Jackson scanned the crowd and cursed under his breath. Because of the LSU football bye weekend, more people were in the stands and milling around than usual. No sign of Willa though. He’d been sure the twinkle in her eye had been an acceptance even though her answer had been wishy-washy.
His worry over her well-being was totally logical. If she were at the track, it meant she hadn’t hightailed it out of Cottonbloom. It meant she was safe. That whatever she was running from hadn’t caught up with her yet. But logic couldn’t explain away the tightness in his chest and the agitation that had him pacing next to his race car.
Dammit. He turned and kicked the rear tire. The image of Willa’s huge expressive brown eyes wouldn’t get out of his head. Her full lips and curves had imprinted themselves in his brain so when he closed his eyes at night, she was all he could see. Even her chopped-off hair held its appeal, waving around her face and tucked behind her ears.
She’d always been there beside him in the garage, but only with the threat of losing her looming, did he actually see her. Something important, possibly vital, flared between them.
He wasn’t the most outgoing of men. When things were being divvied up in the womb, his twin brother had gotten the majority of the charm. What he’d been gifted with was an unshakable steadfastness to his family and friends and the garage. And somewhere along the way, without realizing it, the umbrella had expanded to include Willa.
His emotions were better kept compartmentalized. His pop’s death had been gut-wrenching, but the easiest way to deal with it was to ignore the feelings altogether. He was handling Ford’s threats about selling his share in the garage in much the same way. But when the anger or frustration or grief got to be too much, the track always provided an outlet. Although winning was a perk, it was the cleansing rush of adrenaline he was after.
Whatever was brewing this time, however, seemed explosive, and he wasn’t sure if a single race could defuse it.
“You’re up next, Jackson.” The race coordinator hollered over the engine and crowd noise.
Jackson took one last look around. Disappointed, he climbed through the window of his old-school Monte Carlo. The doors were welded shut, and the inside stripped of everything except the essentials. The car was a beater, but with his modifications, it was faster than most of the cars on the track, and he was always the best driver.
He pulled on his racing helmet and maneuvered to the start. Five racers tonight. The track would be crowded. He needed to get out first to avoid being caught up in traffic. His focus narrowed to the start signal, and his foot hovered over the gas.
The green lit up. Tires spun, and the noise of engines was deafening. The car next to him clipped his bumper, but he kept moving. He took the lead and hugged the left of the track, forcing the other cars behind him.
Keeping the car on the edge of control and chaos was a physical endeavor. Plotting moves and staying ahead of the competition required him to evaluate the landscape like a chessboard. The crowd was a blur of color in his periphery on their first lap.
A red Ford Mustang moved up on his right. The car housed the only man who stood a chance against Jackson. Max was in his early fifties, mean as a copperhead, and a hell of a good driver. On the next turn, the Mustang grazed the side of Jackson’s car. Jackson gritted his teeth and leaned his car into the rub.
They made two more passes around the track side by side. Jackson would make his move on the final lap and leave Max eating his exhaust.
Jackson couldn’t say what drew his single-minded attention away from the track the moment he hit the back straightaway. But it landed on a figure on the far side of the fence, fifty or more yards away. A tingle went down the back of his neck. Aunt Hyacinth would say someone just walked over his grave.
He blinked and turned his focus back to battling two thousand pounds of metal. The adrenaline pulsing through his body took on a different flavor and had the opposite effect from what it usually did, shattering his steellike concentration. The hesitation cost him half a car length to the Mustang. He hit the gas on the next turn to make up ground and the back end of his car swung around too fast for him to maintain control. A rookie mistake.
Everything blurring, he went with the spin, hoping momentum would push him far enough to the outside of the track to avoid getting nailed by another car.
The impact was swift and hard enough to send his head knocking into the roll bar. He closed his eyes. His car came to a stop, the engine dead, the crowd noise like ocean waves. A few minutes passed, enough time to string together a world record in cursing. He’d never caused a wreck.
A knock sounded. In orange reflective vests, two members of the safety crew peered into his window. He gave them a thumbs-up and climbed out. The race was over, and so was his car. Totaled.
