Page 6 of Just One Look

Maverick

I may not be the robe-wearing, hairless-cat-stroking, security-camera-monitoring creep Jackson made me out to be last week, but I am definitely enjoying the view from my newly refurbished office.

Since starting working on-site, I’ve noticed he’s a creature of habit. Every morning around ten, he brings a horse into the round pen and goes through some gentle physical therapy.

We currently have eighteen horses in our care, a number I hope to increase once the facilities are improved. The last few days, he’s worked with Riven, but today, he’s leading Daisy toward the pen, a stocky draft cross with a grumpy streak and a soft spot for apple slices.

They enter the pen, and he starts the way he always does, by walking around the perimeter, his hand lightly on the reins, letting Daisy set the pace. Once she starts to relax, Jackson transitions into light groundwork, which requires Daisy to move at different paces.

Yesterday, he was leading Riven in circles at the end of a long line. The rhythm of it reminded me of running drills in high school when I played football. Today, he seems to be taking more of a free-form approach, letting Daisy move about however she likes inside the pen. Whenever she comes near him, he adjusts his body, wordlessly communicating with the creature, gradually gaining her trust.

It’s hypnotic to witness. Jackson is able to read Daisy before she even reacts. He’s patient, never rushing or pushing her into anything she’s not ready for. And he’s calm. So calm. No shows of dominance. No trying to break the animal. He simply lets things unfold naturally and reacts to whatever he’s presented with.

Such a striking difference to how he is around me.

Despite working on-site for the past week, our paths haven’t crossed much. Apart from the time I caught him talking to himself near the parking lot, we’ve barely exchanged more than a few words. I keep telling myself it’s because our roles don’t overlap and not because he’s deliberately going out of his way to avoid me.

But I’m deluding myself.

I’ve had more conversations with freaking Pip than I have with Jackson, for crying out loud, and the dude only volunteers here one day a week.

Pip is the only person Jackson seems close to. In addition to steering clear of me, he keeps his distance from most of the other staff, too, only ever engaging when it’s work related, exchanging the bare minimum needed.

But on the day Pip comes in, they’re like glue. Jackson is at ease and talkative and seems to have no issue guiding Pip through the ins and outs of barn work. The inside of my chest prickles with irritation at the memory of them walking with filled-up buckets from the water tanks to the barn, Jackson smiling at whatever Pip was regaling him with, like they’re—oh, shit—a couple?

I assumed they were friends, but what if they’re more than that? My chest burns as I bring the piping hot coffee to my mouth, watching with interest as Daisy lets out a loud snort and charges toward Jackson. But Jackson holds firm, raising his hand in the air. If he’s scared, he sure as hell doesn’t show any signs of it. Daisy immediately halts and drops her head.

“Impressive,”

I mutter to myself as a delighted squeal o.

“Uncle Kiiiiick!”

rings out behind me.

I turn around and manage to place my coffee mug on the desk before my nephew leaps into my arms.

“Sammy. What are you doing here?”

“Dad wants to talk to you.”

Uh-oh. That’s never a good thing. We all live on the same property, Wagner and Sammy in the main house, and I’ve taken up residence in my grandparents’ small cottage. It’s close enough that I can help out with Sammy whenever Wagner needs it but far enough away that I have my own space and privacy.

Wagner appears, his frame taking up practically the entire doorway. He’s twelve years older than me and has always been bulkier than I am. Even though his military days are behind him, and he’s a full-time dad, and he’s working his ass off to save our family’s winery, he still somehow manages to stick to a punishing workout regime.

He assesses my office carefully with narrow eyes and the faintest hint of a scowl. That’s normal. He always has that pissed-off air about him. What isn’t normal is the unexpected drop-in. Something must be up.

Wagner isn’t capable of being spontaneous. He’s the most responsible and disciplined person I’ve ever met. A lover of precise routines. That’s what made him such a great Navy SEAL and such a great brother slash substitute parent to Fenner, Adair, and me growing up.

