Page 60 of A Whisper of Summer Magic

Meghan mashed the berries this time while Jackson carefully removed the sterilized bottles and lids and placed them in position so that she could fill them. He already had the sugar measured out, and the sprinkle of combined spices. The book lay open on the counter to the correct recipe—out of the way of action. She’d casually mentioned making elderberry wine or sauce in the future as she and Jessica had filled in the once struggling elderberry bush borders in the front of the house over the past two weekends because they both loved the pink flowers in spring and the dark purple berries in fall.

“I didn’t know you were a Christie fan.”

“Cut my teeth on them in middle school. Read them again on my phone when I was deployed. Then I moved on to J.D. Robb’s Eve Dallas.”

Could a man be anymore ridiculously appealing? They even liked the same types of books. She turned toward him, the wooden spoon still coated in the mixed mash of berries.

“I figured you more of a Reacher man.”

“What can I say? I like badass women.”

Meghan didn’t feel particularly badass at the moment. She had before professionally, but now she wanted to define herself by other measures.

“So you say,” she teased. “What if, as a badass woman, I’m only using you for inspiration to write my own mystery series with a dogged, too earnest lawyer and a playboy up-and-coming firefighter.”

He took a step toward her. “Use away. Lots of lawyers have created impressive writing careers. I’m happy to play muse.”

For a moment, she envisioned herself in her bedroom at her desk at her computer and Jackson sprawled naked on her bed watching her—as if she’d be writing when she could be staring at him.

He leaned in, and she held her breath anticipating a kiss. Instead, he licked the spoon.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

He smiled, disarmingly. This close she could see the length of his sandy lashes—the thick-featheriness to them. The gleam of blue, the faint creases fanning out from his eyes down his cheeks that showed how much he smiled.

“Delicious.” He stood up, crowded her a little, a deliberate smear of jam on his lips. “Taste if you dare.”

Captivated.

She stared up at him. His size—though he was rangy—made her feel feminine when for so long she’d quashed the girly. In school, she’d been the brain, and she’d gravitated toward athletics to burn her energy and frustration and teen angst. In college, she’d taken up running to clear her mind and keep the pounds off that her mother constantly warned her about. She’d honed her mind and killer instincts in law school and spent her career—wearing conservative suits and a minimum of subtle makeup and bobbed her fiery auburn hair—so that the focus was on her legal arguments, not her body or looks.

Being in stretchy jeans and a Brandi Carlisle concert T-shirt wasn’t the height of femininity, but the casual, soft fabrics made her feel that way.

Kiss him.

It was a dare.

And Meghan had done a lot of soul searching the past couple of years, and this whole week had felt like her life and family had become a plate of scrambled eggs, breaking her preconceived notions of growing up Maye. But she’d never been a coward.

She zeroed in on the jam, placed her lips against his, keeping her eyes open so she could indulge all her senses, and snaked her tongue out for a long, lingering lick.

“Verdict, counselor?” His voice was low and stirred excited heat in her belly.

“We make good jam.”

He laughed against her lips, and she found herself probably grinning like a goof.

He cupped her face and kissed her again. “Now we’re both in trouble,” he said. “Maybe we should hold on to something as superstitious magical cupid slays us both with his pink- and red-hearted arrows.” He dramatically clutched his heart.

For an absurd second, hope speared her sharp and hot and making her ache with a ridiculous longing, even as her logical mind leapt to protect her. Love spells were not a thing, and Jackson might be hot—okay he was hotter than hot—and friendly and appealing as a fresh batch of sweet hush puppies at More Wild’s food truck at the Belmont Saturday Market, but a bad long-term bet for her future happiness and peace of mind.

“I think we’re safe,” she drawled and stepped back with exaggerated care. “Earth’s not spinning,” she said, remembering how Rustin had told Chloe he felt like the world had tilted when he took the first bite of the meal she’d prepared him last December.

“Pretty sure it is, science being science and all.”

“But this recipe doesn’t have any special instructions,” she insisted, feeling her heartbeat unaccountably leap.

“‘Pick the fruit in the early evening with a heart open with hope as the sun slants across the land,’” Jackson intoned.

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