaw set, his expression giving little away. Then he says, as quiet as a cat, “I lied.”
“What?” I flinch. I didn’t expect that from this straight arrow.
As the lights on the Strip loom closer, I hold up a finger to pause, then hit the window to the driver, lowering the partition. “Hey, Jason, can you drive for a little bit?”
“Of course, Stone. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, man.”
The window goes back up, and Jackson doesn’t question my request. Doesn’t ask why I want to linger in the cool, air-conditioned stretch limo.
“What did you lie about?” I ask carefully.
His shoulders rise and fall.
He draws a deep breath, like he needs it for fuel. “I lied when I said that’s not what I meant about infatuation. I do mean it. I believe when we’re infatuated, we think everything the other person says or does is sexy. I do think you meant what you said.” There’s another pause, and it’s charged with crackling ions and electricity. “Maybe I mean it too.”
I try not to bust out in a shit-eating grin. But hell, that’s hot.
That’s sexy.
That’s worth driving around the whole city for.
“But . . .” That one word is a knife cutting through this conversation. “I need this job. You keep asking me what’s wrong. I don’t want to get into it, because I don’t have your life. I don’t have a private plane or a limo. I have responsibilities. And I can’t upend them just because you say things to me on a plane that get me so wildly aroused I can barely think straight. Because that’s how I feel with you.” He jerks his gaze to the window, like the night sustains his soliloquy. He turns back to look me in the eyes. His are etched with frustration. “And I can’t think when I feel this way.”