Page 81 of Middle Ground
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Pippa nods. “I’m sure. I think Jackson will look better on your arm than I would.”
It isn’t the optics that I’m worried about. Notouroptics anyway. Everyone loves Pippa, and everyone will love Jackson. They both have something about them that assures people. I feel like I have the opposite effect. Everyone likes me well enough, but I always feel like they’re waiting for me to slip up.
A knock on my front door has my stomach tightening with nerves.
Pippa smiles and sets a hand on my arm. “I’ll get thedoor,” she says. “You take a deep breath and then get ready to kill it tonight.”
When she leaves me alone in my room, I fight the urge to take the dress off and crawl under the covers on my bed. It isn’t the socializing that I have trouble with—that, I thrive on. The pressure of tonight and what it means is what’s getting to me.
I know it’s silly. This night is about raising money for an organization that needs it, but it’s also a chance to show the town how the inn is doing without my mother at the helm. This dinner has no bearing on how successful the inn actually is and will continue to be. But it’s the perception of having made it. Especially after everything that has been going wrong lately, I want the evening to run without a hitch.
As the finishing touch to my outfit, I take the strawberry earrings from the farmer’s market out of my jewellery box and put them on. They don’t exactly fit with the rest of my clothing, but they bring me some much-needed comfort.
I give myself another minute before forcing my feet to move. Each click of my heels on the floor is like the tick of a clock, counting down to my doom. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize I’m catastrophizing, but snapping myself out of it is easier said than done. I’m a worrier at heart.
Stepping into the living room, I take Jackson in. His back is to me as he chats with Pippa, allowing me a moment of unobstructed perusal. The suit he has on this evening is nicer than the others, which is saying something, considering how nice his usual suits are. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything.
“There she is,” Pippa says, drawing me out of my daydreams.
Jackson turns as I cross the room to them. His jaw works, and his honey eyes blaze with heat as they trail from my stilettos to my curled updo, stalling first on my hips and then my plunging neckline. He tries to speak, but a quick clearing of his throat gives him away. He’s flustered.
The amount of satisfaction I feel from Jackson’s reaction is somewhat troubling. Actually, it’sverytroubling.
“The way you’re looking at me right now is very inappropriate, Mr. Vaughan,” I tease.
His eyes jump to mine as a smile spreads across his lips. “Just returning the favour, Ms. Ellison.”
I roll my eyes. “In your dreams.”
At this, his grin turns wolfish. “Oh, I dream about a lot of things.” He holds his arm out to me. “Shall we?”
I hesitate, but knowing that I’m liable to break an ankle walking the gravel path from my cottage over to the tent where the dinner is being held, I give in. Looping my arm through Jackson’s, I inhale a fortifying breath. I can do this. I can spend one night pretending I have my shit together.
“Have fun!” Pippa calls after us. “I’ll lock up for you.”
I turn my upper body toward her and blow my friend a kiss. “Love you, Pip! Thank you.”
When I face forward again, I inhale deeply and then release it, hoping some of the tension will bleed away with it. We walk for a moment in silence, which only gives me more time to stew in my thoughts.
“Are you nervous?” Jackson asks.
I purse my lips as I shake my head. “No,” I lie. “Of course not.”
“The bruises on my arm would beg to differ.”
I internally curse when I realize just how tightly I’ve been gripping his arm. I could keep lying to myself and say it was purely for physical stability—these heels are abitchto walk in—but really, I’m just clinging to anything that will keep me from spiralling.
“Okay, so maybe I’m nervous.”
Jackson pauses, pulling me to a stop beside him. I look up at him quizzically.
“Alright,” he says, “tell me why. Talk it out.”
I shake my head. “You don’t want to know what’s going on inside my brain.”
“On the contrary.” His irises swirl with sincerity. “I want to know everything that goes on in that pretty head of yours.”
