And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 23

CHAPTER 23

DELILAH

I burst through the door to our room with the energy of a tiny tornado. If I had any cardiovascular endurance at all, I could probably run up one of the ski slopes. Do a lap around the top of the mountain, then tumble all the way to the bottom. I feel like I could fly if I wanted to. I am riding high on the intoxicating cocktail of endorphins, defiance, and exhilaration.

“I feel amazing,” I breathe, whipping off my hat, sending it flying with a wet thwack against one of the massive windows. I spin on my heel with my arms spread wide. “Don’t you feel amazing?”

Jackson chuckles and grabs the edge of the door, keeping it from slamming into the wall. He tugs his own hat off as he closes it, toeing off his boots and shaking off the excess snow. “Yeah, that was pretty amazing.”

The broadcast was a success. We patched in directly and Leon did an absolutely beautiful transition, like there was nothing at all out of the ordinary. I bet no one at home even realized that Keith tried to make an ass of me.

But I didn’t let him. I stood up for myself. I won.

I foiled his stupid plan. I had the station on my side. All of the pieces aligned and for once, I came out on top.

I grin wildly and spin around again. “I feel like I could punch a moose right now.”

Jackson smiles my favorite smile. “A moose?”

I nod and spin around again, just for the hell of it. I wobble on the

dismount and Jackson’s hands shoot out, steadying me.

“A moose,” I breathe. “I could totally take down a woodland creature right now.”

“Luckily, there are no woodland creatures nearby,” Jackson murmurs, his eyes drifting over my face before landing heavily on my mouth. “Though I’d love to see it.”

The energy buzzing haphazardly around my body settles and sinks, a low, pulsing warmth coiled in my belly. In the palms of my hands. In that secret spot under my ear that only Jackson has ever been able to find.

His hands flex against my hips and he gently tows me closer. I go willingly, my body loose and easy in the hold of his.

Our knees knock together. My hands find his shoulders. He’s still looking

at my mouth.

“Tell me I was amazing,” I breathe.

“You were amazing,” he says right away, without any hesitation. “The goggles were a hit. You were charming and funny. So fucking smart.”

My heart does a cartwheel in my chest. “Yeah?”

He nods, his tongue dragging across the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. You said lake-effect and changing pressure systems, then cited the Northeast Snowfall Impact Scale, and I—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, his eyes darting away, finding a vague spot above my head instead of my mouth. I pull at the sides of his open jacket, wanting so badly to know the end of that sentence.

“And you, what? What were you going to say?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not professional.”

Last night Jackson kissed me in the snow and I got scared that he didn’t mean it. But right now, in the light of day, he’s staring at me like it doesn’t matter what pieces of me he gets to have. He’ll take whatever I’m willing to give. He’ll hold himself perfectly still until I ask him to move, unwilling to compromise my boundaries with his wants.

“It’s just us here,” I whisper. “Tell me.”

He scoops me closer. I make an embarrassing breathy sound when my chest presses to his.

“I thought about kissing you in that snowbank,” he breathes. Jackson’s expression is tortured. Like he’s between two impossible things and doesn’t know which to reach for. “I thought about doing more than kissing you.”

“Like what?”

“Delilah.”

“I want to know.”

He shakes his head, dipping his face closer to mine, almost like he can’t help himself. Whatever gravitational pull is always dragging me into his orbit works both ways, I guess. His nose brushes my forehead and my eyes slip shut.

“I thought about bringing you back here.” His hand drifts up and then down my back. Lower, over my hip to the curve of my ass. A delicious tease, his pinky edging beneath the thick elastic at the top of my pants. “I thought about pulling these ridiculous pants of yours down to your thighs.

Making you keep them there while I put my mouth on you. I thought— Delilah,” he sighs. “I thought that you probably look so pretty when you come. I’ve been thinking that.”

A breath rattles out of me, everything beneath my belly button pulling taut. Like a ribbon, tied in a pretty little bow. I want Jackson to tug on the end of it. To unravel me until I’m a puddle of silk beneath him.

He grunts in frustration and buries his face against my shoulder. “I’m trying to give you space and respect your decision, but it’s so fucking hard

when you—”

“When I what?”

“When you’re you,” he laughs, a little pained. “You drive me fucking crazy, do you know that?”

“I do, actually.” I evaluate the two paths in front of me. I could hold firm to the physical boundary in the name of professionalism, or I could— I could trust Jackson. I could trust myself.

Jackson’s right. There are no rules against it.

“I think—” I lick my lips and gather my thoughts. “I think I’ve changed

my mind.”

