Page 45 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
I’m not pursuing him. I can’t pursue him. We drew our lines.
Jackson answers quickly enough, shaking his head. “No, but we lived together for a couple of years. We were together. Committed partners.”
But now that I know, the intel doesn’t bother me. It kind of impresses me, knowing that he has it in him to live a life of devotion. So many of the pieces of Jackson are coming together. They’re making sense. The picture of him colors in, and I like what I see.
“What went wrong, J?” I ask softly, wishing I could touch him, run a hand along his arm.
But then, why can’t I?
I’m a toucher. That’s how I’m wired. I need it, and I can sense this man does too. I stretch out my right hand, sliding it along his wrist.
For a second, he shivers, and it’s both sexy and tender.
Then he swallows. Pain flashes across his eyes as he meets my gaze. “He was killed doing a motorcycle stunt. A triple jump for prize money.” He shakes his head, huffing. “He was a YouTube daredevil. Did stunts for social media. He died about two years ago.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. Does it still hurt?”
Pursing his lips, he takes his time answering. “I’m fine. I appreciate you asking. But truly, I’m okay.”
The way he says “okay” lingers in the air, like each letter hovers in its own space. It doesn’t sound like a half-baked okay. It sounds like an okay in the good sense of the word. The kind you aspire to.
Especially when he adds, “I’m definitely a lot better now.”
I swear he holds my gaze with import, with intensity. And that intensity does something to my insides. Makes them flip.
This is a brand-new sensation. One I haven’t felt before.
Maybe I’m reading into his answer in a way I shouldn’t.
Or maybe my mind is running ahead of me.
I don’t entirely understand why my pulse is skittering. I just know that it is.
“What about you?” Jackson asks. “Have you ever been serious with anyone?”
Letting go of his arm, I scratch my chin, considering the question. “I’ve dated. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve had boyfriends. But nothing that ever amounted to much. Nothing that ever felt serious. If anything, when I was with someone, it felt more like casual dating for a while. If that makes sense. Someone I’d go to events with. Someone I’d see at galas and premieres, at restaurants and such. That probably sounds silly to you,” I say, since it sounds shallow to me now that I give it voice.
He shakes his head. “No judgment. You live how you live. You love how you love.”
“I don’t know that it was love. Not like what you had. Were you going to marry him?”
“Probably. But that wasn’t in the cards.”
One more puzzle piece snaps into place. “In the limo. That night. You said it had been a while for you,” I say, taking my time with the details, trying to understand why they’re making my pulse spike even harder. “You haven’t been with anyone since him?”
“That is true. No one till you,” he adds, like he needs to clarify that point, or maybe just bring it up front and into the open, like I did with my question.
And, hell, I like that I’m the first guy he’s been with.
But why?
Makes no sense why I’d dig that nugget of info.
I’m a player. Always have been. Probably always will be.
“Interesting.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why my throat is dry, why my head is spinning with wild ideas, why my skin is prickling with something like anticipation.
I can’t be anticipating anything, because nothing is going to happen with this guy and me.
Except dinner. Hopefully really soon, because I am hungry.
“And you? You like to play the field?” Jackson asks, but there’s no judgment in his tone. Only curiosity, only interest.
But I don’t answer, because the waiter swings by with our food, and we tuck in. As I take a bite, moaning about how delicious the lion chow is, I answer in my head.
I like to play the field because the field is awesome. Because I love sex, I love contact, I love closeness.
I also like to play the field because it’s all I’ve known from a life lived on the road.
A life where falling in love was never an option.
A life where moving, doing, acting, singing, living, and playing was all I knew.
“I’ve liked playing the field,” I say, answering him at last. “But it also fit with the last ten years of my life, you know? Being on the road. Tours. Concerts. Press junkets. Never settling down. Know what I mean?”
“I do. I get you. It fits you,” he says.
“And do you like being serious?”
He slices a piece of chicken. “It feels more like my natural state. My last job was also local in Los Angeles, so I had a whole daily life there with . . . Fabian.”
