Page 24 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
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.”
He drags his hand over his face, like he’s messed up. Like everything he’s said is a risky confession. And it is. I feel the weight of his words in my soul.
This can’t be easy for him.
He lowers his face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and heaves a sigh, and for one of the first times ever, I don’t simply do.
I think.
I take my time.
I don’t act on instinct and slide next to him. I don’t stretch my hand across to his neck and knead it.
I speak from the heart and the mind.
“I appreciate you saying that, Jackson. Appreciate you laying it on the line. I don’t know how to reassure you with anything but the truth. And it’s this—I will keep my hands off you. I will keep my dirty thoughts to myself. I will stop flirting, stop teasing you. Stop everything. I can do it. I did it for the last month. You know I did.”
He raises his face. “You did.”
“I don’t want to compromise you. I don’t want to risk your integrity. You’re amazing at your job. And I need you to know I would never fire you for what happened, and I would never fire you because I want you. And I would never fire you for what you just said. I’m not that kind of guy. Hell, I barely feel like the boss.”
A tiny smile curves his lips. “What do you feel like?”
That’s a good question. But the answer is easy. “I feel like someone who needs you too. You need the job, sure. But, man, I need you. You make my job possible. You make me feel safe. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”
He smiles wide now. Full of pride. “Thank you. But you need me to think. To anticipate. To be ten steps ahead.”
“I do, and you are.”
“But I don’t want to mess that up on account of the other stuff,” he says, his tone heavy. “On account of the way I’m all wound up.”
“I don’t think you could mess it up.”
He glances out the window. I follow his gaze. We’re zipping past The Extravagant now, heading away from our hotel.
He turns back to meet my eyes, and his aren’t anxious anymore. They aren’t worried.
But I’m not entirely sure what I see in them.
Because it looks like he’s still working through a problem, turning it over, trying to solve it. “The thing is,” he says, taking his time with every word, “I need to be able to think clearly around you.”
