Page 13 of Second Chance Vacation

Savannah pretends to contemplate.

“Sleep?—C’mon, Gen. You’re both adults. We’ll hardly even be home.”

I cut her off by stomping into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I can do this. I just have to figure out a solution.

Maybe I could sleep on the floor?

It is all hardwood.

That would be an absolutely miserable three weeks. As I move around the room, I pace from one end to the other. The door to the bedroom clicks closed far too gently to be Savannah. We marinade in the silence before I gaze over to find Jackson staring at me, his back against the door.

Please get me the hell out of here.

When Jackson and I broke up, I had full intention of never being alone with him again. Now, as his blue eyes stare into my own, I’m reminded why I was so set on not seeing him. That day was hard enough, and I’ll be damned if I have to live through that level of pain again.

We just stand there staring at one another as if words are something we simply just don’t have the capacity to convey.

I watch, entranced, as he walks toward me without so much as a sound. Jackson’s feet find their grip on the rug surrounding the bed as he stands two inches from me, his eye contact unwavering. He stares down at me as he drops his leather duffle bag on the bed beside where I stand. A gulp lodges in my throat as I finally find the ability to look away, my eyes darting over to the window for something to look at.

It is pretty here in the summer.

“Um, take whatever side you want. I don’t care.”

I slip agilely to the side and sprint over toward the ensuite bathroom.

The house really is something else. I have never been in a house so beautiful, except maybe Savannah’s parents' house in Atlanta. I look over the surrounding bathroom, memorizing the space, hoping to find somewhere to crawl in and hide. There is a clawfoot tub nestled next to a full glass-enclosed shower. In any other situation, I would be jumping for joy, but something tells me I won’t be getting the chance to soak in a bath on this Saint-Tropez nightmare masquerading as a vacation.

I drop my makeup bag at one sink of the his-and-hers vanity. The sinks are just another reminder that I will be sharing this space for the coming weeks. My stomach sours at the thought. I wipe the mascara traveling down my waterline from the heat, then brush it off on my leggings.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I find Jackson facing away from me. He shifts slightly at the sound.

“Savannah said we have a dinner reservation at one of the restaurants down by the water.” The forced nature of the conversation I am trying to pull from him is palpable. I don’t care about dinner. If anything, my stomach is in shambles.

“Cool.”

A beat passes without a sound, the air venturing from quiet to thick again.

“Well, I’m going to hop in the shower real quick.”

I grab my duffle from the floor by the door and rush back into the oversized bathroom. I have no intention of leaving that bathroom until I am completely ready for dinner or if I hear Jackson leave—whichever comes first.

* * *

As soon as we arrive at the restaurant, my stomach drops. Waves crash against the shore mere feet away as a lump forms in my throat. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara. The sound of the ocean is supposed to provide calm, but it does the exact opposite. The hair on the back of my neck stands to attention.

La Petit Table is packed. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the server inform Savannah that they cannot accommodate her request to sit on the balcony over the water or even on the sand and that we will have to sit inside.

Jackson’s gaze bores into me so hard I could swear he is touching me. From the moment we arrive at the restaurant, his eyes don’t leave me. I want to find discomfort in it, but I only feel confusion along with a warmth in my stomach. The server pulls out my chair for me to sit as Jackson finally breaks his scrutiny, slipping into his place at the table as well.

“Merci beaucoup!” My false sense of enthusiasm slips as soon as the server leaves the table. We quickly order when he returns, and overall the evening is about as awkward as you would expect. Savannah carries the conversation as she and Wesley laugh, Jackson occasionally engaging them. While the food is divine, I want nothing more than to just go back to the house and take a moment to myself.

We return to the house earlier than I think anyone entirely expects for our first night. In any other situation, we would be painting the town red, singing drinking songs while stumbling through Saint-Tropez, but Jackson and I are still coming to terms with the utter shitstorm we have found ourselves in.

Savannah and Wesley grab a bottle off the rack the moment we walk in the door, and it is clear their evening is far from over.

Mine, however? I am ready to keel over.

I walk into the threshold of what will be Jackson and my room for the next three weeks as the reality of the situation sets in. The current circumstances are strikingly different from the situations in which we have shared a bed in the past, something I desperately hope he isn’t thinking about too.

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