She couldn’t see anything. There was a reason behind the term blindsided.
Blink. Blink. Blink. She stared, searching for reason.
“How?” she whispered.
He sighed. “How what?”
“How did you kill him?’
Jackson flinched. A barely noticeable flinch, but she saw it.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It just does.”
His hands slid from her arms to her legs as he sat back on his heels and stared at the floor. “I did what I did to Preston in the restaurant. After AJ passed out, I broke his neck.”
Who was this man?
“How did it make you feel?”
“Confused.”
“Why?”
Jackson’s response came without hesitation. “Because he didn’t deserve to die.”
Jackson was right. Ryn didn’t know what to do with his confession. She stared at his hands and tried to imagine him using them to kill another human being. Her hands rested on his, squeezing them. He looked up and she gave him a sad smile.
“I still love you … all of you.”
His whole body deflated with relief.
“Ryn?”
“Hmm?” She rested her hands on the back of his neck and leaned forward, kissing his forehead.
“It’s … nothing”
*
Jackson plotted a four-step, fool-proof process.
Step One: Confess the mercy killing first.
Step Two: Wait for Ryn to acclimate to Jackson’s ability to take another’s life.
Step Three: Make her fall so deep in love with him that not even the assassin confession could drive her away.
Step Four: Be prepared to gently hold her in captivity until she snaps out of her inevitable conniption fit because realistically there is no way Step Three would ever fly.
“Done.” Ryn sighed, tying the last trash bag.
Jackson nodded from the seat of Black Beauty, where she put him in timeout when he tried to help her clean up the disaster she made hours earlier.
“You can come out of timeout now.” She smiled, tilting her head to the side, much like Gunner.
Jackson continued to play a Bach piece, looking only at her. “I’m good. I rather like watching you work, especially when you’re on your hands and knees, scrubbing my kitchen floor.” He twisted his lips to the side, making a quick downward glance as his hands made a transition. “Does that make me a pervert or an attentive boss?”
Ryn narrowed her eyes. “A pervert since you fired me, therefore you’re no longer my boss.” She picked up both bags, lugging them toward the back door. “Nice knowing ya, Mr. Knight. Thanks for the opportunity. Sorry it didn’t work out.”
Jackson grinned. “I’d like to rehire you, but just to dust the pedals of my piano, in a low-cut shirt—sans bra. And maybe to do a little spit shining of something else while you’re under there.”
The door slammed shut. He chuckled to himself. A few moments later she returned, hands on her hips that swayed gently as she walked toward him with a newfound confidence. Or maybe she’d always had it, he just brought it out of her again.
“I need to go take Gunner for a walk before it gets too late.”
Jackson nodded as he kept playing. “Show me your tits one more time before you go.”
She walked behind him, draping her arms over his shoulders. Her teeth tugged at his earlobe. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that because I’m forty, you’re thirty, and we need to meet at a thirty-five age level of maturity if this is going to work. I don’t know too many thirty-five-year-old men that say ‘show me your tits.’”
“Clearly you don’t know too many thirty-five-year-old men. Or really any men for that matter. We come out of the womb in search of a woman’s tits. That desire never goes away. Our use for them simply changes as we age. I guarantee you every man that you encounter thinks, at least subconsciously, ‘show me your tits, Ryn.’”
“So every woman you encounter, you want to see her breasts.”
“Tits. And yes. It’s genetic, sweetheart. So you can’t be pissed. Well … I stand corrected. There are a few women in this particular development whose ‘breasts’ best stay hidden.”
“I bet Greta would go all Mardi Gras on you in a heartbeat.”
“No! No. No. No. That’s what I’m talking about. Don’t say that.”
Ryn laughed. “Goodnight, Jackson,” she whispered in his ear.
He stopped playing and flipped his legs over the bench to face her. “Goodnight? You’re not coming back?” Hooking an arm around her waist, he yanked her onto his lap.
“I don’t live here. Besides, I’m exhausted. Physically and emotionally it’s been the most draining day ever. Anyway, I need a shower.”
“I like showers.” He bit back his grin, wondering if she would remember the last time he said that.
Her eye roll and soft laugh confirmed her memory was still intact. “When is Jillian coming home? I heard you tell Greta she’s taking some time for herself. Did she stay in Portland with AJ’s family?”
Good question.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, have you talked to her since the funeral?”