Page 89 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Stroking my hands along the arms of my luxurious bisque-colored chair, I said to Jackson, “Is this leather made from a special kind of cow who got daily massages and deep conditioning for his coat and ate a diet of macrobiotic lettuces while being read poetry by beautiful young women?”
Sitting across from me in his own buttery soft chair, Jackson said, “I don’t know, but I’d like to be that cow.”
“Me, too. I’ve never felt leather like this.”
“Wait until you go to the bathroom.”
I grimaced. “Is the toilet seat leather? That sounds unhygienic.”
“No, the toilet seat is heated. It can also be cooled, if you prefer your ass chilled while you take care of business. Then afterward, you have your choice of oscillating or pulsing spray wash, followed by a lovely air dry. It’s very civilized.”
I had other words for getting your butt treated like it was enjoying a spa day, but declined to share. “So how long is this flight, anyway?”
“Hour and forty-five, give or take.”
“And are you going to spend it pretend sleeping, or are we going to talk?”
One corner of Jackson’s mouth turned up. He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark shadow on his jaw was masculine and appealing. The scruff also served to partially hide his scars. I wondered if that was its purpose.
“Are you going to be like this after we’re married?”
“Like what?” I asked, the picture of innocence. “Charming and sociable? No, you’re right, I should be surly and taciturn; it makes everything so much more fun.”
He was trying to scowl at me and doing a poor job of it.
I sent him a coy smile, complete with batted lashes. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window.
I decided to take a different tack. “You’re more prickly than a porcupine who wandered into barbed wire. Want to talk about it? Get it off your chest before you see mumsy and daddy?”
“No,” he snapped.
As if that wasn’t predictable.
I pouted and kicked off my heels. I’d worn a dress, one of the few I owned, and fiddled with the little gold buttons on the bodice, hoping they didn’t look cheap.
“I already told you you look beautiful,” said Jackson, still staring out the window. “Stop fussing.”
I liked him telling me I looked beautiful. Every time he said it, I felt like a cat stroked down its back.
“Yes, but do I look wifely?” I was still worried about making a good impression on his parents. I wasn’t thinking of me. I was thinking of him, and how he’d die of exposure from the elements within a week if he became homeless and had to live under a bridge.
Jackson sent me a searing sideways glance. His voice came out rough. “I told you not to worry.”
I sighed. “Yes, you did. So helpful, by the way. So informative. Really settles my nerves.” I sent him a pointed look.
“All right, Bianca, since you asked—no, you don’t look wifely.”
I stared at him, strangely hurt.
His voice softer, he said, “I’ve never seen anyone’s wife who looks as good as you do. You’re a fucking wet dream. Now stop fishing for compliments and buckle your lap belt, we’re about to take off.”
My heart was about to take off, too, blasting right out of my chest like a rocket. You’re a fucking wet dream.
Dear Lord, I might have to take that pulsing spray-wash toilet for a spin.
Hyperventilating, I fumbled with the lap belt for far longer than it should have taken, until my fingers regained the ability to complete simple tasks and the buckle snapped into place. Then I sat back and expended a lot of energy trying to appear like a normal human being and not the mental patient bouncing off padded walls that I felt like.
A stewardess appeared from the front of the cabin. She looked like one of the girls who recited poetry to the cow my chair was made of. I’d never seen someone that pretty up close. She leaned over Jackson’s chair, exposing acres of creamy cleavage.
