And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 17

CHAPTER 17

DELILAH

I wake up when the mattress dips.

Sheets rustle and then a pillow falls on top of my head. I push it away, groggy, squinting into the light that filters in from behind the curtains.

My pillow wall is in shambles around us, my arm slung over Jackson’s waist. He’s half-reclined on the bed, watching me, frozen with one foot planted on the floor.

“Were you trying to sneak out of bed?” I slur, letting the pillow fall back over my face. I’m not used to waking up with someone else. I’m disoriented and still more than seventy-five percent asleep.

I feel his body tense and then relax under my cheek. A gentle tug on my hair. His fingers, maybe.

“Yes,” he says quietly. He hesitates. “But you are surprisingly strong.”

I rub my cheek back and forth over his T-shirt. I’ll probably be humiliated about this in an hour, but right now I feel soft and hazy and warm. Weightless. “And you are surprisingly comfortable. Do you use fabric softener?”

“Of course I do.” Another gentle tug at my hair, right behind my ear this time. I peek open one eye and can just barely make out his face. He’s staring at the top of my head with a half smile, his glasses slightly crooked.

“I didn’t know hair could defy the laws of gravity,” he says, his voice hushed.

I snort. “Not true. I looked through your toiletry bag, remember? I saw

your hair products.”

“Fair point.”

He keeps combing gently through my hair and I keep using him as a pillow, the both of us caught in some hazy in-between. It’s mundane and magic. Outside this room, cold presses at the windows and a storm settles over the lake, but in here it’s just us. The gentle press of his fingers against my scalp. The rise and fall of his chest. The rasp of his breathing and the smell of his shampoo on the pillows. It fills a particular ache I didn’t even know I had. It’s entirely possible I’m still dreaming. A thought that is disrupted when Metallica starts playing—loudly—from my nightstand.

I groan immediately, loud and petulant, flopping off of Jackson.

“That’s an interesting ringtone.”

“I didn’t choose it.” I slap blindly at the nightstand, knocking over the hotel phone and sending the television remote skittering across the floor.

“It’s Gianna.”

His face is open, curious. A pillow line on his cheek. “Gianna?”

“She works in research at the station. Hold on a sec.”

I finally manage to grab my phone, answering the call with a slide of my thumb. “Hello?”

A pause. “I forgot what a mess you are early in the morning.” A wrapper crinkles in the background. “Weird,” she says, mouth half-full.

“Considering you’ve been doing early-morning broadcasts for, like, five years.”

Jackson lifts himself from the bed and pads his way over to the window. I watch as he reaches for the drapes, pulling them wide, bathing himself in the light from outside. He immediately presses his face close to the glass,

his nose bumping up against it. I grin.

“Delilah? Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I manage. I force myself to stop looking at Jackson. I study my shambolic pillow wall instead. It looks like I burrowed right through the middle of it. That’s embarrassing. No wonder Jackson was trying to levitate himself out of the bed this morning. I clear my throat. “I’m here and I’m listening. What’s going on?”

“First, an apology. I’ve consumed all the protein bars in your desk and half of the candy you thought I wouldn’t find.”

“I put that stuff there so you would eat, Gianna.” I sit up in bed and restack the pillows. “Did you find anything with your research?”

After the hotel room incident, I asked her to poke around and see if she could find anything about the person who canceled the reservation.

“I found lots of things.” A chair squeaks, papers rustle, and a mouse clicks around. “Keith is definitely up to something with this trip,” Gianna says, lowering her voice. “But he was smarter than I anticipated with the hotel cancellation. It doesn’t trace back to him.”

“Who does it trace back to?”

“You,” Gianna answers. “It was sent from your email address to the hotel

directly.”

“I didn’t send any emails, I swear, I—”

“Hush. Relax. I know that. The IP address on it was from the station, and you were already well on your way to Deep Creek when it was sent. I documented it for you and put it in a super-secret folder with the rest of the stuff.”

My forehead scrunches. “‘Rest of the stuff’?”

At the window, Jackson turns halfway in my direction, then shifts back to gazing out the window. He’s listening, but trying not to.

More clicking. Some furious keyboard typing. “There’s some other stuff, but I want to follow up on it before I bring it to you. Don’t worry your pretty little face about it, okay? Let Momma cook.”

I sigh. Gianna never shares anything before she’s ready. “Not even a hint?”

“Not a hint.” I hear the squeak of her chair as she kicks back. A drawer opening and the rustle of a candy bag. “Now. The important stuff. How’s weather boy?”

My cheeks immediately flush hot. I am painfully aware of the silence in this room, and how he might be able to hear everything I’m saying. I watch him carefully, but his face stays blank.

“Fine,” I answer.

“Fine?”

I pick at a loose thread on the quilt. “Mm-hmm. Fine.”

“Is he being nice?”

I think about waking up with my body on top of his. The way his fingers worked through my hair. How gentle he is with me sometimes. “Yes. He’s being nice.”

