Page 67 of And Now, Back to You

DELILAH STEWART: A wicked back end, huh?

JACKSON CLARK: Yeah, yeah.

[pause]

JACKSON CLARK: Why are you smiling like that?

DELILAH STEWART: No reason.

DELILAH STEWART: I just like massive cold fronts.

JACKSON CLARK: All right.

JACKSON CLARK: And now, back to you, Baltimore.

DELILAH STEWART: Hey, that’s my line.

CHAPTER 16

JACKSON

“Wind is picking up now,” Delilah says quietly, a fresh mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands. She’s looking out the window and I’m pretending not to look at her, trying to study my open laptop instead. But my eyes keep drifting back. The tangle of hair pushed over her shoulder. The way her teeth bite down against her bottom lip in thought.

I know what her mouth tastes like now.

She kissed me and every voice in my head went silent. Like someone had yanked a cord from the wall.

I clear my throat and shift my legs, my knee bumping against hers beneath the table. The top of it is currently littered with a collection of notes and half-eaten baked goods. The window we settled next to is almost completely obscured by white.

“Snow is coming in heavier too,” I add, digging one fist into my eye. I swear, when I go to sleep tonight, I’m going to be dreaming in barometers and cherry ChapStick.

If I can sleep with Delilah curled up in the space next to me.

Delilah turns from the window. “We’re in the thick of it.”

Yeah. We sure as fuck are.

My phone buzzes on the table.

Send us a picture, Adeline says in our family group chat. We want to see the snow.

Penelope follows it up with a series of snowflake emojis.

I can feel Delilah’s eyes on me while I fumble with the camera app, her amusement growing as I try to get an angle out the window that doesn’t include her or the glare from the giant chandelier in the lobby behind us. She holds out her hand and I wordlessly hand it over.

She snaps a few pictures of the view—limited though it might be—her tongue at the corner of her mouth. Then she flips the camera around and takes a picture of the two of us. Her, smiling so wide her eyes are almost shut. Me, looking like I’ve just been hit in the head by a falling piano.

It’s embarrassing how much a little kiss has me rattled.

She hands the phone back to me and drops one elbow on the table. “You want to talk about it?”

I drag my hand over my mouth, considering. Normal Jackson would want to discuss it at length, laying out repercussions and all the possible avenues in which something like impulsive kisses in hidden alcoves could potentially ruin our professional working relationship. But that version of myself feels like it’s shoved in a closet somewhere, and I’m not exactly eager to let him out.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. Maybe Winter Storm Jackson can handle things like spur-of-the-moment kisses without thinking too much about it. Maybe Winter Storm Jackson can be fun.

Delilah’s mouth quirks up. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly thinking.”

“Neither was I. I was talking about corn sweat.”