Love Me: The Complete Series (49 page)

“Pretty boys can be outdoorsy too—it’s not a crime.”

Ten minutes later they had worked down to the midway point. Within thirty minutes, they were packed up and hiking to the car where Celia was huddled in the back seat—sleeping. She bolted upright when Jackson opened the door and tossed the ropes on the floor. “A lot of help you were,” he said.

Celia yawned and stretched. “Sorry. I wasn’t too thrilled about a potential lightning strike so I figured I’d hang out here until it let up. I guess I dozed off a bit.”

Jackson stepped out of his sling and added it to the ropes. “I guess you did.” He tossed Amanda’s equipment and backpack on the seat.

Amanda didn’t complain when he dropped Celia in her drive, then drove to his place and pulled into his garage. As if to explain why he hadn’t taken her home yet, he motioned to her bag. “Let’s take a look at those before I run you home, okay?”

She nodded. Amanda’s face was pale and though the sun had returned and warmed the air, her clothes stuck to her like a second skin. It had taken every ounce of control to keep his eyes on her face and not focus on the way her nipples strained through the fabric or the goosebumps that speckled her arms and legs. She was damp and cold. He wished he’d thought to tell her to bring a change of clothes but how was he to know they’d get stuck in a rainstorm?

Inside, she placed the cigar box on his table and headed toward the back. “Have to make a pit-stop. Be there in a sec.”

He followed, taking in every line of her soaking wet five feet, eleven inches. He’d already investigated them up close but seeing the way the cloth slinked and clung against those curves was—disturbing. “Amanda, if you’re not opposed to wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants, I’ll give you some dry clothes. They won’t fit but at least they’ll be warmer than what you’re wearing.”

She shivered and while she said nothing, he knew she’d wear a tent if it meant it was dry and warm. “Th-th-thanks.”

He searched through his closet until he found something that might work and hung it over the bathroom door. “It’s outside the door when you’re ready. I’m going to make us something to eat.”

Jackson wasn’t a great cook. His parents had a knack for entertaining, but not him. He scanned the fridge for anything edible, settled on some hamburger and cheese, then got to work.

When Amanda walked into his kitchen in his T-shirt and sweatpants, his breath caught. Not because she looked amazing in his clothes, although she did. No, he stopped breathing for a second because it was so—damned—intimate. That should have bothered him because as much as all his friends thought him a man-whore, the truth was he normally didn’t like having a woman underfoot. Until that very moment, he would have panicked to see a female wearing his clothes and making herself comfortable in his kitchen or home.

This was Amanda, though, and he’d known her for years. They were like best friends. Like him and Carter. He looked at the way his T-shirt hung over her breasts. It draped dangerously over her shoulder as if one move would make it fall to reveal the creamy skin hidden below. The softness of her collarbone was exposed above the cotton.

No,
definitely not like him and Carter.

“What?” She met his gaze with glassy blue eyes full of concern. Should he confess his thoughts?

He buried his head into the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. Opening one, he handed it to her, then opened the other for himself. “Nothing. I just—nothing.”

He took a long draw on his beer, searching for something that wouldn’t make him feel a complete idiot before lowering the bottle. “Amanda, don’t take this the wrong way, but I like you in my clothes.”

She twisted her fingers through her hair and cinched up the waist of the pants with her free hand. “Thanks. They’re a little big but comfortable. I hope they don’t fall off.”

He took another drink. He should probably stay silent but—

“I hope they do.”

She could have gone the rest of the day without him making a comment that turned her insides to Jell-O. Was that necessary? He didn’t need to pour on the schmooze to get her involved in helping with the legal work. She was getting paid and she loved her job. That was enough.

Jackson, on the other hand—well, she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. The only truthful part had been what she told Carter. She was seeing someone else—or was she?

Not by most standards. They had spent one night together and barely spoken since. In fact, they both seemed to avoid the topic. Regardless, it made sense to blame their “encounter” on her emotional state at the time and try to counteract his charismatic charm with—staunch professionalism. She cleared her throat and moved to sit at his kitchen counter. A pile of bills graced one side and the newly found box of letters filled the other.

