Page 11 of Jessa & Jaxon (What Happens In Vegas #1)

My phone vibrates in my bag as I wait for Jasmine to exit the dressing room.

Principal Watkins’s name flashes on the screen, and my heart seizes in my chest. It’s been exactly one week since the interview and alternating between hope and anxiety, with thoughts of Jaxon intruding every time I try to focus on anything else.

“I need to take this,” I tell Meesha, moving toward the dressing room’s entrance.

“Ms. Mitchell,” Principal Watkins’s warm voice fills my ear. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” I reply.

“I wanted to personally let you know that after careful consideration, the school board has unanimously decided to offer you the position of vice principal at Winter Bay Elementary.”

The world seems to slow around me. The boutique’s music fades into the background as Principal Watkins continues talking about start dates and transitional meetings, but I can barely process the details. I made it. After years of working toward this goal, I actually made it.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, though my voice is thick with emotion. “I’m honored. Truly.”

As I end the call, promising to return the signed paperwork, an overwhelming urge washes over me. Before I can second-guess myself, my fingers are scrolling to Jaxon’s name in my contacts.

It’s been ten days since he left. Ten days of making lists in my head about why this is for the best, why we wouldn’t work, why I’m better off alone. Ten days of lying to myself, and failing miserably at pretending I don’t miss him.

But in this moment of triumph, he’s the person I want to share it with first. Not my friends waiting inside, not my brother, not even my parents—but Jaxon.

But would he answer?

The doubt paralyzes me just long enough for Jasmine to call out for me.

“Jessa! Is this dress too much for Kamal’s party?” Jasmine asks, twirling once when I reenter the dressing room.

I tuck my phone away, pulse quickening at the thought of Saturday’s confrontation. Three days until I face Jaxon, who’ll probably look unfairly gorgeous in one of those tailored suits at my brother’s birthday bash.

Antonio insisted on throwing the party with only three days’ notice, claiming thirty deserved something special. Forcing my thoughts on Jasmine, I focus on what she’s wearing.

The dress is a deep burgundy cocktail-length sheath that hugs her figure with a tasteful slit and off-shoulder neckline. She looks stunning, and will fit what Antonio described as a “sophisticated but chill” gathering.

“I like it,” I tell her.

We’ve been at this boutique for over two hours now, champagne glasses in hand (courtesy of the boutique’s excellent customer service), watching Jasmine’s parade of potential party outfits. Meesha and I found our dresses within the first twenty minutes.

I selected an emerald cocktail dress that hit just above the knee, and Meesha chose a sophisticated plum wrap dress.

Jasmine’s selection process has turned into an afternoon-long saga when she is typically the one who walks into a store, selects perfect items, while Meesha and I are still browsing the first rack.

“This the one,” Meesha says, her verdict carrying weight as our resident fashion expert.

I approach Jasmine and check the fit, tugging on the back. My mind circles back to how Jaxon and how much I miss him.

“Ouch!” Jasmine flinches, her hands flying protectively to her chest.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.” I pull back immediately. “Is the fabric scratchy?”

“My breasts are too tender for all that pulling,” Jasmine explains.

“You’re probably PMSing, girl. Happens to me all the time,” Meesha offers from her seat.

Jasmine’s posture stiffens. Looking at her through the mirror, I notice the tightening in her throat. Her hand drifts to her stomach and her light brown eyes widen before blinking rapidly.

“Girl, are you okay?” I ask, concerned.

Jasmine clears her throat and force a smile. “I’m good,” she replies. “Let’s see about buying this dress.”

While waiting for the store attendant, Meesha enthusiastically discusses her wedding.

“With only sixteen days left, I’m freaking out about finalizing everything.

The caterer needs the final headcount by Tuesday because Connor's mom keeps calling her to change it, the florist keeps pushing for decisions on centerpieces, and the DJ wants our must-play list ASAP.”