He pulled off his helmet and tossed it onto the front seat. The hit had taken out his rear bumper and crumpled the back end. The frame was bent. He might be able to salvage the engine.
The car that hit him was being hooked up to the tow truck. Steam hissed from the hood. Jackson muttered a curse when he saw the number on the side. It belonged to the most volatile driver on the circuit. “Is Don all right?”
“He’s fine. His engine block is damaged, and he’s mad as hell, but he could have avoided you if he’d backed off. What happened? Car have a problem?” Randall asked. He’d been buddies with his pop. His grizzled beard made him look older than his years.
“I screwed up.”
Randall’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t need to say anything else. Jackson did not screw up on the race track. He wasn’t hotheaded. Except a glimpse of someone who may or may not have been Willa had disintegrated his legendary discipline as easily as the track clay crumbled under his boots.
A second tow truck lumbered out to move his car off the track. He wouldn’t be back racing until after the new year. He walked back to the pit area where the drivers congregated. Don was on him before he could peel his leather jacket off.
“My car’s a wreck, dude. What the fuck?”
Jackson shrugged. They all knew the risks and rewards of dirt track racing.
“Jackson? Jackson!” An achingly familiar voice called his name and he whirled around.
Willa threw herself into him. The impact knocked her baseball cap off, and he couldn’t see her face buried in his neck, but her arms were tight around him, her hands roving over his back.
“Are you okay? Tell me you’re not hurt.” Her voice was muffled against his skin.
He wrapped an arm around her, dropped his face into her hair, and inhaled deeply. She was literally a breath of fresh air in the middle of fried foods and sweaty drivers.
“Nothing hurt but my pride.”
She pulled back. Her gaze roamed over his face and torso, her worry palpable. “Concussion?”
His internal organs sizzled under her gaze. “I’m fine. Promise.”
Her mouth thinned, and she slapped his arm. “You scared me to death. You’ve never lost control like that.”
“Hey, we’re not done.” Don shoved his shoulder from behind. “You’re going to pay for the damage to my car, hotshot.”
Jackson turned, trying to keep Willa behind him, but she stepped out to stand at his side, hands on her hips.
“You know how this works,” Jackson said in a low voice with more than a hint of threat.
“But it was your fault.” A whine entered Don’s voice. The man was a bully with the heart of a coward.
Willa piped up, her voice snappy. “You had plenty of opportunity to drop back and avoid hitting him. You need to practice on an empty track before they let you in another race, hotshot.” The last word dripped with acidic mockery.
“Shut up, bitch.”
Already on edge, Jackson’s control took a leap off the cliff. Whatever had been brewing all night boiled over. With the expletive still ringing in the air, Jackson launched himself at Don and took him to the ground.
Don had two inches and a good twenty-five pounds on Jackson, but it was mostly fat. Plus, Don hadn’t grown up with three brothers who preferred to solve problems by taking it behind the barn. The asshole didn’t stand a chance.
They rolled twice, and Don got in a glancing elbow to Jackson’s cheekbone. The left side of his face went momentarily numb. His fury stoked hotter. On their next roll, Jackson came up on top, straddled the other man, and got in two quick jabs. Blood spurted out of Don’s nose. He cupped his hands over his face and rocked side to side with a pitiful-sounding high-pitched moan. Jackson hopped to his feet, massaging his knuckles.
Willa grabbed his biceps and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
He resisted, too much dynamic energy still pulsing through his body. “That all you got? Get up.”
Don stayed down. Jackson glanced around. Everyone was quiet and watching. He felt like someone else was inhabiting his skin.
“Please, Jackson. Let’s go. What if the police come?” Willa pulled harder, her hands biting.
The threat of the police didn’t budge him. What did was the soft, pleading look and worry in her eyes. For him.
He took a step, and she slipped her hand all the way down his arm to weave her fingers with his. He didn’t resist this time and let her lead him away. She scooped up her hat on the way out of the tent. Licking heat spread from his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. He was a nuclear plant in the middle of a meltdown.