He lets go of me immediately.

“No.” I grab his wrists and drag his hands back to me. “I don’t want you to give me space, Jackson.”

He peers at me through his glasses. “No?”

I shake my head. For a lot of reasons, saying the things I don’t want feels immeasurably easier than explaining the things I do. “I don’t want space,” I repeat. “But I also don’t want to be used.”

Jackson moves closer. “It wouldn’t be like that. You set the pace, Delilah.

I’m following you.”

My heart turns over in my chest. “All of Baltimore is talking about the nature of our relationship.”

“I don’t care about all of Baltimore.” He cups my cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw.

It’s easy for him to say that now, when we’re out here in our mountain hideaway. What happens when we get back and he changes his mind?

Where will that leave me?

“Can this just be for us?” I whisper. “Not because I’m embarrassed. I just want it to be—”

“Me and you. I get it.” He ducks his head down and the corners of our mouths brush and then drift away. I grip the sides of his sweater beneath his jacket, my hands fisted in frustration. Jackson smiles. “That’s what I want too.”

“Only while we’re here,” I whisper. “Just for now. I don’t want

expectations.”

I don’t want to get my hopes up.

Jackson makes a hum that sounds like a question, low in the back of his

throat.

“What?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

“We’ll have to see,” he says carefully.

“About what that means, or—”

He presses his thumb over my mouth, hushing me. “I won’t agree to timelines.” He lifts his thumb. Settles it beneath my ear instead, stroking back and forth. “Let’s see how it goes.”

“Why do you look so unhappy about that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because I’m unhappy about it. You know I like my labels, Delilah.”

Strangely enough, it’s a bit of a comfort. That Jackson isn’t willing to toss all his rules and regulations to the side for whatever this is. “You’re the one who said it was a distraction,” I remind him. “That it doesn’t need to be more than that.”

He sighs. “I knew that upset you.” He leans back to get a good look at me. “I said it doesn’t need to be, but I never said I didn’t want it to be. That first kiss meant something to me, Delilah. All of them did. You just— knocked me on my ass. I wasn’t ready for you.”

I look at the collar of his sweater instead of at his face. I drag my fingertips back and forth across the stitching. “I don’t want to be a pit stop

in your quest to push your boundaries. We’ll . . . explore this here. No hard feelings at the end, okay?”

He watches me carefully, then reluctantly nods his head.

“And if it starts impacting our work, we stop?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. He gathers me closer, both hands at the small of my back. “Like, say, if we’re caught kissing each other before our broadcast with a hot mic?”

I drop my forehead to the base of his throat. He laughs, that deep, slightly rough sound, his hand cupping the back of my head. It feels so nice to be held like this, my ear pressed to the amusement rumbling in his chest.

Warm. Safe.

“I see your point,” I mumble into cozy fabric that smells like aftershave and a coffee with exactly three sugars.

It doesn’t escape my notice that this is the most honest I’ve been with another person. I’ve shared what I want and what I don’t. My hesitations for moving forward and the hope that clings to the very edges. And Jackson has listened, patient and sure, letting me untangle the knots in my head.

His hand slips down my back. “Anything else we need to discuss?”

I rest my chin in the middle of his chest. “I don’t think so, no.” I smile.

“Why? Do you have plans?”

His tongue appears briefly at the corner of his mouth, his eyes tripping a shade darker. “Something like that.”

“Want to look at the weather maps?” I whisper.

He cups my jaw with his hand, tilting my face up. “Maybe later.”

“You sure? What was it— Oh. The Northeast Snowfall Impact Scale.” He makes a low sound and I laugh. “I could talk you through it,” I whisper.

“Now that”—his nose bumps against mine—“I’m interested in.”

Someone knocks at the door. Three quick raps. Jackson drops his forehead to mine with a groan.

“Delilah,” Mark calls through the barrier. “I need you for a sec.”

Jackson slips his hand under my hair, squeezing at my neck. “Later,” he promises. He steps away from me, keeping his body turned carefully away.

“I’ll get the door.”

Mark’s face is torn between exasperation, frustration, and amusement when Jackson swings open the door. He holds out his phone.

“Here,” he says.

I stare at his outstretched arm. “What?”

“You’re getting calls on my work line.”

“Me? From who?”

“Who do you think?”

I tuck my arms against my chest. There’s a reason my work phone is still hidden at the bottom of my bag. “Oh. No, thanks.”

“Did you hear me asking?” He nudges me with the phone again. “C’mon, Delilah. Don’t stop being brave now.”