That statement makes Jackson turn in my direction, forgetting his attempts to offer me privacy. He leans one shoulder up against the window

and gives me a look that I can’t quite decipher—heat, hesitation, bone-deep amusement—one side of his mouth curling up into a smile.

“Because if he’s not being nice, all you need to do is hand him the phone.”

I realize I’m smiling back. “There’s no need for violence, Gi.”

“Just letting you know your options.”

“Oh. Hey. Speaking of options, Mark had an interesting question for me the other day.”

“Mark?” she asks. “Is he the tall one with the beard? The one who grunts?”

I laugh. Jackson has moved over to the tiny coffeepot. He places two mugs out, plucking three of the brown sugar packets I prefer from the

container.

“You know who Mark is, Gianna.”

“Vaguely. What did he ask?”

“He asked if you were single.”

Gianna goes silent. No squeaky desk chair. No rustling candy wrappers. I don’t even hear her breathing. I have to check the screen of my phone to

make sure our call is still connected.

“Want to share what that’s all about?”

“I have no idea,” she says, sounding guilty as hell.

I laugh out loud. Jackson shifts in front of the coffeepot, hand rubbing at

his neck.

“You’re such a bad liar,” I tell her.

“Yeah? Pot meet kettle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She snorts. “He’s being nice,” she grumbles to herself.

I laugh again. Jackson smiles to himself as he pours out the coffee then ambles over to the bed with a mug in each hand. There’s something deliciously soft about his bedhead and sleep-rumpled shirt. Jackson, before the rest of the world gets to see him.

“We’ll be discussing this at a later date,” I promise.

“Not if I can help it. I’m saying goodbye now.”

“Goodbye. Eat something that isn’t prepackaged,” I tell her. “Preferably green.”

“Bah,” she says, and then she’s gone. I toss my phone back onto the nightstand and settle against the headboard. Jackson hands me my cup of

coffee, our fingertips brushing, then settles on the bed next to me, his long legs stretched out in front of him. It’s so simple, so lovely. To just sit here quietly with another person. To not have to be anything except myself.

“How’s it looking out there?” I ask.

He smiles at me over the rim of his mug. “Like a massive weather system is settling in. By the time we broadcast this morning, we might have some of that weather people fighting for their lives content viewers seem to love so much.”

I laugh. “I did bring ski goggles, just in case.”

“I’d ask if that’s a joke, but I saw them in your suitcase.”

“Brought a pair for you too.”

He snorts, turning halfway, looking back toward the window. His face is cast in grays and blues, his eyes so bright they look like sapphires.

“Lucky me,” he says easily. And it doesn’t sound like a joke, or sarcasm, or any of the dry intention he usually laces his words with.

It sounds like he means it.

He’s right, of course.

Standing out on the patio today is a completely different experience than yesterday. We might as well be standing at the edge of one of the polar ice caps. The wind bites at my cheeks and snow slips through every crevice it can find, burning cold against my skin. We’re going to have to figure out something else for the rest of our broadcasts.

I tug my hood tighter and push my snow goggles up my forehead, shivering in my boots. Jackson isn’t doing much better. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, his hood pulled up over his head. Snowflakes keep landing against his glasses and he wipes them away impatiently, streaks of moisture obscuring his lenses.

“Do you want your goggles?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I root around in my pocket and pull out a scone I saved from breakfast.

“Food?”

He shakes his head again, looking a little lost. Another sharp gust of wind howls through the trees and I balk, tucking my chin into the collar of my jacket. Jackson finally looks at me, a frown between his brows.

“You’re cold,” he says.

I laugh. “Yes, well, it’s two degrees outside, Jackson.”

“It’s actually negative seven with the windchill.” He lifts his hand, rubbing at the outside of my jacket. It does absolutely nothing to warm my body up, but it does make my heart glow in my chest.

Stupid.

I’m a silly girl with a silly little crush.

“This coat isn’t warm enough,” he says.

“It’s fine.”

“What’s it filled with? Cotton balls?”

I roll my eyes and try to bite out a response, but my teeth clench down hard around another shiver. We should have waited inside while Mark troubleshooted the livestream. He hasn’t had any luck with getting a steady connection to wire our footage back to the station. We knew it would be difficult to connect this morning, and I wanted to be a team player while he tried to set it up in the cold. No man left behind, and all that.

Jackson grips my bicep. “Come with me,” he says.

He shouts something to Mark that I can’t hear over the wind and then he’s towing me across the porch, around the corner, back to our little alcove where I impulsively kissed him yesterday. I immediately flush hot, then cold, then hot again when he drags me in there with him, tucking me up against the wall. He props his hands over my shoulders, filling up the space in front of me as he uses his body to block out the wind.

Dark blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. A little mark on his nose from his

glasses.

All I see is Jackson.

“Mark’s gonna grab us at the thirty-second warning,” he says. He ducks his face down a little bit, closer to mine. I can smell his body wash on his skin. The coffee he had with breakfast. “Okay?”

I nod, my arms curled around myself, still shivering. “Okay.”

“Is this better?”

