After a few moments, Jackson leads it away, keeping a good distance as he walks past me, angling the flashlight a few paces in front of himself to see in the dark. He snaps his head to me and mouths, “Stay right there,” and for the second time today, I stay glued to the spot, utterly transfixed by a complete stranger who has enough of a hold over me to tell me what the hell to do. I watch as he guides the horse toward a barn I can just make the outline of in the distance.
A few minutes later, he comes storming back, limbs flapping as he cuts through the field, the flickering beam from his torch illuminating the long grass.
I’ve orientated myself as to where I am—just past the entrance to the horse rescue sanctuary I now own. I’ve also pieced together there’s a high probability that’s where the horse escaped from. The only thing I haven’t been able to get a handle on is the onyx-haired spitfire charging at me. What is he doing here? And is he always this fucking angry?
He reaches me and jabs my chest with the flashlight. “What the fuck are you doing? You almost killed a horse.”
“What the fuck am I doing?” I fire back. “What the fuck is a wild animal doing out on the road?”
Jackson shakes his head, letting a hiss escape out the side of his mouth. “Typical rich asshole behavior. You drive drunk and take no accountability. You could have?—”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Give me a break. Are you coming from Bunny’s?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“So?”
He exhales hard. “So, I left you therehoursago. Just admit it. You’ve been drink?—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I eliminate the space between us with one giant stride and take a page right out of his playbook, framing the sides of his face in my hands the same way he did to me a few hours ago.
His gorgeous dark-green eyes lock onto mine, confused and irritated in equal measure. I tip his head up as I lean in and fan my breath across his face in one long, smooth exhale.
His eyes flutter closed, and as soon as they do, the air around us changes. When he’s not busy scowling and glaring at me, he looks so much younger. Early twenties, I’d guess. A smooth, unlined forehead. A slightly upturned nose. Glossy cheeks sprinkled with freckles illuminated by the pale glow of the moon. A lush, plump mouth. And long, dark, curly lashes.
Under any other circumstances, I’d be doing a whole lot more than just blowing air on this guy’s face. I’d be kissing those lips. Exploring the insides of that dirty mouth while I messed up his thick black hair some more. Running my hands underneath his faded gray T-shirt, letting my fingers explore what lies beneath.
My fantasy comes to an abrupt end when Jackson’s eyes fly open. My breath catches in my throat as he stares at me, lips parted, forehead creased, my heart beating hard enough to rattle my ribs.
We stand in silence until he concedes, “Okay, so you weren’t drinking.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I supply, “I believe the words you’re looking for are, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and flicks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Fuck off.”
“Your pronunciation is a bit off, but we can work on that.”
His gaze meets mine, and even in the dark, it’s breathtakingly intense. Blood thrums in my ears, and a current runs through my body. It’s like he can see straight into my soul. It’s unnerving.
“What about you? Are you okay?” he grumbles, sounding like he’s asking out of obligation, not because he actually cares. “You’re not injured or anything?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Well, I guess you should be on your way then.”
I ignore what feels an awful lot like a dismissal and ask, “Why did you do it?”
He cocks his head. “Do what?”
“Punch Ridge Duporth in the face.” I wait until he looks up at me again. “Unless that’s your way of saying hello just like this…” I lift my middle finger into the air. “Is your way of waving goodbye.”
His lips start to twitch, but he quickly bites it down. “He pissed me off.”
“He pisses a lot of people off.” Jackson’s eyes stay on me for longer than necessary. “What did he do?”
