Her spine is rigid straight, and her hands are resting in her lap as she scoots to the very edge of the bench, as far as she possibly can away from me. Like being in such close proximity to me is going to cause her to catch whatever asshole funk I have.
We sit in a stiff silence for a while until she speaks. “Thank you. You’re still a dick, but… thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t, ever again. But I figured what happens in jail stays in jail, so maybe we can call somewhat of a… ceasefire? At least until we get out of here, and then I can go back to hating you with everything I have, and you can go back to annoying me to the ends of the earth.”
Opening my eyes, I look over at her, her posture much more relaxed than when she first sat down, whether it be because she’s exhausted or because she’s tired of acting so damn uptight.
“Fine with me.”
“Good.” Her blonde curls bounce as she gives me a stiff nod.
I sit back again, crossing my arms over my chest, the cold metal of the bars biting through the thin T-shirt.
Fuck, it’s cold and drafty in here.
My gaze travels to the clock, and I see that it’s almost 10:30 p.m., which means we’ve been here for almost four hours after booking, with at least another eight hours to go if we’re lucky.
That means another eight hours of pretending that I didn’t almost kiss Emma Worthington and another eight hours of pretending that I still don’t want to.
emma
Santa tell me… that this is a joke.
Jackson Pearce is haunting me, even in my dreams. Go figure, I can’t escape him in the one tiny sliver of time that’s solely mine and mine alone. He invades my thoughts and makes them his own.
I can practically smell his fresh, earthy scent that comes from long hours working in the sun with his bare hands. Practically feel the warmth of his skin on mine, how unwaveringly strong his muscles are beneath my touch.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
This feels entirely too real to be a dream.
I wake with a start, a gasp tumbling from my lips as my eyes crack open groggily. For a second, I forget that I’m sitting on this impossibly hard concrete bench inside a jail cell because I’m draped across a chest, and it’s much softer than the bench yet still hard from the planes of muscles.
Oh God.
I’m lying across Jackson like he’s a thousand-count Egyptian cotton. Maybe if I don’t move, he won’t realize that I’ve woken up, and we can avoid this embarrassing situation entirely. It’s not like I meant to fall asleep on top of him. Clearly, it happened in an act of subconsciousness.
“Don’t worry, Emmie. Most women can’t help but want to wake up on top of me.”
His chest rumbles beneath me as he chuckles, and I sit up abruptly, almost falling off the side of this stupid, tiny bench.
“Clearly, I was asleep and had no idea what I was doing, or I would’ve chosen the floor over you,” I scoff, brushing my fingers through my messy hair. My curls are limp and tangled from sleeping, and I can’t imagine what my makeup must look like after hours in this concrete hell.
I can’t wait to get out of here. To my own bed, in my own space, and to never have to think of this night or him ever again.
“I’m pretty sure you moaned my name in your sleep.” He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time though.”
“I loathe you.”
He shrugs. “Feeling is mutual, Emmie.”
Standing from the bench, I cross to the other side of the cell and lean against the cold metal, my gaze narrowed on him.
I don’t know how much longer I can take being stuck in this room with him before one of us kills the other.
So much for a ceasefire. Not that I expected it to actually happen. Wishful thinking.
When I woke up this morning, the very last thing I expected to happen was to end the night in a four-by-four jail cell with the most annoying man on the planet, yet I’ve learned in this short time that it is actually possible to hate someone more than you ever imagined.
And truly, there’s not enough room between these concrete walls for both us and his ridiculously large ego.
It takes up most of the room, leaving no space for anything else.
We stay that way, both of us silently glaring at the other from across this small cell until I hear the sound of keys jangling, and my gaze flits to the door. Seconds later, Wayne appears, a wide smile on his face.
“Well, good morning to Strawberry Hollow’s newest criminals. Sleep well? I hope our amenities were well suited for the two of you.” He smiles smugly.
Jackson rises, stretching his arms above his head, a deep groan rumbling in his chest. I refuse to let my gaze drop to the sliver of skin that peeks out from the hem of his white tee and the waistband of his worn Wranglers.
“I’ve slept in worse places. Princess here, well, you know, she barely survived and probably wouldn’t have if not for my gentlemanly ways. And they say chivalry is dead.” Tossing me a shit-eating smirk, he swipes his flannel off the bench and shrugs it on, leaving it open, only rolling up the sleeves.
So rough and casual, nothing fancy or grandiose about him, but I can’t pull my eyes away, as much as it irks me. I shouldn’t be eyeing the man I hate, but here I am, ogling him like he’s Sunday dinner.
“Get me out of here, Wayne. Please. Valentino is not meant for a jail cell,” I mutter as I come to my senses, brushing past Jackson with a scowl.
My feet are hurting so badly I could actually cry, but I refuse to let my bare skin touch anything in this place for fear of getting hepatitis or something worse, and I’m not going to give Jackson the satisfaction of being right.
“Woah, woah, woah, Emma. Now, hold on a second. Mayor Davis is here in the lobby to see both of you.” Wayne’s expression sobers, and the smile he wore only a minute ago is nowhere to be seen. “I’m supposed to escort you out to sign your discharge paperwork and to meet with him. Come with me, please.”
Jackson sighs but says nothing and gestures for me to go after Wayne. We walk down the dark, musty hallway of the tiny police station to the front waiting room that’s not much bigger than the cell we just left.
“Ah, Jackson Pearce, Emma Worthington.” Mayor Davis greets us both from the other side of the front desk. He’s a short, balding, pudgy man with a kind smile and a combover. I’ve known him since I was a child.
Smiling, I offer him a tired wave. “Good morning, Mr. Davis.”
“Jed.” Jackson nods.
“Must say, I was not all that shocked to receive the phone call I did yesterday evening from Wayne, and I’m so disappointed in both of you. Quite frankly, myself, along with the rest of our town, is over your… antics. This has gone too far. Your families have been at each other’s throats over this silly feud for too long.”
“Mr. Davis, I—”