The chill in the air didn’t do much to cool him off. They slipped out of the front gate of the racetrack and into the dark parking lot. Trucks and cars were jumbled together in a free-for-all. The farther they got from the track, the less frantic Willa seemed, and in turn, the threat of a meltdown receded. Her run-walk slowed to a stalk and her grip eased enough for blood flow to resume to his hand.
“Are you crazy?” Her voice was hoarse.
His equilibrium was not fully restored. Between the wreck and the punch, his behavior had been erratic and completely unlike him. He took a couple of deep breaths. “Possibly.”
She made a harrumphing sound, and he could imagine her rolling her eyes as she tended to do when confronted with the absurd. A step ahead of him, she pulled him along on the shoulder of the road.
Her hat was back on her head, and she was in the same pair of jeans from that morning, but a different color T-shirt and an olive-green cotton jacket. Her hips swayed as her legs ate up the distance.
He’d watched her work more times than he could count, in awe of the nimble gracefulness of her hands. Now he was aware that trait wasn’t exclusive to one body part. Her every move contained a dash of sensuality and strength. It was potent.
“Are we walking home?” He might as well have been talking to the whippoorwill calling in the tree they passed under. She was pissed.
And how could he blame her? The night had gone to hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been involved in a crash, but it was the first time he’d been the cause of one. He’d jumped Don and maybe broken his nose. Don could press charges if he really wanted to be a jerk. Jackson’s cheek throbbed, and his left eye was swelling.
So why did he feel like whistling?
The chaos continued to spin his head and set his heart to beating faster. Even though they were well away, she kept hold of his hand. The gesture seemed more than expedient; she was protecting him. Their relationship took another turn, this time on two wheels and slightly out of control.
Something she’d said tickled his memory. “You said I’d never lost control like that. How would you know?”
She disentangled their hands, her pace picking up. “An assumption. You’re Mr. Control Freak in the garage.”
He didn’t allow her to escape, grasping her wrist and pulling her to a stop. “Have you been to the track before?”
“No.” She rubbed her nose and looked toward the line of dark trees across the road. He waited. “Maybe,” she whispered.
“To watch me?”
“Maybe,” she repeated even softer.
How had he never seen her? The same question could be applied to the last two years in the garage. Because he hadn’t been looking. Had he feared the consequences if he’d allowed himself to care about her before now? But that was the rub. He’d cared for her long before now, even if he couldn’t put a time stamp on when it had happened.
Tonight had knocked the breath out of him. Not the wreck, although that had been the start. He didn’t pick fights and bust faces. His control was broken, and there was not enough duct tape in Cottonbloom to put it back together. A wild impetuousness reared from somewhere in the confusion she’d unleashed. As ill-advised and dangerous and stupid as it was, he wanted to kiss Willa.
Her mouth was parted as if in invitation. He leaned forward but before he got close to his destination, she gasped and laid her hand along his cheek.
“Your face!”
“What about it?”
“You look terrible.” The way she said it, half worried, half exasperated, made him laugh, even though his cheek pulled painfully. She didn’t join him.
Her wrist was too narrow and delicate to exhibit the strength he observed daily in the garage.
“Not like I’m the good-looking twin.” It was an old joke between him and Wyatt. Jackson was two minutes older—and wiser—but Wyatt was better looking. Truth was, Jackson got plenty of attention—usually more than he was comfortable with—from the opposite sex. Dr. Mercier had made it clear at the vet’s office she would welcome a call from him not involving animals. Yet his interest in the pretty vet hovered at subzero.
She made a huffy sound that registered as disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Seriously, what? You don’t think Wyatt is good-looking?” He wanted to tease a smile out of her.
“Sutton thinks so and that’s all that matters.” The corners of her mouth ticked up slightly. Maybe she wasn’t so mad. “You’re not bad either. When you’re not grossly swollen and turning blue, that is.”
He hadn’t been looking for any affirmations, but her assessment stole a portion of his oxygen. He stifled the urge to fist pump.
“Come on. I’ll drive you back to your place.” She tilted her head and gestured behind her. The bumper of her car was visible twenty feet down the road. She dropped her hand from his cheek, but her fingertips glanced over his jaw, the touch feather light.
