Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Jackson hacks away with the knife, seemingly lost in his own little world, tongue peeking out between his lips, not paying attention to me.
Not until a low hmm escapes from the back of my throat.
“I know you said it was nothin’, but I can hear you thinkin’ without even lookin’ up.” His arm pauses, knife still, stuck inside the letter F.
Zero fux given.
“I was just wondering what we’re doing.”
It’s too soon to have a relationship talk; I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from being confused, and my mind isn’t going to let this go. I have to know what Jackson wants from me or it’s going to drive me insane.
“We stuffed a scarecrow, then we ate caramel apples, now we’re tryin’ to carve this pumpkin before them idiots get back with theirs.”
Ugh, he’s deliberately being obtuse. He knows damn well what I’m asking.
“No, I mean what are we doing.” I can’t make my lips say the words I’m thinking: What do you want with me, Jackson? If you don’t want to date me then we shouldn’t be spending time together.
“Hanging out.”
Oh god. It’s worse than I thought. Hanging out?
Hanging.
Out.
That’s what guys say when they’re stringing along someone they most definitely don’t have any intention of dating. I’ve seen it a million times before; they won’t use the word date, and they won’t say “just fucking,” so they tag the status as “hanging out” so they never have to explain the situation. Or their feelings.
I know he’s not stringing me along; he’s already told me he isn’t going to date me.
But this is a date. He said it was.
I just want to know what comes next. Tomorrow. Next week.
I want to prepare myself to forget all about Jackson Jennings Junior after tonight and move on to someone who wants me to be somethin’—not a nothin’.
I won’t stalk him on social media. I won’t go to his football games. I won’t see him if he wants to hang out again.
Because all I’ll end up doing is liking him; I can already feel a crush coming on. It took root the second he took me to that farm, helped me into that hay wagon, and walked around a pumpkin field with me.
Watching him stuff Biff McMuscles, the scarecrow version, into his truck…a hulking, overgrown boy of a man…that did something to me. Something warm and melty like the caramel on my apple, sweet and salty and just the thing I didn’t know I needed.
Jackson
I know why Charlie is looking at me that way, but I’m doing my best to avoid her question by playing dumb.
This was a bad idea.
She didn’t want to come out with me in the first place, but I couldn’t resist the fucking challenge, and now she’s sitting in my goddamn kitchen, at my goddamn table—in that dress and those shoes, with that hair and that smile.
The blush on her cheeks make the freckles across the bridge of her nose brighter.
So I say the only thing I can think of to avoid softening those blue eyes any further.
“Hanging out.”
Her full lips turn down and I know I’ve disappointed her, but shit. Emotionally, I can’t afford to actually date her—I can take her on dates, but that’s it.
One date here, one date there.
When I have time, which is rare.
Girls always want more. Expect more. Demand more.
Time, energy, attention.
Everything.
I watched my mama do it to Pops for years—it was never enough attention. He was just too busy, obsessing over football from the time I could walk, and raising me to be a star athlete, like he was in school. When I showed promise, my daddy found his passion: getting me on track to play pro ball, something he could never do himself.
They fought. She cried. He left.
They fought. She cried. He left.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“Hanging out,” Charlie repeats. “Gotcha.”
She pushes her chair back and rises from the table, taking the cookie sheet of seeds along with her, walking to the counter. Back to me, ramrod straight.
Legs, tan and smooth.
Ass, firm and round.
She’s removed her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, shoulders baring, hair falling to one side of her neck, long and silky.
I clear my throat and get back to my task. “This was fun, yeah?”
“Yup.”
Shit. I know that particular version of yup—I’ve said it a dozen times myself, in that tone. She’s pissed, but she’ll deny it now that I’ve soured the mood with the truth.
What does she want from me?
I watch her at the counter—my counter—I feel…
Guilty as fuck.
I should never have asked her out. She’s going to develop expectations, and I might not have the balls to shut her down completely when it turns out, I’m not ready.
Not really.
I have no practice dealing with women. Guys, yes. Girls? No.
I’ve never dated a single soul. Never taken a date to a high school dance, never made out with anyone in the back of a car. Or my truck. Or a cornfield.