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Jackson’s face pales, contorting into a look I have never seen before. “No,” he says. Barely above a breath. “They don’t know who you are.”
I breathe in once. Breathe out once. I can feel the crack in my composure from the inside: a hairline fracture, not yet visible, but there. I press my fingers briefly to my sternum.
Jackson sees it, never missing a moment. “Phoenix.” His voice is low. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. “I didn’t ask for your excuses.”
He closes his mouth, gracefully giving me the silence I need. I give myself three seconds. Only three. The same three I give myself in courtrooms when something is unexpected, out of plan, and I need to recalibrate.
Three.
Two.
One.
My eyes open, my head rises, and I look up at the man I adore, knowing my facade is falling and my voice is cracking.
“The peppermint oil.” I look at him for a moment, weighing the agony of uncertainty against the wish not to know. “You gave some to Cassandra.”
The silence before he answers is pushing in, drowning me.
“Yes.” The word is almost inaudible in the silent room.
My shoulders hunch as my chest caves in and I shrink into myself. I think about standing in that hallway, smelling something familiar on a woman who had smiled at me as she dismantled my career.
Jackson opens his mouth to defend, to explain. I can see him trying to form the words, but I walk past him, careful not to touch, and open the door.
“No further questions.”
12
PHOENIX
Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. “Yup, looks good, keep coming back … And stop.” A screech of brakes and a lurch of a truck shifting into park wake me through my cough-medicine-induced sleep.
The sunroom floor is harder than I expected, even with a mattress. East-facing windows throw a soft glow across the walls. I sit up, stretch, and grab my phone off the floor. The first of the month. My new tenant must be moving in.
Peering through the wooden slat blinds, I’m already smiling. Landlord etiquette, I tell myself, as I head to make coffee. I’m not overbearing, just neighborly. I’ll introduce myself.
On the way to my dresser, I detour upstairs to the room that will be mine. Floors are dry and look fantastic. Tonight, I sleep in a bed. A real one, in a real room, upstairs where I belong.
Getting dressed in black leggings and a matching jacket, I throw on my red Trail Blazers hat over my bedhead, wanting to look approachable. Then I head downstairs to fill a thermos of coffee, the day is off to a wonderful start. Until I open my door and see an ungodly handsome man, in gray joggers that ride low on his hips and a white T-shirt pulled tightly across his chest.
“Jackson. Fucking. Mercer.”
Every instinct I have tells me to shut the door. Unfortunately, he already has a legal right to stand exactly where he is.
“That’s me.” He turns around almost hesitantly. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there last night. Then the grin arrives. Familiar, devastating, and lighting up his face that I am sure was hand-carved by the angels. Jackass.
Reading the situation quickly, I jump into solutioning. “You can’t move into my house.”
As if he expected this response, he takes a few steps to his car, grabs a document, and hands it to me. “Actually, I can. An airtight lease agreement. Becca is incredibly thorough,” he states, handing me the document.
I don’t need to read it; I signed it first, trusting Becca’s meticulous process in assuring I had the perfect tenant.
“What about your place? Not that I saw much of it,” I tack on.
“Short-term rental. Month-to-month.”