He forced his fingers around her wrist to uncurl. He didn’t want to let her go, so he tangled his fingers with hers. It should have been strange, yet felt completely natural.
They broke apart when they reached her car, and he folded himself into the passenger seat for the second time that day. The Honda coughed like a lifelong smoker that needed an oxygen tank. The side mirror reflected the plume of black smoke trailing behind them.
He had a feeling if he brought up helping pay for repairs again, Willa would clam up and shut the door on whatever brave new world he’d stepped into. Anyway, he was curious about something else entirely.
“I saw you,” he said.
“Huh?” She tossed him a glance but in the darkness of the cab and with her hat, he couldn’t tell if she was being intentionally obtuse.
“Up on the hill, outside the fence. I saw you as I headed into that final turn.”
“Are you blaming me for your wreck?” Her voice was as dry as his throat.
He avoided answering, because she was to blame. Even before he’d spotted her, his head hadn’t been in the race. She had infected him like a virus. Probably not the kind of pretty words a woman wanted to hear.
Racing a car around a half-mile dirt track with the threat of an accident looming at any second didn’t scare him. She did though. Not only had she shown up tonight, but she’d been coming to the track to watch him for some time. He didn’t like uncertainty. He preferred to know the odds before taking a chance.
She parked on the side of the garage like she normally did even though no customers took up the spots out front.
He laid his head against the back of the seat and did something he rarely did—lied. “I’m not feeling great actually. My head hurts”—not a total lie, although he’d had worse hangovers—“and I’m a little wobbly.” Total lie.
“Is it a concussion? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Her hand went back to the ignition, ready to pump life back into the car.
Had he overplayed his hand? “Not a concussion. Just my cheek.”
“Hang on and I’ll come around.” Worry threaded her voice and in the brief amount of time it took her to make it to his door, guilt made his headache worse. When she offered a hand and then notched herself under his arm to offer support he didn’t need, his body’s clamor for more drowned out any impulses to confess.
He leaned into her, and her arm tightened around his waist. She was soft in all the right places. They made their way through the barn and trudged awkwardly up the stairs to the loft side by side. He flipped the light on. She stopped short and looked around.
“Yep. Exactly what I pictured.”
She’d never seen the loft even though they’d spent countless hours together in the shop next door. The second revelation that landed on his head like an anvil was her insinuation that she’d thought about where he lived. Did it mean anything?
The skylights gave the loft an openness and charm counteracted by the utilitarian furniture. A worn couch and coffee table faced the wall with a flat-screen TV. At least the place was neat and orderly. Mostly because Wyatt had been spending his nights at Sutton’s. As much as he complained about his brother’s messiness, Jackson missed having him close at night like when they were kids.
“You pictured this cold, lonely place?” Why had he said that? Maybe he had hit his head hard enough to give him a concussion.
She hitched toward him, but between their height difference and her hat, he couldn’t see her face. He grabbed the bill, pulled her hat off, and tossed it toward the couch.
“Hey, you can’t keep doing that.” She ran a hand through her hair and ruffled the back.
“You look better without it.”
She kept smoothing her hand over the top of her hair until he stopped her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away.
“You don’t have to be nice. My hair looks terrible,” she said softly.
“I’m not being nice.” He ignored the ironic bent to the declaration. Nice wasn’t on the spectrum of what he was feeling. He fingered the end of one wave at her nape. Her hair was soft but thick. “I’ll bet it would be even prettier long.”
She touched the ends, her fingers close to his. “It used to be long. I cut it.”
“Why?”
Her brows drew in and her gaze shifted. “To leave the old me behind, I guess.”
He’d expected a trite answer and cocked his head. Was this an opening to push for more information or would she turn tail and run like a fox? Unwilling to risk it, he pasted his lips together and practiced patience.
* * *
Why had she let that little nugget slip out? He was examining her as if she were a damaged engine to be flagged for either renovation or the junkyard. What he thought was important to her. Her sanity would be safer if it wasn’t.
“It could use some evening out, but it’s cute. I like it short,” he said.
“Do you?” Her long hair had been her vanity. She’d spent countless hours at the mirror primping to attract attention. Derrick, her first and only boyfriend and destroyer of dreams, had loved it and that was a big reason she’d hacked it all off.
