Page 22 of And Now, Back to You

JACKSON CLARK: Storms typically develop out of low-pressure systems. In a low-pressure system, air from higher-pressure areas moves down toward the low, and as air rises and cools, any moisture in it condenses, forming clouds. The greater the difference in pressures, often, you know, the bigger the storms. And other factors can obviously exacerbate this as well, but pressure plays a huge part. Lots of pressure. Tons of pressure just—moving around.

AIDEN VALENTINE: What do you—

JACKSON CLARK: There’s this thing called an atmospheric lift where rising air can cause significant cooling and condensation. An orographic lift is when air is forced to rise over a topographic feature like a mountain. All of it driven by immense pressure.

AIDEN VALENTINE: Are we . . . experiencing one of those?

JACKSON CLARK: One of what?

AIDEN VALENTINE: Whatever that lift thing is you just described.

JACKSON CLARK: Oh. No. I’m just talking about pressure.

JACKSON CLARK: So much pressure.

AIDEN VALENTINE: I think you need another cookie.

CHAPTER 5

DELILAH

I set the time, but Jackson decides the place. I’d pat myself on the back for how well we’re already working together if it didn’t take fifteen minutes of bickering back and forth to come to such a simple conclusion.

The café where Jackson demanded we meet is nestled on a narrow side street of Fells Point, tucked between an antiques mall and a sneaker store. SKULLDUGGERY is written in large, looping letters on the wooden sign that hangs over the door, creaking as it swings in the late-February wind.

The few times I’ve managed to come here are during the busiest parts of the day, so it feels like a treat to walk in without getting smacked in the face with a rogue handbag. Today the only people here are a guy typing furiously on his laptop, a beleaguered medical professional in wrinkled scrubs, a woman taking a picture of her croissant, and . . . Jackson sitting at the high-top bar in the back, a newspaper folded at his elbow and one foot propped up on the bottom rung of his stool. His other leg stretches out beneath the seat next to him, his coat folded neatly on top.

Jackson Clark. Always so neat. Always so organized. I wonder if he sleeps in his pressed chino pants.

The bell above the door jingles as it shuts and he turns halfway, light glancing along his clean-shaven jaw. A pair of thick, dark-framed glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with his thumb. They’re practical frames, like something Gregory Peck used to wear. When they fell off his face in the hallway, there was an indent in the side, likely from where he’s run his fingers along the metal.

He does that now as I watch, dragging his pointer finger along the edge before adjusting them with a frown. My stomach gives a low swoop, something about that easy, practiced motion feeling indecent. Then he pushes his dark blond hair back over his forehead, forearm flexing beneath the rolled sleeve of his sweater, and I have to avert my eyes to the chalkboard menu just behind his head.

Objectively speaking, he’s a very handsome man. I think I’d be able to appreciate it more if he didn’t have the personality of a wet piece of cardboard.

As it stands, he probably dreams about alphabetization. I bet his darkest fantasy involves a pocket protector. He’s probably never given a woman an orgasm in his life.

I’m still snickering to myself as he clears the stool next to him, draping his coat over the counter instead. I slide onto the seat, fighting my way out of my parka.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, watching as I struggle with one of my sleeves.

“Nothing.” I bite my bottom lip and try to contain myself, but I’ve always been terrible at hiding what I’m feeling. “Do you have any pocket protectors?”

Jackson blinks at me. “What?”

“Never mind.” I shove my jacket in between the bottom legs of the stool, then reach over him for the menu. I'm two inches short, and I grunt as I try to close the distance. “Can you hand me that?”

He’s busy staring at my coat on the floor like I’ve just personally offended him and his grandmother. “Don’t you want to hang up your jacket?”

“It’s fine where it is.”

“It’s on the floor.”

“I found it at the station’s lost and found two years ago. I’m not worried about it.” Jackson keeps staring at the heap of my jacket while I press up on the bottom rung of the stool and lean across him, my shoulder digging into the middle of his surprisingly hard chest. He smells like maple syrup and fresh air. Perfectly sharpened number two pencils.

I pluck the menu from the tiny brass pirate ship holding it in place. “What’s good here?”

He grabs the menu and places it back in the ship. “I already ordered you something.”