We had a nanny, Mrs. Thornsby, but she was a real bitch. Old, mean, and always looking for ways to make our lives miserable. Mom and Dad either didn’t notice or didn’t care, so it was Wagner who we all leaned on. Me most of all. He was my support system growing up, and I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it weren’t for him.

But the weight of losing out on his own childhood to shoulder that responsibility and his time spent bouncing between combat zones with back-to-back deployments has had a profound impact on him. I want to return the favor and be there for him the way he was for me growing up, but the man is impenetrable. Every time I try to talk about something deeper, he shuts me down, preferring to keep everything bottled up.

He strides across my office, commenting, “Nice,”

which is a big compliment from him but an understatement if he’d seen the state the place was in when I arrived and stands by the window.

“That him?”

he asks, tipping his head toward the pen.

“Yep. That’s Michael Jackson,”

Sammy supplies with a bright grin stretching his chubby cheeks.

These two haven’t stopped giving me shit about that since the day I tried to outsmart a four-year-old…and lost.

“Oh, is Jackson out there?”

I ask innocently, joining them.

Sammy covers his mouth as if he’s about to whisper, then proves he hasn’t got the concept down yet when he shouts.

“We saw you looking out the window when we came.”

Well, shit.

I may be twenty-six and well and truly an adult, but I still confide in my big bro about everything. And these past few weeks, only two things have been on my mind: the sanctuary and Jackson. Wagner’s listened to me prattle on about repairing infrastructure and options for replacing the barn’s long-dead plumbing system, as well as daily updates on Jackson.

For a grumpy bastard, he’s been surprisingly patient as he listens to me, especially since I don’t really have all that much to update him on. I’m sticking to the commitment I made when I took over the center and am giving Jackson his space. So most of my ramblings about Jackson are just that—ramblings. About someone who barely tolerates me. Beyond pathetic, I know.

“Hate to ask again, Mav,”

Wagner begins, stepping away from the window.

“But I need to take an investor meeting in the city today. Came up at the last minute.”

I nod before he asks what I know he’s going to. Everleigh is three hours away. It’s too much to drive there and back in one day. He’ll spend the night in his condo like he always does, and I’ll get to spend the evening hanging out with my favorite little dude.

I high-five Sammy.

“Score. Looks like it’s pizza and ice cream dessert for us tonight.”

“No. It isn’t,”

Wagner tuts sternly.

“I’ve made grilled chicken with steamed veggies and sweet potato nuggets.”

Sammy folds his arms across his small chest, crosses one leg in front of the other, and scoffs.

“Yeah. As if we’ll be eating that.”

Wagner takes one look at Sammy doing a spot-on impersonation of his favorite uncle and glares at me.

“Stop being a bad influence on my son.”

“I’m not a bad influence.”

I raise my hands to my face.

“He probably gets it from all the R-rated movies we watch together.”

Wagner’s jaw pulses as a hiss escapes through clenched teeth.

“That better be your piss-poor idea of a joke.”

“It is. I’m kidding.”

I clap him on the shoulder and gently usher him toward the door.

“We’ll eat dinner. Watch cartoons. And I’ll have him in bed by seven.”

“Eight,”

Sammy shouts from the other side of my office.

Wagner turns to his son, his face softening.

“Come here, kiddo. Gimme a hug.”

Sammy bolts over, crashing into Wagner’s arms.

“Love you, Sammy.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

My heart melts seeing them like this. It’s the sweetest thing, and it makes me want to have my own kids one day. Once I get my life sorted.

I walk Wagner out as Sammy returns to the window, ensuring at least one Benson has eyes on Jackson at all times.

“Don’t worry about us,”

I tell my brother.

“Focus on your meeting and securing investors.”

Lord knows he needs it. Don’t know what it is about Silverstone and people mismanaging businesses around here, but this sanctuary isn’t the only place in need of a serious turnaround. The vineyard’s finances are a sea of red. I can’t believe Dad let the business that’s been in his family for generations get this bad. Then again, there are a lot of things Dad has done that I can’t wrap my head around.

