Page 38 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
His glower was so searing it could have melted a weaker woman. But after the past few days I’d had, I was in an ornery mood. An ornery truth-telling mood, because I’d recently decided life was too short to beat around the bush.
Plus, his check had already cleared the bank.
“Oh, really?” said Jackson, his voice acidic.
“Yes, really.” We stared at each other. It must have been my imagination, but it felt like the temperature in the room jumped several degrees.
He snapped, “So what would you recommend I wear, then?”
“Do you own a suit?”
His expression turned even darker. “I hate suits.”
“But do you have one?”
When he didn’t answer and just stood there glaring at me like he hoped a stray asteroid would smash through the ceiling and land on my head, I said, “That’s what you should wear. With a tie.” I looked at his boots. “And dress shoes.”
He ran a hand over his face—probably deciding whether he was going to pick up the toaster from the counter and throw it at me—and I added, “Also, a shave wouldn’t kill you.”
His looked at me with a strange new expression. “You don’t like beards.”
He said it flatly. It wasn’t a question.
“Beards are fine. But that thing carpeting your jaw? Honestly, I’ve seen tidier jungles.”
For a moment I thought he would let loose a string of expletives so loud it would deafen me. But then his lips twitched, and I realized he was trying not to smile.
He said, “You’re in fine form today, Bianca.”
It was the first time he’d used my given name. I nearly fainted in surprise but managed to control myself. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking down at the schedule I still held in my hands. “You’re right. It’s just . . .” I cleared my throat. “It’s just been a rough few weeks.”
There was silence for a moment, then he walked closer. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, gruff and growly as a bear.
I glanced up at him and was surprised again. I could’ve sworn he was looking at me with concern in his eyes.
Concern and something else a little hotter.
My heart decided it was time to run a sprint. It took off like a jackrabbit chased by a pack of hounds. I said, “Just some personal stuff. My mother . . .”
I trailed off, dazed for a moment by his eyes. I hadn’t noticed before, but they weren’t only blue. He had tiny flecks of green and gold around his irises, warming those steely-blue depths.
And by God, the man smelled delicious. If that was his natural scent, he could make a few more billion by bottling it and selling it to men with less scrumptious—
Wait. What am I doing? Why am I mooning at him? Am I out of my ever-loving mind?
“Your mother?” he prompted, but I quickly stepped away, smoothing a hand over my hair.
“It’s nothing. I’m so sorry, I’m being unprofessional. If you don’t mind, Mr. Boudreaux, I’ll just get back to work now—”
“Jackson,” he said. He gazed down at me, eyes burning. His voice dropped an octave. “I want you to call me Jackson, Bianca.”
My sprinting heart tripped all over itself and fell flat on its face inside my chest. Heat rose into my cheeks. I said haltingly, “Um . . . okay.”
His gaze dropped to my lips.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
When he abruptly turned around and left, my knees shook so badly I had to lean against the counter for support.