“But I don’t wanna,” I whine. I’d much rather ride the high of my victory and pretend that Keith doesn’t exist. “Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Jackson fills the space next to me, propping himself up against the wall with his shoulder. He knocks his boot against the side of mine. A silent show of support.

Mark grunts. “Don’t remember becoming your secretary either. The longer you make him wait, the worse it’ll be. You know that.”

“You have a real gift for motivational speeches,” I mutter, staring hard at

the phone.

“So I’ve been told.”

The screen lights up with an incoming call. KEITH flashes across the caller ID. It’s time to pay the overly greased, Mountain Dew–addicted piper, I guess.

“Fine,” I sigh. Mark nods and takes one of the chairs beside the fire. Both he and Jackson stare at me expectantly. “Do you think I could get some

privacy for this call?”

“No,” they answer in unison.

“Great. That’s . . . great.” I pace toward the wall of windows, ignoring them both, and raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Delilah.”

“Hello, Keith.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this polite and cordial greeting. Usually, when Keith is in the throes of a fit, he’s inconsolable.

Once he hurled a half-full container of caramel macchiato creamer across the newsroom because he thought someone else used it. It hit one of the interns in the forehead. Keith tried to sue them for workplace harassment.

“Put it on speaker,” Jackson orders from somewhere behind me. I wave my hand over my shoulder to shush him.

There’s a frustrated sigh and then heavy steps against the carpet behind me. Jackson lifts the phone out of my hand, taps the speaker button, and

leans against the window, holding it just out of reach above my head. I kick him in the shin, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. We have a silent argument composed of exaggerated facial expressions, rude gestures, and whispered threats. Well, one of us does. Jackson just stands there slouched against the window, his face impassive.

“I enjoyed your reporting today,” Keith says, his too-calm voice floating up in the space between us.

Jackson rolls his eyes. I press my entire hand over his face. He swats it away. We have another twenty-second, completely silent argument.

“Um,” I manage while Jackson and I twist around each other. His free hand shoots out and loops around my shoulder, holding me tight against his chest. His thumb edges over the base of my throat to hold me steady. A

wheezing noise shudders out of me.

Jackson smirks.

“Thank you?” I say into the phone, hoping for the best.

“My favorite part was when you deliberately ignored my direction.”

Keith keeps that steady, easy tone that inches its way under my skin. “That was nice.”

I deflate like a sad little balloon and rip my gloves off, pressing cold fingertips to the middle of my forehead. I can feel the uncomfortable urge to fight rising within me, Jackson plastered against my back. To stand up for myself. To demand something better. Maybe it’s someone else finally bearing witness to the bullshit Keith routinely subjects me to or maybe it’s just the last snip to a string that’s barely holding on, but— I am so damned tired of being this mediocre man’s punching bag.

Jackson lightly touches my hip and I stare up at him. His mouth quirks at the corners.

Give him hell, that look says. He deserves it.

I deserve it too.

“My favorite part is when you tried to remove me from the broadcast,” I snap. “I really enjoyed the lack of communication.”

Jackson’s eyebrows shoot up. Behind me, Mark lets out a muffled guffaw.

“I wasn’t aware I needed to explain myself to you, Delilah.”

“You do when you send me out into the middle of the mountains for coverage and then don’t let me actually perform that coverage.” Some of my patience slips. “What’s going on here, Keith?”

“A severe lack of professionalism,” he bites out. “Or do I need to remind

you about your little slipup?”

My face warms. “No, you don’t need to—”

“I made a decision this morning to go in a different direction with the broadcast and somehow”—Keith continues, infusing his words with a hefty dose of sarcasm—“you’re still reporting the weather. How is it that you managed to convince everyone to do as you please, Delilah? Hmm? Did you bat your eyelashes for someone other than the weather boy? Maybe that Neanderthal of a cameraman? Did you flip open that empty little head and —”

“That’s enough,” Jackson interrupts, his face a thundercloud. His hand grips the phone so tight his knuckles turn white. The arm across the front of my chest tenses. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

“It’s fine,” I say faintly, my throat tight. Keith has always been abrasive, but he’s not usually so cruel. I guess the takeover really did push him over the edge. He’s never handled challenges to his authority well.

Jackson shakes his head, blue eyes flashing. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that, Delilah.”

Keith stutters over the rest of whatever his sentence was going to be. He laughs awkwardly and then, “It was a joke, of course,” he says.

“I’m not laughing,” Jackson says.

All my fight leaves me in a rush, embarrassment filling the space it left behind. I want this conversation over. Reality has popped my soap bubble of empowerment, and I’m back to scraping the floor for crumbs of acknowledgment. I thought this assignment was going to be a fresh start for me, but it’s just more of the same in different packaging.

