Burn for You (Slow Burn, #1)

by J.T. Geissinger

Cooking was in my blood as much as jazz music and the Saints.

It was the voice of a man secure of his place in the world—a voice that was as used to giving orders to employees as it was to women beneath him in bed.

Well

“Miss Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Formal. So he wasn’t born in a barn after all. “Call me Bianca, please. I apologize for the wait.” Jackson dropped my hand, and with it, his brief civility. “If I wanted to call you Bianca, I would have. Where’s my table?”

Growl at me again and I will throw you out.”

“You’ll get the next available table. In the meantime, have another drink on me. Maybe the alcohol will turn you back into a human being.”

Lawd, that dress she’s wearin’ is so tight you can almost see her religion.”

Outraged, I gasped. “He was looking at my ass?” Eeny looked me up and down, her brows lifted. “What, you need to introduce a man to your mama before he’s allowed to get an eyeful of your booty?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t think he’s handsome.” I grimaced. “Handsome? How could I tell? It’s impossible to see past the forked tongue and the horns!”

The man gave the term resting bitch face a whole new meaning. He looked like his face had caught on fire and someone had tried to put it out with a fork.

He leaned back against the leather booth, spread his hands flat against the tabletop, and examined me the way a scientist might examine a germ under a microscope. It was horrible, but I gave no outward indication how much it rattled me.

I wondered if that muscle jumping in his jaw was a sign of an oncoming murder spree.

I would’ve comped you even if you didn’t act like the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”

“And you, Mr. Boudreaux, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard. Have yourself a nice evening.”

“Damn, girl,” I said to my haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Those aren’t bags under your eyes, that’s a full set of luggage.”

My mother was the first woman of color to marry into the Hardwick family tree. Soon after I was born, my father was cut from his parents’ wills. I’d never met my paternal grandparents, and God help them if I ever did. The tongue-lashing I gave Jackson Boudreaux would sound like a love song in comparison.

And dumber than a box of rocks, I thought. He could throw himself on the ground and miss.

“And if you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one.”

“Rayford,” I said, taking his arm. “Please don’t make me curse. My mama doesn’t like it.”

“Call me Jackson,” he said abruptly. Gently, with a smile, I replied, “If I wanted to call you Jackson, I would have, Mr. Boudreaux.”

let me see what’s in that airplane hangar of a refrigerator.”

I felt like I’d been caught red-handed. So I answered more forcefully than I probably should have. “No!” Bianca blinked. Her brows arched. She said, “Allrighty then. No need to alert the entire state.”

“I know I was an idiot, but I swear I’ve changed.” My brows lifted. “Really? Got a brain transplant, did you?” Very solemnly, Trace said. “No. I found God.” After a beat of shocked silence, I threw my head back and laughed. “Well good for you! Hallelujah! Now get your slutty butt out of my face before I lose my temper and send you off to meet Him!”

I just . . . You cut me off and never took any of my calls again—” “I’d rather talk to a bill collector,” I interrupted angrily. “At least I know it’d be an honest conversation.” Then—hand to heaven, I could not make this up—the man got a tear in his eye. A big ol’ crocodile tear that sat there and glimmered and trembled like a makeup artist had just run over with a bottle of glycerin in between film takes.

Who doesn’t want the ex she was madly in love with to do a bit of groveling after he treated her like a disposable napkin?

But I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about Trace.” At the mention of his name, Eeny made the sign of the cross over her chest.

hahah same we love E

Some of the prettiest faces hide the meanest hearts, and smooth talk is no substitute for good character. The only way to judge a person is by his deeds.

“Are you saying you don’t think I could hit that?” I grimaced. “Hit that? Are you a rapper now?” Mama went all practical. “If I were, I’d want to be Jay Z. Married to Beyoncé, can you imagine? That boy has no idea how lucky he is!”

You should’ve hung up the second you recognized his voice.” “I did,” she said, nodding. “Until he called me back and told me that losing you was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.” “Gag,” I said.

“For some people, hitting rock bottom is the only way they can start a new journey toward the top.”

But I also know you haven’t even looked at another man since him. Which makes me think all those feelings you had for him might still be there.” Something awful occurred to me. “Oh, no. Please tell me you didn’t tell him that.” She pulled a face, like, Oops. I shot up from my chair and stared down at her. “Mama! You didn’t!”

Shame on you, mama

Men aren’t like us, baby. They’re dumb as doughnut holes when it comes to love.

