Page 21 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
“It sucks that he gives you a hard time about something you love, something that brings millions of people joy. To sing like you do, play like you do—it’s a gift, and it’s a damn good thing you share it.”
I smile. I can’t not. I feel the grin inside my soul. “Thank you. A million times, thank you.”
He gives an it’s nothing shrug, then asks, “So you paid your own way through college?”
I nod, proud of that accomplishment. “I did. Went to UCLA, took out loans, studied music. And paid off all my loans and then some—funded a scholarship for kids with dickhead parents.”
Jackson cracks up, a big, hearty laugh. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Indeed. Named it myself.”
“Did you really start a scholarship?”
My tone turns serious, because I take it that way. “I did. It’s for students who need financial help. Pays the way for several kids a year to study music. So there, Dad,” I say, flipping the bird to my father in California.
He claps my shoulder, and that momentary touch sends a spark through me. “Proud of you, man. That’s awesome.” When his hand drops, I immediately wish he’d put it on me again.
But I let go of that wish and return to the conversation. “And how’s Bethany? Did you hang out with her?”
“I did. Took her out for a London Fog this morning.” Jackson parts his lips like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
I shoot him a curious stare. “What did you just not say?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, his eyes not meeting mine.
“C’mon. You were about to say something.”
He draws a deep breath, like he needs extra air for his next few words. “Want to see a picture of her? From this morning?”
I light up. I’m an arcade game hitting a high score. “Hell yeah. I want it, and I want it now.”
The smile that tugs at his lips is endearing. I want to steal that smile and keep it in my collection. I want to hide it in my pocket and take it out when I need a jolt of happiness.
He reaches for his phone, slides his thumb across the screen, and shows me his camera roll. A girl with pink hair and a cool AF nose ring has wedged herself next to Jackson, smushed her cheek to his, and is grinning at the camera. And this man—he’s smiling too. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before, the kind that only family can put on your face.
I stare at the image, then at him, then back at the image. “I. LOVE. THIS. PICTURE.”
“Yeah?”
“I love it so much that it’s going to be my next song.”
“You’re writing a song about a picture?”
“Yes. I’ll call it . . . ‘Pictures of You.’”
He laughs. “The Cure beat you to that, man.”
“‘Photograph’?”
“Hello? Heard of Ed Sheeran?”
“‘Picture This’?” I’m spurred on by the way he can keep up in this musical game.
“Blondie.” He slams his hand on an imaginary buzzer, making a loud squawk. “Try again.”
I stare at the ceiling of the plane, like the answer is up there, then I snap my gaze back to him. Taking my time. Letting a new title roll around in my mouth, take shape on my tongue, till I know, just know, it feels right. “‘The Guy in the Picture.’”
His jaw goes slack. The lightness in his eyes disappears. A hint of intensity flickers across his irises. “Yeah, that’s a good title.”
I think I might have just told Jackson I’m going to write a song about him. Yeah, that’s not coming on strong at all.
Time to slide back onto Platonic Lane. “So, you saw Bethany. Had some London Fogs. Did you discuss Imagine Dragons?”
“And Rent. And boys.”
I arch a brow. “That sounds like an interesting conversation.”
He mimes zipping his lips. “I’m not going to tell you a word my sister said.”
Nudging his side with my elbow, I dip my voice. “But what about you? I kind of want to know what you said about boys.”
The look he deals me is searing. His eyes are hot, flashing with “It was hard for me to resist you too.” Or maybe I’m reading into them. Maybe thirty days of solo sessions with my hand are making me a little horny.
Or a lot.
Maybe I’m shit at the platonic zone with Captain Mostly Stoic, since I’m more like the King of Dirty Flirting with him. “What did you say about boys? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“You’re not going to get a word of that from me.”
His answer is a little playful, and I can’t resist it. “That’s okay. I don’t really want to know what you think about boys. I’m much more interested in what you think about . . . men.” I say it in a hot, dirty whisper and leave it to float in the air between us.