“Short hair suits you. It’s—” He looked to the ceiling for a moment before dropping his gaze back to hers. “Spunky. Unique.”
Spunky? It made her think of an annoying, precocious child. The expression on her face must have been obvious.
His laugh rumbled like the leading edge of a storm, still miles away with plenty of time to take shelter. Yet all she wanted was to stand still and wait for the onslaught.
“Okay, how about tough and sexy?”
Sexy? The assessment was like a lightning bolt. Sizzling and scary. She had a difficult time coordinating her throat muscles. Her ability to handle men and attraction had been stunted at nineteen, and she felt her inexperience keenly. Her goal the past five years had been to hide her sexy.
And she’d done it. Alone. Having learned her lesson, she’d denied herself any meaningful contact with men, and appearing as unattractive as possible had made that easier. Could Jackson really see past her chopped-off hair and secondhand clothes?
He was good-looking and confident and could have his pick of the prettiest women in Cottonbloom. Even the casual linking of Jackson’s name with a woman’s had made her insides cramp. It would be a game of which one was not like the others if you threw Willa in with the other women he’d dated.
She put a few feet between them and crossed her arms under her breasts. “You don’t have to be mean.”
His brows twitched, which according to the reference book her brain had compiled over the past two years meant he was annoyed. Although she had no idea why. Facts were facts, and all things being equal, she was the one with the strongest claim to annoyance.
She plowed on. “I know I’m not like the other women you’ve stepped out with. Not like Dr. Mercier at the vet office. Not like Sutton. You should see if she can hook you up with one of her friends. Or call the vet. She was definitely interested.” Throwing other women in his path was the last thing she wanted, yet she couldn’t stop her word vomit.
“I told you once already, I’m not interested in Dr. Mercier.” He took a step toward her. She took one backward.
“Why not?” She took another step, this one even bigger, but he matched her retreat with his advance.
“Because I’m interested in someone else.”
Two more steps and her back hit the wall with nowhere else to go. He caged her in, his hands flat next to her shoulders. She trailed her gaze from one of his big, callused hands up his roped forearm and the bulge of his biceps to his eyes.
She might be naïve and in denial, but she wasn’t dumb. The last two weeks of dancing around one another had led her to one startling and unexpected conclusion. Finally, Jackson saw her as a woman and wanted her. It was the stuff of her dreams and nightmares.
“We shouldn’t,” she said weakly, unable to keep her hand from touching his chest. The muscle jumped under her fingertips, his heart strong and steady and pounding fast. Not as fast as hers though. Her head was swimmy with nerves and anticipation and dread.
“Why not?” He tossed her question back with a smile big enough to showcase his dimples. When he smiled like that, worries and responsibilities sloughed off like rust and revealed a younger, impossibly handsome man.
Her irritation morphed into something else entirely. Something that made her want to bite his bottom lip until he pushed her up against the wall with his body. It was probably good he didn’t smile more often or the female population in a twenty-mile radius would be a constant puddle of hormones.
Things she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years came back in a flood. No, a flood implied a slow rise. This was a tsunami. One that called for a blaring alarm and a frantic escape.
She tried again. “I don’t want to.”
Except her other hand rose to join the first and curl around the thick muscle of his side. Stupid hands.
“I can tell you don’t want to at all.” His gravelly voice rushed through her as he leaned closer.
“Damn straight I don’t.” She pulled him closer until their lips were inches apart.
He ran a hand down her arm to her wrist, his fingers stroking the soft skin over her thrumming pulse. He maneuvered their hands until they were pressed palm to palm. His hand was so much bigger than hers. Capable. Confident. Strong.
She wanted to burrow in his arms. But even more than the physical closeness, she longed to lay her troubles on his broad shoulders and unflappable spirit. She wanted to confess everything from the moment she’d met Derrick to the reasons she was still hiding. But he would hate her weakness and lies.
“You don’t really know me.” Her small truth whispered between them.
“I might not know anything about your past, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know you, Willa Brown.”
