Jackson
“I told you that this is serious business,” Claire murmurs as we walk slowly into the auditorium later that night.
Slowly because Gran only moves at one speed.
“I know,” I murmur back. “I just didn’t…”
I take a look at the packed room, full to the brim of people and tables and noise. The lights are bright as hell and there’s a table with an emcee on the far side of the space, along with a huge gaily lit board of numbers. The other side has a huge setup of even more tables, all topped with food.
“…this.”
“It’s a popular event,” Gran says, shuffling forward.
I hang back so I can whisper in Claire’s ear. “Is that the infamous cake you mentioned before?”
She smiles, fucking beams with happiness from the inside out.
I know it’s because I remember, because it’s one of those small things.
But she doesn’t get sappy on me—we’ve got the serious business of bingo to conquer—just nods and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know how to sweet talk my way into a piece of red velvet.”
My favorite.
Another small thing.
One that has me taking her hand, lacing our fingers together, and following Gran to what’s presumably our table…
Not presumably, I realize.
It’s filled with hockey players.
I smother a grin—Claire’s magic at work.
Gran doesn’t seem surprised, just sidles right in and drops into a chair.
“Come on,” Claire says, drawing me to the front of the room. “We need cards before they run out.”
“What?” But I follow her as she zips up to the front, pausing in front of an older woman with sleek gray hair and a ready smile.
“I need cards for Gran and me,” Claire says, then hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “And for a table full of newbies.”
I know that she’s teasing, especially with the grin she tosses my way, but I still bristle anyway. I don’t like being called a newbie at anything, least of all at something as simple as crossing off some numbers.
“Trust me,” she murmurs, batting my hand away when I go to pay, before gathering up sheaves of paper and tubes with colored caps that she’s called dabbers.
“I—” I reach for her, intending to help, but I don’t get the chance.
She’s gone, arms full, but that doesn’t stopping her from zigzagging through the crowd and making her way back to the table.
I follow a lot less gracefully, managing to get to the table in time to hear Smitty and Gran going at it—both of them looking like they’re having the times of their lives as they bicker.
“Are you ready to get your butt kicked, big guy?” Gran asks, holding up a dabber threateningly.
“I’ll remind you that I can crush you like a toothpick, little lady,” he replies, snagging the dabber and pretending like he’s going to launch it across the room.
“You ruin my lucky dabber,” Gran threatens, “and I’ll break all of your hockey sticks.”
Smitty shrugs. “The team will buy more.”
“Umm,” I mutter.
“Smitty’s met Gran before,” Claire tells me with a small smile. “Or they’ve engaged in verbal shenanigans before.”
I look back to the pair, listen to the banter—or threats of dabber abuse—continuing, but not for long because Claire’s nudging me into a seat and giving me a Cliff’s Notes version of the rules and how to properly use the dabber and what the hell a Four Stamps game is—which is the second game (apparently there’s more than one type of bingo and more than one game?) we’re playing tonight.
“Wait, wait!” Smitty booms halfway through. “Those two are sharing state secrets over there. No cheating.” He narrows his eyes at my woman, earning a glare from me. “Tell me everything you told him.”
Claire sighs and shakes her head. “I was just explaining the rules.”
He makes a Matrix-style come-on-then hand gesture.
Another sigh, but she gives him the rundown—and I don’t miss that the guys snap on their game faces and prepare for battle too.
Raph practices proper dabbing procedure.
Marcel flips through the pages of his bingo card—a misnomer I think because there are six cards on every sheet in the stack.
Smitty focuses, beyond serious as he absorbs every word of Claire’s instructions.
Walker gets his space ready, perfectly laying everything out.
And I’m…I’m watching Claire talk and get everyone comfortable, effortlessly knowing what they need without being pushy (though she seems to ride that line a little with her grandmother, something I get, but something I know she struggles to reel in).
“She’s great, isn’t she?”
I turn to see another older woman, this one with carefully coiffed hair, her mouth curved into a gentle smile. One look and I know instantly who this is.
“June,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Jackson.”
“Oh, I know,” she replies, shaking my hand with a firm confidence that belies her size.
“How?”
She winks. “Gran”—a nod at the woman, who’s holding court amongst the hockey players now that Claire’s finished with instructions (aside from Cas who, as always, has several tactical follow up questions)—“gave me the scoop. Tall, dark, and handsome who looks at her granddaughter just right? Easy pickings.” A beat. “How did you know I was me amongst all these other senior citizens?”
I grin, flick my gaze down to her sweater, which is covered in corgis—a breed she’s apparently obsessed with.
“Damn,” she says lightly. “I outed myself, huh?”
“Sorry to say it, but yes.”
Someone calls her name, and she sighs. “Duty calls and as much as I’d love to keep chatting, I need to be ready for anything.”
“For cake throws and dabber revolts?”
Her mouth curves. “Exactly.” She touches my shoulder, leans in. “Keep looking at her right, yeah?”
Then she’s gone.
“Oh,” I hear from next to me, turning to see that Claire is done talking with Cas.
“What?”
“I wanted to catch up with Junie before she gets too busy.” She makes a face as she clocks exactly what I have. “Too late, apparently.”
I take her hand, lean in and press a kiss to her temple. “You were wrong.”
She frowns. “About what?”
“You say you lived on the sidelines, that you hid your heart and didn’t let anyone in, but—” I nod at a table full of hockey players getting ready to battle senior citizens in bingo alongside her grandmother, at the woman who cares enough to remind me to treat her right. “You have all of this.”
“Grumpy old people and surly hockey players?”
My mouth quirks. Because I know she reads me, hears me…
But also get why she doesn’t want heavy right now.
This is the first time Gran’s out in ages. I’m here. The guys are locked and loaded.
She wants a good night.
And I know that I was talking a big talk when I allowed myself to get to this point, to have her, to pursue this draw between us—saying that I was going to let her go when she was done with me so I’d make that first move.
But I some part of me also knew…
That was never going to happen.
Letting her go.
Letting her be done with me.
She’s mine. I’ve fallen deep and hard, and I fucking love her.
Which is why I give her the out.
Why I give her what she needs to enjoy the night.
I touch her cheek and deliberately change the subject to light.
“What are the odds that Smitty causes a cake riot?”