CHAPTER 47

west

I did my best not to fidget, but I was fucking dying inside. My skin crawled uncomfortably as I sat in Mrs. Myles’s small-as-fuck kitchen. Even with an open patio door and a light breeze on my back, I was dying.

Jackson sat next to me, watching me like a goddamn hawk. I wasn’t sure what was worse: my anxiety or the way he looked at me. Like he was waiting for me to break. I fucking hated that look.

I couldn’t handle it.

Any of it.

But I was stuck. Mrs. Myles was wonderful. She wasn’t the problem. I was . The room was too small, my skin was crawling, and breathing was a fucking experience.

“It’s so good to see you two together again,” Mrs. Myles said all over again. I’d lost track of how many times she’d said that exact thing. Granted, she’d done a lot of repeating herself. So much so that I wondered if that wasn’t part of the reason why she was in a retirement home, to begin with.

We talked about how I was, about the horses, about me, about where I’d been—Jackson helped me skirt around that one several times over—about the horses, about how I was, and it kept going around and around. The constant roundabout was overwhelming and frustrating.

“The whole damn town seems to think so,” Jackson commented with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, I doubt that,” she retorted. “You two were hellions then, and I doubt that’s changed.”

“We’re fucking angels, Ma. We were back then, still are now.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. That was so far from the fucking truth.

“And the horses?” she asked again. “I’m sure it’s nice being back with the horses. Well… unless, you had horses where you were at…”

“Ma, stop asking already,” Jackson cut in. “It doesn’t matter where he was.”

“I just worry!”

“I know,” he said, “but you’re getting annoying—”

A knock at the door interrupted our conversation. Thank fuck.

“Oh, who the hell could that be? Hold on, boys, I’ll be right back,” she told us as she hurried toward the door. When she was gone, I blew out a long breath and sank back into the uncomfortable chair.

“May I?” Jackson’s hand hovered over mine. I did my best to bite back my frown. Damn it. I hated that he did this. It made me feel even more broken than I already knew I was. He just sat there with that stupidly calm look on his face. Just waiting for permission to touch me like he did every fucking time we made contact. There was no way in hell he did this with anyone else.

Fucking hell.

“Yeah,” I muttered. He lowered his hand, fingers curling around mine. I tried to keep from tensing—from going rigid at the simple contact. Every place his hand touched mine was on fire. Burning across every fucking nerve.

I wanted this. Wasn’t that why I kissed him? My head was all sorts of fucked up over this shit—way more than I probably should’ve been.

“You good?” Jackson asked. I fucking hated that goddamn question.

“Yeah,” I repeated. “She just keeps talking about the same shit.”

“I know.” He sighed, rubbing at his beard slightly. “She gets like that. Overall, she’s doing good, you know? But sometimes, her age shows. That’s all. You just have to…”

“Deal with it?” I finished for him, and he nodded. Just deal with it. I was used to that life philosophy.

“Pretty much.”

I didn’t envy him. Watching her decline sounded fucking miserable. I had nothing to offer him that could help, but I did manage to squeeze his hand once in a feeble attempt to comfort him. It seemed to work as he smiled. That smile did something uncomfortable to my heart.

“Jackson!” Mrs. Myles called from the door. “Come out here, handsome. Some of the ladies want to see you!”

“That’s my cue,” Jackson announced and got to his feet, groaning as he went. It was all a little too dramatic to come across as real.

“You like this shit, don’t you?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“Me? Never,” he scoffed. But he winked before turning away. Fucker. He really did enjoy this limelight shit.

“Jesus fuck, you’re an old lady magnet,” I said as we walked across the parking lot to his truck. Two hours. For two hours, this fucker took pictures and flirted with old ladies. He could say whatever the fuck he wanted, but that man enjoyed the attention. It was the tiniest insight into understanding that Jackson enjoyed being a professional bull rider more than he ever enjoyed running the ranch. “I can’t believe your mom fucking makes them pay for pictures with you.”

“She puts the money in the weekly poker pot.” He laughed. “Besides, my old ladies love me.”

“Old ladies, buckle bunnies, screwing over straight men… sounds like you like the whole bull riding thing.”

“It has its moments,” Jackson replied, clearly trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. I had a feeling he was holding back on me, but I wasn’t about to push the matter. Not right now. I was a little too irritable for that shit. Something—maybe everything—about the whole trip had rubbed me raw. Mrs. Myles, Jackson, all the questions. I was so far in my head questioning all of it that I was frustrated as fuck with myself.

Instead of going to the driver’s side, he moved to my door and opened it. I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Why the fuck are you opening my door?” I demanded.

“Because I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to fucking do that,” I told him. “I can open my own damn door.”

“I know you can, but I still wanted to.” He held out a hand to me. “May I?”

Something inside me broke.

“I need you to stop!” I exclaimed, my temper flaring. “Just stop asking all the goddamn questions!”

“Okay.” His casual response irritated me even more.

“You have no idea how… fucking horrible it feels!” I continued. I couldn’t stop. “I’m here, ain’t I? I’m doing this whole fucking thing with you, ain’t I? Isn’t that enough? Do you need to put me under a goddamn microscope every time anything comes up? You want to hold my hand, then hold my goddamn hand! You want to touch me, fine! Just do it! Do it and… and… and…”

I stumbled over my words, my brain glitching as I struggled to say what I wanted to say. I shoved my hand through my hair, frustrated and overwhelmed by it all.

”Just what?” Jackson prompted quietly.

“Just…” I felt myself deflating until my voice was barely a whisper. “Just… stop if I ask you to stop.”

The look on his face was unreadable. I fucking hated it. I wanted to know what he was thinking—needed to know.

I hated not knowing.

I just… fuck.

He crossed the short distance between us and took hold of my face, stepping close. His warm breath fanned across my face as his forehead pressed to mine.

“You don’t ask, you hear me?” he said softly. My brows came together in confusion. “You just tell me, okay? That ain’t the kind of thing you ask for. Just tell me to stop, West, and I’ll stop.”

A pathetic sound passed through me as I tried to make the words make sense. I wanted to trust it. I wanted to trust him. But that little voice in the back of my head picked at it. What if he was just saying it to say it? What if he didn’t mean it? How could I trust the words?

“Just tell me, okay?” he repeated. Words stuck in my throat, and I wasn’t sure how to say the little things bubbling up inside me, so I just nodded. Tipping my head down slightly, he pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead. Why was it so oddly comfortable when he did that? It confused me. “Come on. I’ve got somewhere I want to take you.”

I bit back a frustrated groan. I didn’t fucking want to go anywhere.

“You’ll like it,” Jackson assured me. “I promise.”