Asshole.
“Don’t. Seriously, Jackson, this is truly never going to work if we don’t both act like adults and realize that it was an error in judgment and move on. We fucked. It happened, and now we’re moving past it like it never happened.”
I remove my hand from his mouth, and only then do I notice that his whiskey-colored eyes have darkened. He steps forward until the tips of his dirty boots touch my stiletto boots. “Don’t worry, Snowflake. You’ll be begging me for my cock again soon.”
My jaw drops in shock. Excuse me? That… He’s…
Before I can even form a response to that, he’s halfway across the room, pulling a measuring tape out of the back pocket of his sinfully tight, faded jeans.
I don’t let my gaze linger and instead stride over to him. “So you’re just going to measure… What, exactly?”
“Clearly, we’re not getting anywhere standing around, talking about things that don’t matter, right?” His brows rise as if repeating my own words back to me is going to win this argument. “Might as well make good use of the time. What do you need from me?”
Sighing, I walk back over to my bag and pull out my notebook and pen, opening it to the last page I took notes on before… that night happened.
“Uh… Theme. You said you’re against a black-tie cocktail affair, but we have to meet in the middle somewhere. Can we at least have a sit-down, formal dinner? If not, I worry my parents might not even come to the damn party, and it’s important to them, okay? I know you probably don’t care, but this party is a centuries-old tradition for my family.”
“Sure, but I’m not using five forks, and I’m definitely not eating some crazy shit like caviar. How about a sit-down dinner with regular Christmas food? Turkey? Roast? Something everyone likes?”
I nod, brushing my hair out of my face as I write it down in my notebook. “Fine. Champagne? Beer?”
Even though the thought of drinking another beer makes me want to gag, I know we should have a variety for everyone.
“Definitely. Maybe some seltzers? BYOB or a paid bar?”
“BYOB? Oh no. A paid bar,” I say, jotting it down. “What about hiring someone to play piano?”
Jackson’s brows tug together in obvious distaste as he sighs. “Emmie, listen, I understand that you want this to be something fancy, and that’s what your family has always done. I get it. I do, I really do. But I also need you to understand that my family parties… aren’t like that. We’ve got to meet somewhere in the middle,” he says, parroting back my earlier words. “No piano, but what about a band? Something festive and fun and not so… cold? No offense.”
I try not to take offense at that as I scribble it down. “Okay, we can decide on which band later, but the rest sounds okay. For an overall theme, what about… a winter wonderland? We can dress that theme up or down?”
He nods. “Don’t really care about the decorations, Snowflake.”
Thank God. I can’t imagine fighting with him over the color of the decorations.
“Okay, well, I was thinking maybe some real fir garland here? And a few candles on each table to set the tone. Even just a few pieces here and there can make it look classy and elegant. Could you, uh… measure the wall right there?”
He nods, then disappears through the door leading to the back of Town Hall, returning a few moments later with a rickety ladder that’s missing the bottom rung.
“Uh, are you sure you should be climbing on that? It looks like it’s going to fall apart the moment you step foot on it.” He shoots me a look that says he’s got it covered, so I raise my hands in surrender and go back to writing in my notebook.
I feel slightly better now that we’ve gotten some of the major things nailed down, and much easier than I anticipated. But there’s still so much to do and so little time.
“Jackson, I—” Just as I call his name, he looks back at me, and the metal of the decrepit ladder groans under his weight, then gives out, sending him barreling backward. I run over like I’m going to be able to… I don’t know, catch him or something, but he hits the ground before I can even close the distance between us.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” he groans, sprawled on his back on the floor.
Rushing over, I throw my notebook and pen down onto the floor and drop to my knees by his head. “Oh my God. Are you okay? Are your legs broken? Can you wiggle your toes? Shit, I was just joking when I said I wanted to run you over with my car. I didn’t actually want anything to happen to yo—”
“Emmie?” he says, low and rough, his eyes squeezed shut in pain.
I’m seriously worried he’s broken something or he’s going to have a concussion or something. As angry as he does make me, I definitely do not want anything to happen to him.
“Yes?” I say, leaning over him, running my hands over his torso to check for any bones or blood. We’re so close I can feel his breath against my lips.
“I’m good, and as much as I’m glad that you didn’t actually want me to die, can you let me up?”
Oh.
Ohhh.
“Yes. Of course, sorry!” I say, scrambling to my feet and extending my hand to him, which he bypasses and lifts himself off his back in one swift motion. For someone who just fell off a ladder and landed flat on his back, he sure recovered quickly.
He must read my expression because he chuckles, rolling his neck on his shoulders. “Not the first time I’ve fallen off a ladder. Won’t be the last. Flattered that you’re worried about me though.”
“I… I was not worried. I was simply… protecting my asset. Because you know if you’re dead, then this party can’t happen, and I do not ever want to spend another night in that jail cell ever again.”
“Sure,” he hums, bending down to pick up his measuring tape, which fell in his scuffle. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep better at night, Snowflake.”
Snowflake. The new stupid nickname that definitely does not cause any kind of weird flurries in my stomach.
Absolutely not.
I’ve still got adrenaline pumping through my veins from nearly seeing death right in front of my eyes.
“Okay, well, moving right along. We’ve gotten most of the major points nailed down, but we’ll need to discuss the smaller details more in depth. Unfortunately, I think we’re going to have to make a trip to the city to get some of the things we need on such a short timeline.”
That stops him in his tracks. “And when do you suppose that will happen? I have a big job that I’m trying to close.”
I pull my calendar out of my bag and check the dates quickly. “I’m free this weekend? My clients had a last-minute trip scheduled, so it left me open.”
Thankfully, most of my upcoming design jobs don’t start until the New Year, so my schedule has more wiggle room than it normally would. Interior designer perks. Especially since I no longer offer holiday decorating for my clients so that I can do my own. Plus, now I have this party to handle.
Jackson pulls his phone out of his front pocket and swipes across the screen before dragging his gaze back to mine. “I can leave Friday afternoon, maybe around two.”