“Thanks, Mav. I appreciate your help.”

“Anytime.”

Wagner takes a look around my office.

“You’ve done a good job. The place looks great.”

“Is that a…compliment?”

His lips twist.

“It is. You get one a year. Keep my kid safe.”

“I will. Now, go out there and get that money.”

His mouth flattens, taking that almost-smile away with it, and his scowl reemerges.

“Why is it that everything that comes out of your mouth sounds dirty?”

I laugh.

“I’ll take that as a bonus compliment. Now, go. Drive safe.”

“I will. Love you, Mav.”

“Love you, Wag.”

He hates that nickname, so as he bounds down the stairs, taking two at a time, he sticks his hand up over his shoulder and flips me off.

“Are you watching, Uncle Kick?”

“I am. I am. Just don’t go too far,”

I call out, waving Sammy away from the pen and closer to me.

I’m sitting under the sprawling valley oak tree, having a pinch-me moment, watching my nephew on his training wheel bike from the exact same spot Grandpa Rick used to watch me get saddled up for a horse ride.

Being back in Silverstone, living in his house, making my way through piles of his and Grandma’s stuff, it’s making me all sentimental. But I hate that all my good childhood memories are tied to him and not to my parents. There are times I’m tempted to call Dad and yell at him for having kids and never being there for us. What the fuck were he and Mom thinking?

But I always talk myself out of confronting him, figuring what’s the point? It won’t change anything, and even though I’m not particularly close to Dad, at least we’re in touch occasionally. Trauma dumping on him is only going to lead to full-on estrangement, and I don’t want that.

I may not be able to do anything about the past, but I’m determined to learn from it and do everything I can to make sure Sammy knows he is loved and special and important.

It’s late afternoon, the hustle and bustle of the day giving way to long shadows and the sounds of the horses being put in for the evening. The sun dips low in the sky, casting a honey glow over everything. It’s so peaceful and relaxing.

“Michael Jackson!”

My head snaps to where Jackson is walking. Sammy changes directions to head toward him, wobbly at first but gaining speed, his tiny legs pedaling fast. He brakes forcefully when he reaches Jackson, kicking up some dirt behind him.

Jackson drops the two buckets he was carrying and offers a rigid wave.

“Hey, Sammy. How are you?”

Sammy leaps off his bike and throws his arms around Jackson’s leg. Poor guy looks like he hasn’t got the faintest clue what to do. He tentatively taps the top of Sammy’s curly blond head a couple of times. I hold in my smile.

“Wanna see me ride?”

Sammy asks, staring up at him.

“Uh, sure.”

“Go sit next to Uncle Kick and watch me. Okay?”

“Of course.”

Jackson strides over to me. My eyes dance with amusement at how my four-year-old nephew just bossed my employee in a way that would land me in hot water if I so much as attempted to speak to him like that.

“Hey,”

he says when he reaches me, and even though he’s dirty, damn, he looks good.

His flannel shirt is rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms flecked with dust. His jeans are caked in dried mud and something else I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the origin of. His damp black hair clings to his neck, and he smells like leather, hay, and sweat.

I breathe in the intoxicating scent, greeting him with a smile. “Hi,”

I say, crossing my ankle over my knee.

My smile grows when he doesn’t plant himself on the edge like he did last time but drops down a solid foot inside the bench. I’ll take that as progress.

“Are you both watching?”

Sammy yells, pushing the pedals with determination.

“We are. And you’re doing great, buddy,”

I yell back.

“Keep going!”

“Okay.”

His face is filled with determination.

“But keep looking.”

“We will.”

Jackson chuckles softly.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just funny how a four-year-old can get away with ordering you around.”

“He’s got you sitting here, hasn’t he? So I’m not the only one he’s bossing around.”

“That’s true. You on babysitting duty again?”

“Sure am,”

I reply with a grin.

