Page 41 of Broken Pact

It gives me the freedom to let my mind wander. I idly wonder what Nana Jo would say if I presented her my Jagger dilemma. She always had a way of cutting through the fluff and getting to the root of the problem.

She always led with, What does your gut say? It was her go-to response, and it’s always served me well.

But right now, my gut is giving me mixed signals. And so is my libido. She’s a real needy bitch though, so I’m not surprised.

Part of me wants to take a chance on Jagger and his whole fake dating scheme. It would be amazing to have him as a buffer in case Grant tries to pull anything again. Or if my new landlord threatens me again.

But another part of me is hesitant because of our past. The very fact that we have a past probably means we shouldn’t do this, right? Right? We’re gonna set ourselves up for epic failure.

God I wish Nana Jo were here. She’d know exactly what to do. The right things to say.

She’d probably ask me if I’d kissed him yet. She swore that you could tell a lot about a man just by the way he kissed you. Nana Jo had an alarming amount of mildly provocative idioms.

I’d most likely try to shrug off the question, but she’d see the answer as clearly if I’d written it on my forehead with eyeliner.

I’d reason that he could be an amazing kisser but still a shitty boyfriend. And then she’d say, but if he’s your fake boyfriend, then I guess it doesn’t matter if he’s a good significant other. Nana Jo’s voice echoes in my mind, filled with her trademark wisdom and wit. I can almost smell the hint of magnolia that always lingered around her.

She’d look me dead in the eye and say, Let that man park his shoes under your bed, Cora. You’re only young once. Don’t live with regrets.

I’d squint at her, wondering if she had some great big love affair with someone who wasn’t Grandpa Dalton.

She always talked about living that big life. Taking each day as it came, with love in her heart and fire in her eyes. If I close my eyes, I’m transported back to her kitchen. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with flour on her apron and a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

Nana Jo lived life on her own terms. Buried fake gold doubloons in her backyard like some kind of cosplay pirate, had the most impressive phallic vase collection, and took impressive notes on the comings and goings of Rosewood residents.

She did whatever the hell she wanted, never letting anyone dictate her choices. And she was always, always up for an adventure.

The oven timer beeps, snapping me out of the memories. I slide on the polka dot oven mitts and pull out the trays of golden biscuits. Setting the pan on a cooling rack, I blink into the warm glow of the kitchen. I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh strawberries.

As I gaze at the perfectly golden biscuits cooling on the counter, a sudden realization dawns on me—I had been so lost in my thoughts about Jagger that I hadn’t even realized what I had been making.

Strawberry fucking shortcakes.

Laughter bubbles out of me like a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. I guess my subconscious knew what I wanted to do before I did.

21

JASPER

I absentmindedly drag the towel over my wet hair, looking at my reflection in the single vanity mirror. My tattoos look like living, breathing things, stretched and curved around my body. My free hand ghosts over my inner bicep, the pads of my fingers pressing against the tattoo there.

A perfect bite mark from my perfect girl. I can’t wait to watch her reaction when she finally sees it.

Sometimes I swear I can still feel it. Like some kind of fucked-up phantom pressure.

I stayed at the clubhouse last night in what I’m trying to convince myself wasn’t a pathetic move. I told Hawke that I wanted to get a jump start on work today, but I’m pretty sure he knew I was full of shit. Not that he cared. We sunk our night into kicking Rocks’ ass in too many games of pool. And because he’s a true friend, he only called me out three times for checking my phone like some kind of desperate man waiting on a woman to call him back.

But I can’t help it. What if hell froze over and she marched that sweet ass back to the clubhouse at 11 p.m. and I was at home? She’d probably backpedal all the way to Avalon Falls, and then I’d be back at square one.

Nah, staying here was the right move. She didn’t show up, but she could have. And for now, that’s good enough for me.

It’s quarter after seven, which means Coraline’s post went up on her socials fifteen minutes ago. I deserve a medal for my patience. Sharp-winged moths cruise around inside of me like I’m some teenage punk who’s about to find out if the girl he’s crushing on likes her back. I’m not expecting big declarations of love—we’re not there yet. But I have a feeling that I’ll be able to glean her headspace by her post’s caption today easier than if she was standing in the center of my room.

But fuck it, I can’t wait any longer. I open the app and her newest post is the first thing I see. It looks like some kind of strawberry crumble dessert, which feels like a fucking taunt if I’ve ever seen one.

Something in the Orange.

Well . . . what the fuck does that caption mean? I can’t tell if this bodes well for me or not. I drape the towel around my bare shoulders and switch to my music app. A few seconds later, the song plays from the speakers in my room. Head bent over my phone, I flip the light switch in the bathroom and stroll into my room to get dressed.

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