The fact he didn’t even know her real name was a deep cut on her heart. He deserved honesty, which was the one thing she couldn’t give him. She took a breath to tell him just that. Before she got a word out, his lips silenced her.
She didn’t fight the kiss, which only underscored her selfish weakness. To save them both future heartache, she should push him away, but instead, she tipped closer to him, her free hand skimming up his chest to pull at his neck. He wrapped his arm around her waist and fused their bodies from chest to hips.
As if he sensed her uncertainty, his lips were gentle on hers, giving and not demanding anything in return. She squeezed her eyes shut. What if she allowed herself this one fantasy come true? A memory to hold on to when times got bad. It was only a kiss.
The justifications blurred the line between right and wrong. She touched her tongue to his bottom lip. A rumbly groan vibrated his chest against hers, and her breasts grew achy and sensitive.
He pushed her back against the wall and lodged his thigh between her legs. A kiss. She could only allow herself a kiss. The rest of her body ignored the order.
Heat cascaded through her, centering between her legs. She squirmed, but instead of relief, the emptiness grew acute. The evidence of his arousal pressed into her belly. Her knees wobbled and more of her weight fell onto his hard thigh, only magnifying what she really wanted.
She drew in a deep breath. His scent was a combination of cars and clean laundry with the earthy hint of adrenaline-fueled sweat. It was good. No, better than good. It should be bottled and sold, except she wanted to keep him to herself like a greedy miser.
On an exhale, he touched his tongue to the seam of her lips, and like whispering the magic word, her lips parted for him. Just a kiss. The words were a mantra. She wouldn’t let it go any further.
Except she had imagined countless times what it would be like to be with Jackson. Would he be gentle or rough? Would he talk to her or take her in a flurry of silence? Would he hold her afterward or leave?
The reality was here and more intense than she’d ever imagined. He pressed their joined hands over her head, she played in the hair at his nape with her other hand. How many days had she stared at the back of his neck wanting to lean in to lay a kiss where his hair flipped up at the ends when he let it get too long? How many days had she wanted to stroke a finger over his stubbled jaw?
Their tongues danced, stroking and seducing the doubts from her head, until the word scrolling was more, more, more. A sound came from her throat. One she didn’t recognize that fell between frustration and a plea.
She wasn’t completely inexperienced, but one thing became starkly clear. Her experience was that of a teenaged girl enthralled with her first boyfriend. Whatever was happening between her and Jackson was on a different level. A level that she’d never come close to touching much less had a chance to explore.
He ground himself against her. Instinct had her rotating her hips against his thigh. Slanting his mouth over hers, he raised the stakes, the friction of their lips and tongues and bodies stoking a wildfire. His expertise both frightened and excited her. She clutched him closer and arched her back to try to satisfy the ache growing through her body like a sickness with only one cure.
If she gave in, what would happen in the morning? A sliver of logic infused her sex-charged body. The lies between them were living, breathing entities, haunting her.
“No,” she said against his mouth. With difficulty she turned her head, breaking the kiss.
He lifted a few scant inches and brought their joined hands down next to her head. Staring at their linked fingers, she fought a wave of despair. They could have sex, but they could never be together. She had ruined any chance of that five years ago, and her lies since only compounded the impossibility.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want this.”
An eternity of silence passed. She opened her hand and tugged. The tendons along his hand tensed, but he released her. She took a step to the side, freeing herself from the gravitational pull he had on her, her hand still tingling.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and didn’t speak. What was he thinking? Nothing from her constant examination of him gave her a clue. Was he mad? Hurt? Maybe he thought she was a tease or playing games. Was there a game called smashed hearts and lies? Because she was winning.
Instead of facing the consequences, she did what she did best. Cowardice heaped with a healthy dollop of self-preservation sent her running out of his loft and to her car. A glance over her shoulder revealed no one. He hadn’t given chase. Why would he? She wasn’t worth it.
Was he like the other men who’d preyed on her because she was in their power and seemingly weak? She tried to summon righteous anger, but none came. He wasn’t like any man she’d ever met.
Once she was on the road back to her trailer, she touched her lips. No matter what happened, at least she had the memory of their kiss.