It’s less exposed to the elements, for sure, but it’s more exposed to my poor decision-making. I watch his face, liquid warmth spilling in my belly at the way we’re standing together.

“It’s better,” I say. My heart picks up. I let myself look at his mouth for one second, two. “How are you feeling?”

He exhales a sharp breath. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “It gets worse

the closer we get.”

“Think you’re going to talk about corn sweat again?”

He shifts, the swishy fabric of his jacket brushing up against mine. “I want to say no, but it’s a distinct possibility.”

I know what I should do. I should stand here with Jackson and talk to him about something mundane until Mark taps us for the broadcast. Maybe argue with him a little bit. He seems to like that.

But there’s something about the way Jackson is looking at me. He’s watchful. Expectant. Like he’s waiting for me to take charge, just like last time. The temptation of giving in and calling it a distraction plucks at me the longer we stand tucked together in this tiny alcove. Maybe with one more kiss, I’ll satisfy this craving burning a hole through the center of my

chest.

It did help him before.

“I thought we could maybe start with talking about some of the trees and how they’ve evolved in this area to bear the brunt of snowfall,” he says.

“Oak trees, actually, are—” He huffs out a harsh breath, one hand reaching up to anchor against the back of his neck. Physically stopping himself from

one of his rambles.

“Delilah,” he bites out. “I’m a mess.”

I shake my head. “You’re not. You’re fine.”

His thumb catches slightly in my hair. “I need your help,” he whispers.

My heart climbs to my throat. “How?”

“You know how.”

Behind him on the other side of the porch, Mark shouts my name.

“One second,” I yell back, not looking away from Jackson.

I wet my lips. Jackson’s gaze lands heavy against my mouth. “Tell me how you want me to help,” I say. Jackson shifts closer. “I don’t want any misunderstandings. You need to ask me for it, Jackson.”

His sigh is low and slow. “I need you to get me out of my head. I’m freaking out over here.”

I uncross my arms from my chest and press my palms to his rib cage.

Feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I need you to distract me,” he whispers. His hand slips up my arm and over my shoulder. Around to the top of my spine. He tips my head back.

“You still need me to ask for what I want?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I really do.”

I want the words. I want his choice.

He ducks his face down to mine with a low hum, and our noses brush together. Every single part of my body swoops, like I’ve just crested the top of a roller coaster.

“Kiss me, Delilah,” he says. “Make it all go away. Please.”

My hands are fisted in his jacket before the last syllable is even out of his mouth.

He asked so nicely, I tell myself. He needs it.

It’s just a kiss.

The justification doesn’t feel important as I press up on my toes and slot my mouth against his. I stumble into him and then he urges me back, my shoulders pressed against the scratchy wood siding of the lodge, my hair tangled around his gloved fingers.

Last time, I held myself perfectly still, the kiss over before the action caught up with the rest of me. This time, I am present and aware of everything. My bottom lip, caught between both of his. The harsh pant of his breath against the curve of my cheek. This kiss is not only premeditated, it’s indulgent.

I angle my head to the side and Jackson follows, his gloved thumb tracing a firm line in the space below my ear. I let myself soften in his grip, arch my back. Part my lips and breathe out a deep exhale against his. We’re still so close that when I wet my lips, my tongue touches the corner of his mouth. He makes a deep, rattling sound that I want to carve into the wall

with our names.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I pull back an inch so I can look up into his face.

I don’t expect to see Mark, hovering over his shoulder.

I try to push Jackson away, but he holds me tight, one hand still curved against the back of my neck and the other at my hip.

“No,” he says, his voice a low rasp. He’s misunderstanding my panic.

“Come back.”

“Jackson,” I whisper-hiss. “Let go. We need to—”

Mark clears his throat and Jackson releases me, his face stricken. Mark doesn’t seem surprised to find us tangled in this tiny corner tucked up against the lodge. If anything, he looks grimly resigned.

“Sorry.” I force a smile. “We were just going over our notes—”

Mark ignores me, pushing past Jackson and reaching for the collar of my jacket.

“What are you—” I try to pull away. “Mark! What are you doing?”

Jackson tries to wedge his body between us, but Mark is undeterred. This little space could barely fit two people. Now there are three of us ping- ponging off the walls.

I get a good smack to the top of Mark’s head. “Stop it, you’re going to —”

He finally gets a good grip on my mic and yanks it forcefully from my body. The wire that connected it to the transmission pack at the small of my back tugs loose, and the three of us freeze, staring at it dangling limply between us.

“I was calling you,” Mark accuses, defensive. “I called your name three times.”

Jackson drags his hand over his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Realization is a slow-dawning thing. It rises around me like a tide, licking at my ankles before constricting at my chest. I can’t breathe around it. The enormity of the mistake I’ve just made.

“Your mic was live.” Mark confirms my fears. “The broadcast went through. All of Baltimore just heard you two.”

SIMONE LEEDS: Well, uh.

[clears throat]

SIMONE LEEDS: Some technical difficulties out in Deep Creek.

SIMONE LEEDS: We’ll be back after these messages.