Page 15 of Just One Look

Maverick

I study the mug of piping hot coffee on my desk and the note beside it in disbelief.

“Something’s not right here,”

I mutter to myself, dropping into my desk chair.

Yesterday, I walked in to find Jackson at my desk, eager to talk business. And today, he’s dropped off a cup of coffee with an accompanying note.

I grab my phone and call Ollie. He picks up on the first ring.

“I think Jackson is trying to kill me.”

“Ah, yes. Good morning, Mr. Peterson. Thank you for returning my call about that very important matter.”

“What?”

A few seconds pass. I hear some muffled noises, what sounds like a door closing, and then.

“Yes. Sure, Maverick. Please feel free to call me during business hours with what I’m guessing is a Jackson-related drama.”

“Business hours? It’s not even seven.”

He sighs.

“We’re in meetings with London.”

“Meetings? People still do those?”

Another sigh.

“I’ve stepped out of the room, but I can’t talk for long. What’s up, man?”

“And what makes you think I’m calling about Jackson?”

“What are you calling about, then?”

“Jackson.”

A soft chuckle.

“Right. How can I help? Please know, if you’ve committed a felony, it’s probably best you don’t confide in the person you want to represent you.”

I put Ollie on speaker, lift the coffee mug, take a whiff, and repeat.

“I think Jackson is trying to kill me.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting him to win employee of the month after how he spoke to you when I was out there. But murder? Really?”

“He made me coffee.”

“Case closed. Lock him up.”

“And he left a note.”

“Go on.”

I pick it up from my desk and examine it. I didn’t think anyone could have worse penmanship than me, but Jackson’s scrawl is almost illegible.

“‘Morning, boss. Have a great day!’ There’s an exclamation point after day.”

“Well, I was on the fence, but the exclamation confirms his murderous intent without a shadow of a doubt.”

“Can you be serious for a moment, please?”

“Can you? I’m saying this with love, but this whole thing with Jackson has got you acting crazy. He runs hot and cold. One moment, he’s flipping you off; the next, he’s making you coffee.”

“It could be a plot to kill me. TBD.”

“Maverick.”

Ollie sighs.

“You need stability right now in your life. Put your big boy pants on, have a proper conversation, and figure this shit out.”

He pauses.

“And maybe don’t drink the coffee until after you’ve talked to him.”

I sink back into my chair, twirling the note between my fingers.

“We have talked. He admitted he feels something, too, but he’s got boundaries.”

“What sort of boundaries?”

“Ones designed to keep me out.”

“Did he find out about your micro-penis? Is that what put him off?”

I smile, even though I don’t want to. “Fucker.”

“Did you ask why?”

Ollie asks.

“I did. He didn’t elaborate.”

He pauses.

“Maybe it’s for the best, man,”

he eventually says.

“I don’t mean to be a downer, but some things just aren’t meant to be. I didn’t like the way he spoke to you the other day. It reminded me of the way someone else treated you.”

Ollie’s words hit me right in the chest, but I still have this overriding need to differentiate the situation with Jackson from what happened with Luca.

“I can’t let the way one person treated me affect me negatively for the rest of my life.”

“I’m not suggesting that you do,”

Ollie counters.

“What I’m saying is, learn from it so you don’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks for the chat. I’ll let you go.”

“No worries. Talk later.”

My shoulders sag as I end the call.

Maybe Ollie’s right? Maybe I should just give up on this Jackson thing? If I take a step back and objectively assess the situation, it would be my best option. I have enough on my plate with running the sanctuary, staying focused on my sobriety, and supporting Wagner with all of his business-related shit and looking after Sammy.

But there’s something between Jackson and me. And he feels it, too. He’s said it. He’s just protecting himself from it.

Am I clutching at straws, or is this worth pursuing? Sibella did warn me he wouldn’t make it easy. She also told me not to be a pushover.

Which makes me think…

Yesterday’s meeting. Today’s coffee. It’s all starting to make sense. How could I not see what’s happening?

That little fucker is playing a game with me. But what is the game, and what is the goal?

One thing Jackson might not know about me?

I can get real competitive real quick.

I’m going to figure out what the hell Jackson is playing at…and then I’m going to beat him at it.

I step out of my SUV early the next day in a two-button midnight-blue suit and greet the pre-dawn day with a smile. I’m never here before sunrise, so I haven’t experienced this place so quiet and peaceful. I take a moment to soak in the tranquility.