“Take me off speakerphone,” Keith orders. “This is a private conversation. I do not consent to recording.”

I pluck the phone out of Jackson’s hand before he can argue with me about it, ignoring the way his eyebrows knit together.

“No one is recording you,” I tell Keith, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear. I slip out of Jackson’s hold. “And if you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. I was the one who came up with the idea. I convinced the rest of the team to do it.”

If anything, that little lie only makes Keith angrier. “I don’t care whose idea it was. They’re supposed to follow my orders. My vision. And that doesn’t include you.”

My lungs feel itchy and tight. I’m not on top of a mountain. I’m underneath it, an unbearable, unending weight on my chest.

“Will it ever include me?” I manage.

Keith goes silent. I hear the squeak of his chair in the background, the low murmur of the newsroom. I imagine him there at the station, gazing out from behind his glass wall like some untouchable warlord, just the way he likes it.

What did I do? I want to ask. What did I do to make you hate me so much?

“Just do your job, Delilah,” he says. “And we’ll see about the rest.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I try to say, but he’s already hung up, not interested in my answer.

I sigh and lower the phone, letting it hang limply by my side before I offer it back to Mark. “Thanks for bringing that by.”

“I also got an earful, if that makes you feel better.”

In an odd way, it does. I always assumed Mark and I were on opposite sides. Or, at the very least, I was on one side and Mark was an apathetic third party floating somewhere in the middle—like Switzerland, or one of those dragon paddleboats out in the harbor. Utterly unbothered. It’s a bit of a trip to have him suddenly, very aggressively standing next to me.

Behind me, Jackson’s phone starts to buzz. I wonder if Keith is making his way down the roster. I turn to watch him over my shoulder, swiping open his phone and answering with a soft, comfortable hello. He’s wearing the smile he reserves for his sisters, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I turn back to Mark. “I’m sorry you got in trouble.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He gives me an unexpected grin and I find myself smiling back. If nothing else comes of this trip, it’s nice to know that I have people standing in my corner now. That I’m not as alone as I thought I was. “It was nice seeing you stand up for yourself, Delilah. You should do

it more often, yeah?”

“We’ll see,” I say. “It kind of sucks.”

Mark laughs and heaves himself out of the chair, slipping out the door with a wave over his shoulder. I busy myself with the various odds and ends piled up on the desk, trying to contain my mess to one side while Jackson takes his call with his sisters. I try not to listen but I catch a bit of it, phrases like Addie, calm down and Yeah, I wish I was too and Have Aiden make you a milkshake.

I smile down at the table. A chocolate milkshake sounds really good.

Whipped cream and extra sprinkles. I wonder if it would make this hollow feeling go away.

Jackson lightly touches my elbow. I turn to look at him, his phone pressed to his chest and brand-new strain lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Adeline needs me. I’m gonna head down to the lobby and talk to her for a bit.”

“You don’t have to leave.” I gesture toward the armchair in front of the fire. “You can take your call here.”

“That’s all right.” He hesitates, eyes searching my face, before he forces a smile that doesn’t quite land. “I won’t be long.”

I nod. “All right, if you’re sure. I’ll be here.”

I wish I knew how to make it easier for him, the way he makes it easier for me. But I’m flying blind, and my usual tendency to rely on sunny optimism and a can-do attitude has gotten me exactly nowhere. I’m bruised and beaten up, and so, so tired.

Still, the idea that he’d rather take his phone call in the lobby is a paper cut that stings. It’s a silent confirmation of my worst fears. That he’ll turn to me for things that are fun and easy and bright, but keep everything else tucked away. I’ll get the version of him he can be here, but not anything else.

Just like the storm, I’m worried we’re going to lose momentum by the time we head back home.

I turn back to the table, picking up notepads and shuffling them into neat piles. Rearranging the Post-its I stole from his jacket pocket.

I listen to his boots against the carpet, the whisper of his jacket as he shoulders it back on, and the heavy pause as he hesitates in front of the door. My heart lodges in my throat as I wait, hoping he’ll change his mind.

Hoping he’ll give me something heavy to hold for him. But then the door opens and snicks quietly shut. His voice murmurs on the other side of the heavy wood, and he’s gone.

I stay standing at the table for a long time before I finally crawl into bed, thoroughly and entirely exhausted.

I close my eyes and try not to think about anything at all.

AIDEN VALENTINE: I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this before.

What’s your favorite thing about the weather, Jackson?

JACKSON CLARK: The predictability.