“Okaaay, so let’s do this.” She flipped the cigar box lid open, took out one of the bags, and laid out the contents in a line.

“You want to start with the unopened ones?”

“Sure.” It was comforting to know that he was just as concerned about prying into unopened messages as she. She chose an envelope, and opened it.

Jackson followed her lead and retrieved another envelope. “We should put them in date order and make sure we have everything in perspective. This one looks like the first. December 14, 1950. Knowing which letter came first might help to understand the chain of events. Is it just me or does this feel like spying?”

Amanda looked at the first line,
Dearest M.
He had a point. “He just used an initial—how cryptic is that? Yes, I suppose it feels a little like digging in someone’s panty drawer but apparently we’re supposed to read these so we understand your legal dilemma.”

Jackson slipped his opened. “Mine says
Dearest Marion.
So, not too cryptic, though digging in each other’s panty drawer sounds a lot more interesting than reading a bunch of crusty old love letters.”

“You don’t know they’re love letters. Marion could be his sister or his mom.”

Jackson turned to her and raised a brow. “You seriously think he called his mom by her first name? I’d get backslapped if I did that with either of my parents.”

Good point. “Your parents are really that picky about manners? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

He didn’t miss her sarcasm; his voice had a soft tone as he laughed. “Manners? Nope. One of my dad’s favorite phrases was, ‘Only one person in the world can call me Dad, so use it.’”

Amanda warmed a little toward his old father. “He had a point. So, want me to read this out loud or just pass them to you?”

A bell dinged. Jackson dropped his letter and strode to the kitchen. “First, we eat. Then we read.”

Amanda breathed deeply as he shoved his hands into some oven gloves and pulled something steamy from the oven. Jackson knew how to cook? What a surprise. He placed a casserole on the cooktop and lifted the foil. Steam gushed into a small cloud. Another wave of garlic and oregano filled the room. It smelled fabulous, and suddenly Amanda was ravenous. She tiptoed into the kitchen and stood at his side to see the masterpiece. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

He laughed. “I can make three things really well. My famous chili cheeseburgers on the grill, a rib-eye that can rival Ruth Chris’s, and my mom’s famous meatloaf. I wanted to make the burgers but didn’t have any buns so you get the meatloaf.”

“It smells fantastic. You use cheese in yours?”

He nodded. “This is my mother’s recipe and yes, there’s cheese. Always. My mother’s philosophy on cooking is easy—everything tastes better with cheese or butter. The meatloaf has a layer of cheese in the middle that melts and flavors as it cooks. It’s pretty good. There’s French fries too.” He pulled the oven open with a creak and retrieved a sheet full of crinkle fries.

Amanda was in heaven. “I’m starved. Point me in the direction of plates.”

Jackson reached above her head and grabbed a couple of plates, then pulled utensils from a drawer. With both hands gripping plates of heaven, he nodded toward the table. “Would you mind clearing us a spot?”

Amanda did so, and they enjoyed the meal while laughing about her first attempt at rock-climbing. She shrugged. “Hey, I can’t be perfect at everything.” Not that she was.

Jackson leaned toward her, fork in hand, and dropped a kiss on her nose. “So true. But we should go back and try again when there’s no rain in the forecast.”

The meatloaf was magnificent; his mother had a hit there. Amanda gobbled it up, then chased it with half a dozen fries. They washed the food down with two more beers and all Amanda wanted afterward was—a nap. She’d eaten too much.

The letters sat on the counter, taunting them to read. She carried the empty plates to his sink, scrubbed them, and placed them in the washer.

“Are we ready to start reading?”

Jackson pulled himself to a stand. Lifting his arms above his head, he stretched. “I am if you are.”

They sat and read Marion’s letters, one by one. While it felt like intruding in someone’s privacy, the letters were well written and sentimental but not over the top. The kind of letters one would imagine a soldier writing to his love before heading into the trenches of war.

Which was exactly what the letters were. The man writing them—his name was Jacob—served in Korea during the Korean War. According to the letters, he was nineteen when he walked into battle for the first time. The letters were a lot of mush with small amounts of details about the people around him. Never about the war.