Damp air carries the scent of hay and earth, and as I set off toward my office, the sound of my shoes crunching on dew-soaked gravel breaks the silence. The silhouette of the barn ahead beckons, but I cast my gaze to the dim light coming from Jackson’s cabin. He’s up but still getting ready.

Perfect.

I walk into the main barn and breeze past the stairs that lead to my office. The familiar scent of hay and horse manure instantly hits my nostrils as I tug at the cuffs of my sleeves and roll each one up to just below my elbow.

Jackson may have won the first round with the surprise coffee and note ambush yesterday, but I’m just as capable of throwing him a curveball. I may not have figured out his endgame yet, but I’m more than capable of mixing things up, too.

I haven’t missed the way his lips curl into a sneer whenever he eyes me off in my suits. Is my choice of attire overkill for a horse rescue center? Probably yeah. It might sound strange, but it grounds me. It’s familiar. It’s what I wore when I worked with Mom at the shipping company, and it gives me a sense of being in charge at a time when so many things are happening that are outside of my control. Including Jackson.

Especially Jackson.

He probably thinks I’m some clueless city slicker with my custom suits and polished shoes.

I’ll show him.

I make my way over to the supply shelves, grab a pair of rubber gloves and a pitchfork, and then head for the stall at the end of the hall, grabbing an empty wheelbarrow along the way. The horses watch me with mild curiosity.

“Hey, Riven,”

I say quietly when I reach his stall.

Jackson has worked a minor miracle with him. Apparently, the night he got out and almost killed us both wasn’t his first escape. A few of the stable hands have nicknamed him Houdini. He used to rear and spin at the slightest hint of an open gate. Now, as I unlock the latch and slip into his stall, he greets me with a gentle nuzzle.

“How ya doin’, buddy?”

He raises his head slightly.

“I know, I know. I’m way more good-looking than your usual cleaner.”

I start mucking out the stall, shoveling the soiled bedding into the wheelbarrow. I’m so zeroed in on the job I don’t hear the sound of boots stomping down the hallway until.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jackson whispers out a seething hiss.

I turn around with a smirk and rest my hand over the handle of the pitchfork. He’s in his trusty work boots, faded black jeans scuffed at the knees, and a heather-gray T-shirt. His hair is messy, his eyes are shining, and his scowl is scowling.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re meant to be in your office doing very important work on a spreadsheet.”

“And you’re meant to be getting me my coffee. And maybe get it right this time? Half-and-half with one sugar. Thanks, hon.”

I return to what I was doing.

Jackson doesn’t move, and I can feel his furious stare searing into the back of my skull.

“Well?”

I ask over my shoulder, intent on annoying him some more.

“Why aren’t you getting me my coffee?”

That gets him moving. Not in the direction of the break room, but into the stall and to right where I want him. Behind me. Well, actually, my ideal position is me behind him. But I can work with this for now.

I spear the pitchfork into the hay and twist my body in his direction, dropping my gaze to his calloused hands. They felt so good on my face when we kissed, rough but somehow also tender.

“Why are you here?”

he grits out, his jaw tightly clenched.

“I’m helping out.”

He leans back, running his eyes over me in the extra-nice outfit I deliberately chose for today, and sneers.

“In a five-thousand-dollar suit?”

“More like seven, but I won’t take offense.”

He bristles, folding his arms across his chest.

“Besides, now that we’re both on the same page and are working together?—”

“We are not working together.”

“No? So I just imagined our meeting where we agreed to change to a monthly service fee for vet care?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Or the coffee and note you left on my desk.”

“No. It’s just…”

He trails off, but I’m too curious to let it slide.

“It’s just, what?”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, followed by another. When he opens them again, he responds in a much friendlier tone.

“While I appreciate what you’re doing, I have all the help I need. So thank you, but you’re not needed.”

“Actually, Collin and Hans both texted me late last night. Seems they’ve come down with food poisoning. Clancy been cooking again? Anyway, you’re down two stable hands today, so I beg to differ. You do need my help.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he keeps his voice contained as he says.

“I’ll call Pip. Think he’s got class in the afternoon, so he might be free this morning.”

Man, he’s stubborn.

“I’m right here, Jackson. Use me.”

I meant use me as in use me to help you, but my inadvertently suggestive words leave a tantalizing buzz in their wake.

Jackson grapples with how to respond, the muscles in his throat tightening.

“Fine. You can help. But get out of those ridiculous clothes.”

