Page 85 of Hidden & Held

Mrs. Reynolds hands him a wrench, and he takes it obediently. However, I can tell he is ignoring whatever instruction she gives. Knowing her, and judging by the pink on his cheeks, she was asking for some sort of risqué pose or a statement from him like “it’s tight, but I’ll make it fit.”

She smacks him lightly on the back of the head when he ignores her. I snort as Jackson rubs the spot dramatically. Mrs. Reynolds points toward the engine, her eyeglass strap shaking with her movements. He salutes and continues on as she looks disapprovingly at the scene.

Five minutes later, the Cadillac starts and the engine sounds smoother than it has in years. She throws both hands into the air victoriously as Jackson grins, wiping his hands on a rag.

His smile disarms me. Not because he’s handsome. Although he is annoyingly good-looking. It’s because he looks happy. Comfortable with this woman, a fixture of Cascadia.

Mrs. Reynolds reaches into the passenger seat and pulls out an entire pan of her famous “Slutty Brownies.” They are a decadent chocolate chip cookie, Oreo, and brownie combination she loves to pass out. Jackson’s eyes widen at her explanation of the baked goods she is trying to pawn off as payment. He tries refusing, but she shoves it at him harder. She pats his cheek lightly, and his face turns solemn as he nods.

My chest tightens unexpectedly at his somber expression. Over the past few weeks, he’s been everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The vase he fixed never sits empty, like before. New flowers always appear, but no notes this time to explain their meaning.

The vegetables in my refrigerator mysteriously appear pre-chopped. And twice I’ve found meals in containers labeled only with reheating instructions, even reminding me to remove from the container at times … which, the plastic only melted once, I might add.

I’m also pretty sure someone replaced the batteries in my smoke detector; it stopped doing that annoying blinking thing. I never figured out when.

Jackson gives me space the same way the tide gives space to the shore. Constantly returning.

As if sensing my stare, he glances up, and our eyes meet through the window. His somber expression falters slightly, but not completely. Neither of us wave. Neither of us look away either.

Mrs. Reynolds follows his gaze and sees me. She turns to Jackson and back to me. She purses her lips with a knowing look. She points between us, lowers her glasses to her nose, and waggles her eyebrows dramatically, then proceeds to fan herself while turning to check out Jackson from head-to-toe. He visibly winces and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, which only puts his muscles on further display.

Pulling the curtains closed, the last thing I see is Mrs. Reynolds laughing at him. I head upstairs before I can do something embarrassing, like open the curtain again. The house creaks around me as I move through my evening routine. Boot off. Face washed. Hair twisted into a loose knot.

By the time I change into an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, the sky outside has gone dark. Normally, this is the part of the evening when I read. Instead, I grab my phone from the nightstand. My favorite gift from Jackson waits in a folder simply labeled:

For My Dear Proprietress

The first time he uploaded a chapter, I almost threw my phone across the room. The second time, I listened for five minutes. The third time, I accidentally listened to all forty-two minutes. Now there are twelve chapters sitting in the folder. Twelve chapters of The Viscountess and Her Scandalous Desires. A book that hasn’t made it to audio yet.

I settle against my pillows and press play. For a second, there’s only the rustle of paper. Then Jackson’s voice fills the room. Low, smooth, and dangerous to my peace of mind.

“Chapter Thirteen.” A pause, then the sound of a book falling. “Damn it.” More paper rustling.

I smile despite myself. Jackson’s voice could make him a successful narrator, but he doesn’t have the logistics down yet, always missing one thing or another for his recordings.

My traitorous heart squeezes at his sweetness as the chapter begins. The viscount has finally won back his wayward viscountess, whom he spent three hundred pages being an idiot to. Relatable.

“He watched her from across the ballroom, aware that every sensible decision would require him to stay exactly where he was.”

Jackson’s voice drops slightly as he continues.

“… instead, he crossed the room.”

Heat blooms low in my stomach. Not because of the words. Because I know exactly how Jackson sounds when he’s concentrating. How he pauses at commas. How he occasionally mutters at characters making poor choices. The commentary may break me from the story, but it adds to the experience. Listening to him is like he’s sitting beside me. Like everything isn’t different now.

The chapter continues as Jackson reads on. The viscount reaches for his wife’s hand, explaining his undying love for her, needing her like he can’t breathe. She relents, and they retire to their bedroom at their country estate, leaving the guests of the ball to manage themselves, a scandalous proposition.

He has declared his undying love for his wife, wanting to show her by reuniting together with their bodies, something they haven’t done since their separation after his betrayal.

“His viscountess is lying in their marriage bed once more, desire pouring through her expression, having not felt this passion in half a past year, and only briefly before. The viscount’s fingers are sliding inside her, palm rubbing circles against her most sensitive parts.”

“My Lord,” she pants out. “This … this feeling is surpassing our times before.”

The viscount’s chest swells with pride, making his lady feel this way. “It’s William to you, dear Beatrice, always William.” He slides his fingers higher inside her, moving her entire body farther on the bed.”

“You can do this yourself, on the few occasions I must tear myself away from you to travel for business. I never want my Lady wanting for anything. Would you like me to show you?”

Her stuttered breathing makes her take a moment before she can speak. “That … that would be most kind of you, William.”