Amanda sighed. “It was a different time then, wasn’t it? He could say the sweetest things but never tell anything about the horrific violence he witnessed.”

Jackson stared at the letter she’d finished. “That hasn’t changed. It’s a matter of national security. They’re not allowed to divulge anything about the war or their location.”

“I know, I know. I meant that all these men went over there and were exposed to all sorts of things they’d probably never dealt with before. They came back home and just walked right into their old lives as if it never happened. There wasn’t any PTSD diagnosis or counseling. They just—went on. Things are so different now. Now, soldiers are encouraged to explore their combat experiences and feelings with professionals and are given all sorts of opportunities when they return. It was harder then.”

“Harder? I suppose. Listen to this.” Jackson lifted a handwritten note and started reading.

“
Today, we scaled the side of a hill and dug foxholes so we could prepare for the advance. I can’t tell you where I am but know that it’s not a good place and this is a tough war. On my first day, I was assigned to a weapon that would have surely gotten me killed. Then the commander’s driver took some shrapnel and just like that, my job here changed and I became a driver to the head guy.

When we scaled the hill, I thought of us and our little piece of heaven in the rocks. I wondered how many people before us had reached that ledge and looked out over the Texas hill country. No matter where I go or what shape I’m in when I come back, know that I love you and that little spot is the only place in my heart that means home to me. I dream of walking through the trees to find you there.”

Amanda’s eyes misted and she watched as he folded the pages and slid them back into their envelope.

“You’re a softie, Amanda Gillespie.” Jackson’s words were teasing but his voice was kind. Yeah, she was exactly that. As a teen, she’d hated the way she cried at sad movies, weddings, funerals, and even graduations. It was embarrassing, and several of her friends hadn’t skipped the opportunity to tease her for the weakness. As a result, she was sensitive about being sensitive.

“Shut up.”

He cupped her cheek and pulled her face toward him. “No, I think it’s adorable. Come here.” He eased her closer and dropped his mouth to hers, a feather-light dotting of kisses that trailed along her mouth and cheek. It was sweet.

“We should get back to the letters. I think we should make some notes.” She couldn’t concentrate because Jackson had slid his hand across her shoulder and eased his oversized T-shirt down. He followed the movement by trailing kisses along the top of her shoulder and down.

He whispered against her skin. “The letters have been there for fifty years. They’re not going anywhere. Besides I think we should make notes too—right here. Note to self, Amanda has a tiny mole at the very spot that her collar bone meets her heart.” He kissed the spot.

“I have a lot of moles.”

“Note two, there’s another one on the outside of her ear. A tiny speck that looks almost like it was drawn there for decoration. I think I need to get a pad and do a massive inspection. Maybe I should catalogue them so you know where they all are.” Jackson nibbled her earlobe and Amanda squelched the urge to squeal with delight. How would she not know her own body?

He ran a finger up her back and dipped into his massive sweats that were threatening to fall from her waist. Circling a finger at the lowest part of her spine, he snickered. “You probably haven’t seen this one.”

“I have a mole
there
? Seriously?”

His gaze held hers, his eyes smoky and dark while he nodded. Hmmm, okay, so she didn’t know every nook and cranny of her own body. She did know what it felt like and at the moment his hands were making ripples of heat that she expected would turn to fire as soon as he decided to change things up.

She curled her bare toes together and kept still. “While we’re taking notes, did you know there’s a little scar right here?” She trailed a finger along his chest, inside the collar of his shirt.

“Little League. I played outfield and went after a fly ball. The fence and I had a little argument over who could have the ball.”

“I’m guessing you lost?” She quirked a brow.

Jackson laughed, a soft low rolling grumble that made her stomach flip. “Nope. You should have seen the fence. Even then I was a big, lanky guy. I tore it to shreds.”

She smiled at the thought of a gangly pre-teen wrestling free from chain-link. Before she said the next words that came to mind, Jackson blotted her vision by dropping his mouth solidly to hers. She let him intensify the kiss for a few moments, then reared back.