You never told me any of that before.” She smiled and leaned over and brushed a lock of hair off my cheek. “I’ve never been dying before.”

I’m not afraid to go, so don’t you be afraid, either.” I teared up, hard. “How can you not be afraid? I’m so afraid for you.” This time her smile was truly beautiful. “Because your daddy’s waiting for me on the other side, baby,” she said gently. “Finally we’ll be together again. Being afraid of that would just be plain stupid.” My lip quavered. My throat closed. Then I burst into tears.

😭💕😭💕😭😭😭😭😭😢💔💔💔💔

“Good girl.” She looked over my shoulder. Her voice turned brisk. “Now where the heck is that male nurse? I feel in need of some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!”

It’s so irritating when someone stays calm while the world is ending.

‼

I was in an ornery mood. An ornery truth-telling mood, because I’d recently decided life was too short to beat around the bush. Plus, his check had already cleared the bank.

“Also, a shave wouldn’t kill you.” He looked at me with a strange new expression. “You don’t like beards.” He said it flatly. It wasn’t a question. “Beards are fine. But that thing carpeting your jaw? Honestly, I’ve seen tidier jungles.”

ppffffftttt hahahah

A smiling stranger who sounded like Jackson and called himself Jackson, but looked nothing like the man I knew. The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made Chewbacca look well groomed. The Jackson Boudreaux I knew made King Kong seem civilized. The Jackson Boudreaux I knew didn’t look like Superman and dress like James Bond and have a crowd of three hundred people on their feet, showering him in adoration. Maybe I was hallucinating. I put the back of my hand to my forehead, testing for fever, but it was cool and dry.

If someone pointed a gun at my head and demanded I describe what I was feeling in this moment or get a bullet in my brain, they would’ve had to shoot me.

“Why would you be embarrassed that I told you to call me by my first name?” Gee, let’s see, it could be that your porn actor’s voice could induce spontaneous orgasms in women who remember what sex was like, or that you have this dominant way of giving orders that I’m starting to find less annoying and more interesting, or that watching you lick your lips has set off a nuclear detonation between my legs.

Dear God, if you will please help me out and grant me the power of invisibility or cause my sudden death from something quick and painless, I’d be much obliged. But God was probably having much too good a time watching me squirm to grant my wish. I stood there looking at Jackson while he looked back at me, neither of us saying anything. He tipped his head back, exposing the strong column of his throat, and drank his bourbon. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and imagined God was a teenage girl giggling madly as I felt the heat in my face and neck spread all the way down to my chest.

Before you judge me, let me just say in my defense that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders on account of the sexual tension between Jackson and me in the kitchen, fright over how erratically he’d been driving, making him laugh (a beautiful, unexpected sound), having his big, warm hand settle on my shoulder in a gentle yet distinctly possessive grip, and seeing Trace standing on my front porch in the middle of the night. So yes. I kissed Jackson. Hard.

He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?” I said, “Um.” We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid and set on fire. He lifted his hand and slowly brushed his thumb over my lower lip. His voice an octave lower, he said, “You caught me off guard. Let’s try it again. And this time put your hand on my chest so it looks more authentic.” I grumbled, “Lord, you’re bossy—” But then I shut up because Jackson took my mouth and I couldn’t think, let alone speak.

He whispered, “God, I hope you have a lot of exes you want to make jealous.”

🥰😜😝🤭🤭🤭

Okay, I thought. Time to intervene before we’re on the morning news.

“Excuse me, person who claims to have found God, but your ratty old soul is showing!”

“Just because trash can be recycled doesn’t mean you deserve another chance.”

I gestured to his arm. “Why do you have a semicolon tattooed on your wrist? I noticed it when we were in the kitchen.” Jackson turned his left hand up and gazed down at the simple black tattoo on the inside of his wrist. He was silent for a long time, then looked up and met my eyes. He said, “You’re an avid reader. You know the meaning of a semicolon.” I frowned. “It’s when the author could have ended a sentence but chose not to.” “Exactly.” “I don’t understand.” Jackson looked deep into my eyes. His smile might have been the saddest thing I’d ever seen. He said softly, “I’m the author, and the sentence is my life.”

“I think sometimes it’s easier for a man to be the worst version of himself than to let the world keep breaking his heart.”

“Everybody’s got a price. You didn’t know that last time you got engaged, but now you do.”

ill cry right here