Page 61 of I Just Want to be Yours

“Eat your pizza, Red.”

She grins and takes a bite. As soon as she starts to chew, her eyes roll back. “I get it,” she says with a nod. “I always thought Chicago had the best pizza, but I get what they say about New York.”

I put a slice onto my own plate. “I’m glad you approve.”

She considers me. “Have you ever been here?”

“To New York?” I shake my head. “No, the only traveling we did when I was a kid was for my dad’s company trips, and those were always to some tropical island that wasn’t much different from Florida.” Something in her sobers, and I know what she’s going to ask before she even says it, so I add, “I haven’t talked to him.”

She frowns. “So, it’s been . . .”

“Almost a year,” I say with a nod. The last time I talked to my dad was when I went home for Christmas. It wasn’t as bad as Thanksgiving, but the entire visit was tense. He let me know more than once that he wanted nothing to do with methrowing my life away.Margot is still staring at me, and I know she’s tornbetween knowing my dad is an asshole and feeling like she should encourage me to have some type of relationship with him. She’s figured out how to follow her dreams and still talk to her parents, so she thinks I should, too. Looking at her with more conviction, I say, “Margot, he’s waiting for me to fail, and I have no intention of failing.”

She holds my stare for another beat before giving a soft nod. “Okay.”

There’s a sadness in her that lingers, and my anger toward my dad spikes at the sight, like he’s somehow to blame even though he’s a thousand miles away. I nudge her with my foot under the table. “Besides, I only get to be around family when the band takes a break from touring, and I’d much rather see you than sit at his depressing kitchen table. You’re my family now.” I said it casually, but Margot’s eyes widen just enough to make me want to backtrack. With a shrug, I add, “And Matt. I guess you can throw Rae in there too, but I draw the line at Braden.”

Her shock melts into laughter, and I can’t help smiling at the sound as I take my first bite.

36

margot

“Lookat the onions on your plate!” I point an accusatory finger like he’s spilled actual blood in the middle of this New York City pizza shop. To be honest, I wasn’tthatcertain of my theory. The amount of time Jackson and I have spent in the same state as a couple isn’t much, and it’s not like we cook with onions daily. There was really only one instance when Braden cooked some type of casserole, and Jackson ate around them.

Jackson doesn’t talk about himself much. Sure, he talks about the things he wants—mostly music and me—but he doesn’t share the little details. But those are the details I soak up like a damn sponge.

Apparently, it comes in handy when you want to place a bet.

Jackson glances down at his plate. “What? They probably just fell off.”

My eyes narrow. “Jackson, there’s no wayonlyonions fell off your pizza. Plus, I saw you pick them off.”

The corner of his mouth kicks up when I say his name, but he seems unfazed about the bet. I hope he doesn’t think I forgot. Or maybe he thinks I won’t cash in. But I refuse tobelieve his lyrics are “trash,” as he so often puts it. I want to see them for myself. I want to know what he was scribbling in that notebook all summer. Already excited for my prize, I sit up a little straighter and lift my chin. “I win.”

Jackson doesn’t react or look disappointed in the slightest, and it takes some of the fun out of winning. At least let me gloat.

He pushes his plate aside. “All right. Maybe I don’t love onions, but I didn’t pick them all off.”

I laugh. “You picked off enough.”

He holds my gaze like he’s debating whether to fight me on this. When he finally looks away, he lets out a sigh. “Fine. You win.”

I grin, but he cuts me off when he leans forward and points at me.

In a low voice, he says, “But I want you naked as soon as we’re in that hotel room. Skinny dipping or not.”

“And you’ll let me look at your lyrics?”

He scratches the side of his head and drops his gaze. “Some of them.”

My lips twist. I love seeing him squirm. It’s such a rare thing that I only feel a little bad about being the cause of his discomfort.

“The good ones,” I tease.

“Good might be a stretch.” Stacking our plates in a neat pile on the table, he nods toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

On the walk back to our hotel, Jackson asks at least six times if there’s anything I’d like to see before we head in for the night.

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