“Let’s schedule a planning session on Monday evening,” I suggest, grateful for a concrete task to focus on beyond Saturday’s encounter. “We can knock out all the remaining decisions in one three-hour block instead of these scattered conversations.”

I created a master spreadsheet tracking every wedding task, color-coded by deadline and priority level. Meesha initially laughed at my organizational system, but now refers to it as her “wedding bible.”

Despite talks of the wedding, I can’t help noticing Jasmine’s unusual silence. She sits with perfect posture, nodding occasionally while her gaze drifts repeatedly to the calendar hanging behind the counter, as if calculating dates in her head.

Meesha’s vibrating phone interrupts the conversation. She glances down at it, and I catch the worried frown creasing her brow. She turns the phone off and puts it into her purse.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you girls about.” Her perfectly manicured nail traced the rim of her champagne glass, creating a faint, crystalline hum. “My heart’s been filled with guilt since Vegas.”

The air in the boutique suddenly feels too warm. I look down at my hands, studying my cuticles to avoid making eye contact with either of them.

What could Meesha possibly have done that was worse than what I did?

“You didn’t do something stupid like getting married in Vegas, did you?” I make myself look up, struggling to keep my expression neutral.

Meesha’s head jerks backward. “What? Of course not!”

“Well, you did say you felt guilty,” I say. “And it is the only thing I could come up with that would make you feel that way.”

“Getting married in Vegas is tacky. I could never,” Meesha responds.

“I feel you, girl,” Jasmine adds.

My shoulders tense at the unintentional jab. Great, now my wedding is officially “tacky” before I even explain myself. So much for my big confession. I’m definitely not telling them today.

“Come on, do we really have to talk about Vegas?” Jasmine interjects before I could speak.

“I want to talk about it,” Meesha insists. “I did something bad. It’s been eating at me.”

“Did you kill someone?” Jasmine asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course not!” Meesha recoils, looking genuinely offended at the suggestion.

“Then what happened in Vegas should stay in Vegas,” I say, infusing my voice with a finality.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jasmine chimes in, her voice unusually quick. “Let’s talk instead about Jessa being snowed in with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hostile.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Jasmine says. “You were trapped alone for seven days with your nemesis?” She emphasizes the word with air quotes and a smirk. “That must have been... interesting.”

The memory of Jaxon’s hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, flashes through my mind. I take another sip of champagne, hoping the flush I feel rising isn’t visible on my face.

“It was... fine,” I say. “We were civil.”

“Civil?” Meesha repeats incredulously. “Girl, please. You’ve been crushing on that man since you were twelve.”

“I have not!” My protest comes too quickly, too forcefully.

“Mmm-hmm.” Jasmine’s expression is painfully smug. “That’s why you always complain about his girlfriends. Nobody gets that worked up about other women unless there are feelings involved.”

I roll my eyes. “Dislike is a feeling too, you know.”

“So what did you guys even do for a nine days?” Meesha presses, clearly not ready to drop the subject.

My mind races through the highlights. Jaxon cooking breakfast shirtless, board games by candlelight, his body moving above mine, inside me. I drain my champagne in one gulp.

“Nothing exciting. He helped with my interview prep for the vice principal position and we played board games.” I’m not exactly lying, just omitting the parts where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

Jasmine narrows her eyes. “You’re being weird.”

“What? No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Meesha joins in. “You’re doing that thing where you twist your bracelet when you’re holding something back.”

I glance down and find my fingers indeed fidgeting with my silver jewelry. I force my hands to still. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Something happened,” Jasmine declares, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

The directness of her question catches me off guard. “What? That’s—I wouldn’t—”

“Oh my God, you did!” Meesha practically shrieks. “Jessa Smith, after all your comments about how you can’t stand him! I knew it was sexual tension!”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest weakly, then realize my mistake.

“So you admit it!” Jasmine looks triumphant, exchanging a high-five with Meesha. “Finally! We’ve been watching you two circle each other for years.”

