I swing my eyes to Jackson. “Huh?” He tips his head toward the house. He’s right, the front door has been left wide open. “We should probably check it out,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.
“That would be a hard no.” He reaches over and clasps his hand over mine. A bolt of electricity ignites my skin at the contact, but I pull my hand away sharply. I’m supposed to still be mad at him. Iamstill mad at him…I think. “I’ve listened to way too many true crime podcasts. Never go into the weird house at the end of the street. It doesn’t end well.”
“So have I,” I say, getting out of the car. “But I’m sure the world can survive with one less rich asshole, right?” I shove the door with more force than necessary and start pacing toward the house.
Jackson jogs to catch up to me. “It’s not funny whenyou’rebeing richist.”
I stop walking and let a long, exhausted breath fall out of me, wishing it’d take some of the stress of today with it. “I thought you hated me.”
His brows deepen into a V. “I don’t…hate-you hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Come on. If I’m going to get killed, I’d like to have a witness.”
“Bullshit,” he says as we walk in step. “You’re hoping for a double murder.”
Keeping up with Jackson’s moods is near impossible. Over the past few weeks, he’s gone from avoiding me completely to being overly nice to me, making coffee, leaving notes, scheduling meetings with suggestions to improve the place which I know now were nothing more than some perverse ruse designed to stress me out to the point where I pack it in, to rage quitting not less than two hours ago, to joking around with me right now like we’re pals.
It’s enough to give a guy whiplash.
Not to mention, he hasn’t said a word about his family once owning the rescue center. Not that he owes me an explanation, but why hasn’t he brought it up?
Maybe Ollie is right. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. If it’s this hard now, how would it get any easier if we were in a relationship? Maybe I should just let Jackson quit and find another head handler. Someone who doesn’t annoy the living shit out of me and monopolize my thoughts the way he does. Someone I can establish a productive, respectful working relationship with.
But then Sibella’s words pop into my head, reminding me that Jackson isn’t easy, but that he’s worth it.
And I’m torn all over again.
Did something—or someone—hurt him so bad that he uses rage as a defense mechanism to protect himself?
He could very well be worth it, but I may need to come to terms with the fact that whatever spark we have doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to convert into something more. Sometimes a spark is just a thing that starts a fire and razes a house to the ground.
We reach the front door.
“Hello,” I holler into the opening.
I glance over my shoulder at Jackson, standing a few feet away. He shrugs.
I call out a few more times.
Not a peep.
“I’m going in.”
He lets out an annoyed sigh. “That means I have to go in, too.”
“No, no. You can stay out here…like a wimp.”
“Fuck you.”
I smirk and push open the weathered door and cautiously enter the cottage. My eyes are immediately drawn to the lit candles on the dining table.
“Hello?” I say pointlessly since it’s clear there’s no one here.
“What the fuck?” Jackson plucks a note from the dining table, brings it right up to his face, and reads it. “You two need to sort your shit out. While you’re reading this note, your car is being taken away?—”
“What the fuck?” I race outside.
Sure enough, some bastard with a black hoodie and face mask is pulling away in the sanctuary’s pickup truck, tires screeching against the gravel, pebbles flying in every direction.
