Page 87 of And Now, Back to You

I’m too mixed-up. I’m leading with my heart, and my heart has only ever gotten me in trouble. I need to take some time to decide. Any choice I make tonight won’t be a good one.

Jackson seems to realize it at the same moment I do. His face settles into calm resignation. “All right,” he agrees softly.

And that makes it harder. A thousand times harder. How well he seems to realize what I need in this moment. That space is the very best gift he could possibly give me.

“I’m going to get ready for bed now, I think,” I say quietly. I tug my hat off and twist it between my fingers. It’s damp from the snow. I’m sure my hair is bearing the brunt of the natural forces outside. I smooth it back self-consciously. “We have an early broadcast tomorrow.”

Jackson nods, studying his feet. “Yeah.”

“I’ll just—” I hike my thumb over my shoulder, pointing at . . . something. I really don’t know. I feel like I’ve fallen through the floorboards into an alternate universe. When did I become the person that weighs the consequences?

Maybe we’re both different people out here in the mountains.

I move around Jackson and fumble with the zipper of my coat, cursing under my breath when it gets jammed halfway. I yank at it and then yank again, frustrated tears burning behind my eyes when it doesn’t budge.

“You stupid piece of—” I grunt and yank again, my hands shaking. “Come on.”

Hands cover mine.

“Let me,” Jackson says quietly.

“You don’t have to—”

“Delilah,” he says. “Let me.”

I let go of the zipper, my arms dangling loose at my sides. He bends his head to get a better look, then plucks the small tab between thumb and forefinger, tinkering. He tugs it one way, then the other, his glasses slipping down as he investigates my jacket. Then he does some sort of twisting motion and it’s free, tugging slowly down, the release of each metal clasp loud in the otherwise quiet room. Jackson pushes the material off my shoulders without a word, the jacket landing with a heavy thump at our feet.

He stares at me in the dark, his breathing slow and steady. He’s waiting, I realize, for me to stay stop. To push him away. But I don’t want to do either of those things.

He slips two fingers into my bulky pink snow pants and tugs at the little elastic cord, loosening them. He goes down to his knees in front of me, urging my snow pants off my legs. I stare hard at the top of his head and suck in a sharp breath. When is the last time someone touched me like this? When has someone ever been this careful with me?

I stumble when he gets to my ankle. His hand reaches up, guiding mine to his shoulder.

“Here,” he says, head still bowed. His forehead brushes against my thigh. “Hold on to me while I get your boots.”

He works at the laces and tugs them off my feet. One and then the other, my hot pink snow pants following until I’m standing in front of him in my slightly damp sweats. Jackson stays on his knees, his palms coasting up the back of my calves. He squeezes, then sighs and leverages himself back up.

He’s reassuring me in the way he knows best.

Not with words, or empty statements that go around and around. But by taking care of me.

My eyes go prickly and hot.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice tight.

He nods, already moving over to his suitcase, discarding his own layers with efficiency. He picks up my jacket and drapes it over the back of the armchair with his, and I stare at the material folded together while I grab dry pajamas to change into.

We’re silent as we climb into bed, just the rustle of blankets and the click of the light on the nightstand. It doesn’t escape my notice that Jackson waits until I’m settled to flick it off, the room in shadows and warm, golden light from the fireplace. Twenty minutes ago we were standing curled together in the middle of a storm and now we’re in bed, a perfectly polite three feet of space between us. I pull the quilt over my shoulder and tuck my face into my pillow.

I’m almost asleep when his rough whisper carries across the space between us.

“Delilah?”

I jolt beneath the blankets and stare blearily across the pillows. He shifts them until I can see his face, then tosses them off the bed. Out of reach. He’s curled on his side with one bare arm wedged under his pillow. Smooth, easy lines. A half-moon to match mine.

“Yeah?” I rasp.

He shifts, getting comfortable.