“You trying to get me naked?”

He lets out a frustrated grunt, the sound shooting straight to my cock as my filthy mind does what it does best: imagining him making that sound while I rail him from behind.

“Fine. Stay dressed like that. I don’t care. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re covered in dirt.”

“I’m good. Don’t you worry.”

I hand him the pitchfork but yank it away at the last minute.

Our eyes meet. Yesterday’s Mr. Professional demeanor struggles to contain the rage bubbling away inside him.

See, Jackson? You’re not the only one who can shake things up.

He lets out a grunt, rips the pitchfork from my fingers, and gets to work.

We fall into an easy rhythm. Jackson scoops, I clear. The only sounds are the scrape of metal, the rustle of straw, and the occasional sharp “ugh”

when the pitchfork clings to a stubborn clump.

It’s actually nice being out of the office and doing something physical. Wagner has a state-of-the-art home gym, which I use most days, but lifting weights and lugging oversized tires from one end of the mats to the other isn’t the same as doing something you can see tangible evidence of.

The suit wasn’t the brightest idea, though. Not because I’m worried about getting it dirty like Jackson thinks. It’s too restrictive, and the soles of my Allen Edmonds were clearly made for walking city streets, not mucking out slippery, muddy horse stalls.

I glance over at Jackson as we enter the final stall. Stepping inside, we’re greeted by Brandy, a roan mare standing tall on slender legs, her coat a mottled swirl of chestnut and white. A patch of white on her pastern looks newly healed, the skin still puckered from rehabbing an abscess. She arches her neck, offering a tentative nicker as we approach.

Jackson, as always around these majestic creatures, carries a measured grace, gently murmuring something as he brings a carrot stick to her mouth. Brandy’s ears pivot forward in attention.

I start clearing some of the loose hay on the ground, wondering what’s going through Jackson’s mind right now. I caught him off guard, that’s for sure. Is he pissed? Confused? Grateful for the help since he’d have a lot more work to do this morning if I weren’t here? I doubt it’s option C, but a guy can dream, right?

I mull over Ollie’s advice, thinking of a way to start another conversation about the possibility of something developing between us that doesn’t immediately lead to Jackson shutting me down. I’m so completely focused on that, I don’t notice him tossing a pile of soiled bedding toward the wheelbarrow. He misses, and I don’t turn fast enough to move out of the way, so the whole thing lands on my shoes.

And on my pants.

Some even makes it onto the front of my shirt.

Jackson notices. His eyes bulge as he drops the pitchfork and gasps.

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”

I glance down to assess the damage. And yep, it’s as bad as I suspected—patches of hemp, sawdust, and horse shit are scattered all over me.

“It’s fine,”

I say, wincing.

“It was an accident, I swear.”

It’d be all too easy to think it wasn’t an accident, but the sincerity in his eyes and the contrition in his voice make me believe him. Jackson may be hotheaded, but he isn’t downright cruel.

Rude? Yes.

Irritable? Yes.

Slightly violent? Also, yes. After all, he does have a history of going and punching rich assholes in the face.

But call me na?ve, I don’t think he covered me in horse shit on purpose.

“It’s fine,”

I say, trying to figure out what to do next to make this shitty situation less shitty.

Unfortunately, what I do next is the exact opposite.

Taking a step back, the heel of my shoes glides over something slick. I overcorrect to not lose my balance, but it doesn’t help. I lose my footing completely, my arms pinwheeling wildly before I topple sideways, landing on the dirty ground right next to a fresh, clean bale of hay, which would have cushioned my fall.

Jackson scurries over and peers down at me, squinting intently.

“Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay? All I need is for Brandy to lift her tail and take a piss on me for this to be a truly perfect moment.”

Jackson blinks a few times, rolling his lips as if trying to contain himself.

I shake my head, a chuckle bubbling out of me.

Then another one.

I try to hold it in, but a laugh escapes me.

Jackson joins in, and before I know it, he’s doubled over, laughing so hard he’s gasping for air.

I’ve never seen him laugh, much less laugh like this. So free. So joyful. So goddamned beautiful it makes my entire body ache with want for him.

Maybe this has messed up my long-term game plan, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. I feel like I’ve won, seeing Jackson this happy and unguarded.

And as I’m lying spread-eagled on the ground, laughing and covered in horse manure and mud, it hits me.

There is no choice. No option to walk away.

I want Jackson Hunter more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my whole life.