Page 30 of Forget Me Knot

Biting my lip, I try to think about how best to have this conversation. On the street. In public. With what I’m pretty sure is an audience. In my peripheral, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Cotten lazily teasing a pretzel bite against her husband’s lips, while both their eyes are trained on us. An uncomfortable shiver races down my spine. I think I need a shower.

I tilt my head in her direction and see the moment Jackson notices the couple. He covers his laugh with his hand, and it's exactly what I need to break the tension.

The truth is, I’m still feeling all this out. Jackson and Jack. Charmer and curmudgeon. And the confusing realization that I find myself oddly interested in them both… Or him. It’s complex.

“Who are the flowers for?” I blurt out, clearly evading.

“Mama. I had to run to a few properties this mornin’, but now I’m meetin’ her for lunch. We try to get together once a week. If I’m… me. You could come along with me. I know my family would love to see you.”

“Oh, no. Thank you. I don’t wanna impose and”—I thumb behind me at the shop—“I have a new business to run andeverything. I usually prep dough and recipes on Mondays, but I’m actually workin’ up some new ideas for the Badger Bite thing.” I bite my lip and don’t tell him that our first date inspired some of the flavors I’m experimenting with: peanut butter and Cracker Jacks. I haven’t figured out what it will be, just yet, but I’m getting closer.

“Oh really? Any old time you need a taste tester, Dinah Belle, you just let me know.”

“Noted.”

“Maybe you can come along to lunch with me next time.” He holds the bouquet up, admiring it. “Mama loves white roses.”

“They’re beautiful.” They remind me of the pale pink ones I just forced myself to throw out yesterday. Is there a single one currently hanging in the closet for safe keeping?

Checking his watch quickly, he sighs and blows out a breath. “I’m actually pretty late. I’m sorry.” His eyes flick from his truck on the street to his feet, like he’s not quite ready to leave. “I should really get goin’.”

“Give me your phone. Please,” I add and stretch out my hand. “I’ll give you my number, and we can work out a time for our next… hang.”

“Hang? Is that what the kids are callin’ it?”

“Do you want my number or not, J?” I don’t want to call it a date. Not when dating one version of J. Jones feels like I can’t get to know the other in the same light.

He quickly enters his password and smiles wide as he hands me the device. The homescreen has a photograph of a bright orange cat dressed in a baseball uniform. Above the photo it says “Joe DiMeowggio.” I raise my eyebrow in question, but don’t say a word as I type in my number and hitsavenext toDinah Belle.

“I’m tryin’ to convince Jack to get a cat.”

“A cat?” I giggle and look at the photo again. “And you think this is gonna do it?”

He shrugs and slides the phone back into his pocket. “We like baseball. Figured it couldn’t hurt. But, I mean, you’ve met him. He’s not easy to convince of anything, really. And it’s not like I can ask him face to face.”

“And Jack doesn’t want a cat?”

“Jack wants to be alone. To push everyone away. I don’t.”

My breath hitches, and by the look on his face, Jackson did not necessarily mean to disclose so much.

But could that be true? Jack’s certainly gruff and surly at first—and second—glance, but does he want to be left alone? If itisthe case, it makes me sad to think Jack has resigned himself to a life of loneliness. He comes across as grumbly, but I wonder if there’s more to the story. My thoughts unwittingly return to the way he grasped my wrist in his hand the other morning, holding me in place. Letting his thumb skate across my skin. Contact he initiated, not me.

Jackson rubs a hand across his jaw and waves flippantly again at the Cottens, smiling in his easy, charismatic way. “I better get goin’.”

“Okay.” I lean back on my heels. I have an idea that might lead to more harm than good, but I think it’s compelling enough to take the leap. “Why don’t you call or text me later, and we can make a plan for that—”

“Hang?” he interrupts and looks like an excited puppy who’s been given a bone.

“Yes. A hang. I have an idea about what we could do.”

“And it’s better than watching you sweat in batting cages?” Jackson whistles and steps backwards off the sidewalk, making his way to the pristine, black truck waiting along the curb. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“So much better.”

“You were right. I know nothing about plannin’hangs.This is so much better than batting cages.”

Jackson’s giddiness has not abated since we walked into the animal shelter two hours ago. If I thought he couldn’t be more attractive, I was dead wrong. Because Jackson Jones wrangling a pile of kittens in his arms is next level. The sight of these babies nuzzling into his neck and biceps has me feeling all the flutterings.

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