“No, you haven’t,” I counter, “because there’s been nothing to watch. It was just... a storm thing. Confined spaces, unusual circumstances.”

“And now?” Meesha asks, her excitement dimming slightly at my tone.

I think of how he left without saying goodbye and how he hasn’t reached out despite making it seem like he wanted more. “Now nothing. He called me a liar and left.”

“What happened?” Jasmine’s voice softens, her teasing replaced with genuine concern.

I shrug, aiming for casual despite the unexpected tightness in my throat. “He wanted a relationship, and I told him I was only interested in sex. When I woke up, he was gone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Meesha’s voice rises an octave. “The man finally tells you he wants you, and you shut him down?”

“Jessa, we love you, but you’re being an idiot.”

“Excuse me?” I glare at Jasmine, but she doesn’t care.

“You’ve been half in love with that man since the sixth grade.”

I scoff. “That’s ridicu—”

“Oh, really?” Meesha narrows her eyes. “So you didn’t convince one of his girlfriends to take her old boyfriend back?”

“Estella was still in love with her ex,” I argue. “I was being a matchmaker.”

Meesha snorts. “Girl. You made us eat gas station ice cream in the parking lot on Easter because Jaxon showed up with another woman and you suddenly wanted to start a new tradition.”

My stomach drops. “That had nothing to do with Jaxon.”

Jasmine crosses her arms. “Uh-huh. And it was also a coincidence when you disappeared to that cabin for Christmas right when he started dating that marketing executive?”

I can’t ignore the evidence piling up against me. The way my heart races when he walks into a room, how I practice comebacks in my head before seeing him, the emptiness I felt watching him with that marketing executive.

“Pure coincidence.”

“Girl, please.” Meesha rolls her eyes dramatically. “You light up when he walks into a room. Right before you pick a fight.”

Have I really been this obvious all these years?

“I do not—”

“You do,” they say in unison.

Jasmine reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Look, we get it. Relationships are scary, especially when you’ve been burned before. But Jaxon isn’t Marcus.”

The mention of my ex makes me wrinkle my nose. “This has nothing to do with Marcus.”

“Doesn’t it?” Meesha’s voice softens. “Since that disaster, you’ve been building walls so high nobody can climb them. But Jaxon’s been scaling them anyway, hasn’t he? That’s what scares you.”

“I’m not scared,” I say automatically, but my throat feels tight.

“Then what are you?” Jasmine challenges. “Because from where we’re sitting, you finally got what you’ve secretly wanted for years, and you panicked and pushed him away.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

Meesha sighs. “Yes, you do. You’re just afraid to admit it because then you’d have to do something about it.”

I’ve always been good at spotting patterns. I’ve always changed direction when the facts didn’t match what I thought was true. It’s what makes me a good educator. Yet here I am, clinging to a lie I’ve told myself for years, refusing to see what’s right in front of me.

“And what if it doesn’t work out?” The question bursts from me with unexpected emotion. “What if we try, and it falls apart and I lose him completely?”

“What if it works out?” Jasmine counters. “What if he’s exactly what you need, and you’re exactly what he needs?”

“The way he left...”

“You told him you didn’t want him,” Meesha points out. “What did you expect? The man has his pride.”

I sit back, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the truth. I didn’t push Jaxon away because I didn’t want him. I pushed him away because I wanted him too much. Because if I let myself have him and then lost him... I wouldn’t survive it.

But I’ve already lost him, haven’t I? And somehow, I’m still breathing.

My mind races ahead, planning what comes next. Saturday’s party hovers. The anxiety of seeing him mingles with unexpected importance.

What if this is my chance? What if he brings someone else? What if I never get another opportunity to tell him what I’ve only just admitted to myself?

“I don’t know what to do.”

Jasmine and Meesha exchange a look before Jasmine says, “Yes, you do. The question is whether you’re brave enough to do it.”

Am I?