“Wagner was called into the city.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I love hanging out with my favorite person. Apart from work, hanging out with Wagner and Sammy, and sorting through a massive pile of my grandparents’ boxes, my life is actually pretty simple.”

“And you don’t mind that?”

“Not at all. Excitement is overrated. I’ve partied enough to last two lifetimes. I’m over that scene and everything that comes with it.”

I suck in a breath, stopping myself from revealing anything else.

“Give me Sesame Street playing in the background while reviewing business financials any day of the week.”

“Really?”

I nod.

“Really. I’m pretty boring.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I chuckle.

“And yet it’s true.”

We fall into a comfortable silence that Jackson eventually breaks with.

“You seem like a great uncle.”

“Thanks.”

My eyes drift to Sammy, spinning around in the dirt.

“Kids are so wild. Getting to spend some quality time with him has opened my eyes so much.”

“How so?”

“Kids have a rich emotional landscape. His personality is forming. He observes and absorbs everything that takes place around him. He’s inquisitive. And he needs to feel safe. Loved. Seen. It’s sad to think we all start off as innocent kids and end up as adults struggling to deal with all of our unprocessed trauma.”

Jackson side-eyes me.

“That’s grim, Benson.”

“Tell me it’s not true, though.”

He shrugs, so I go on.

“On a scale of one to ten, where one is the most perfect family ever and ten is the Menendezes, how would you rate yours?”

He swipes his thumb in small circles along his chin as he thinks about it.

“I’d say a seven. We’ve been through a lot, but no one has ever committed murder. Thought about it plenty of times, sure, but never any follow-through.”

I grin.

“That’s good. These horses would be missing out if you were behind bars.”

“Why do you assume I would be the one doing the murdering?”

“I saw you at Bunny’s, remember? Definitely the face of a killer.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head at the memory, then asks.

“What about your family? Scale of one to ten.”

“Eleven,”

I reply the instant he finishes his question. His eyes meet mine.

“You don’t want to know. It’s…grim.”

“Right.”

Clearing my throat, I segue onto a new topic, one that’s been gnawing at the back of my mind recently.

“So what’s the deal with you and Pip?”

“Excuse me?”

I keep my eyes firmly focused on Sammy.

“I get the impression you prefer horses over humans the way you steer clear of most of the staff around here.”

“That’s because most of the staff around here are useless.”

I hum but don’t comment on that. I’m currently reviewing staff performance, and he’s right: most of them are useless. Many have been here for a long time, and they’ve grown accustomed to not having to put in much effort or take any accountability for anything. That will be changing very soon. I may be a rich asshole, but I’m a rich asshole who works hard. Everyone in my family does. Something we inherited from our mother. I expect the same from the people who get a paycheck from me.

I steer the conversation back to Pip.

“I know he only comes in once a week, but when he does, you two are inseparable.”

I clear my throat to remove even the slightest possibility of jealousy seeping into my tone.

“Are you guys together?”

“And if we were?”

I turn sharply to look at him. “Are you?”

He holds my gaze, leaving me hanging for several excruciatingly long seconds.

“No. We’re not. He’s my best friend.”

Good.

I return my attention to Sammy and do my best to ignore the rising question of why I want to know about Jackson’s dating situation in the first place.

But I can’t.

Because I know full well the reason. It’s the same reason why I’ve been babbling about him to Wagner from the first day I met him at Bunny’s. Why I plan my mornings around his schedule, making sure I always leave his 10:00 a.m. training time in the pen free so that I can watch him like some demented perv. Why a spike of jealousy tore through me when he left me hanging and let me think for a second he might be dating Pip.

For the first time in a long time, my senses have reawakened. I feel something.

Something I shouldn’t.

Something that could be very dangerous for me at this point in my life.

But I don’t care. This feeling feels good.

I cast my eyes over Jackson watching Sammy riding his bike, and my chest throbs, sending warm ripples throughout my body.

Under the same tree on the same bench I spent so many summers with my grandpa, I let the fullness of the emotion I’m feeling wash over me.

I like Jackson Hunter.