Page 16 of Middle Ground

It’s the wine. It has to be the wine.

“Don’t smile at me,” I scold. “You’re not allowed to smile.”

His grin deepens. Honest to God dimples appear on his cheeks. Fuckingcheek dimples. It’s official: the universe is out to get me.

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

This only elicits a chuckle. Jackson steps farther into the hall and shuts his door behind him. Then he tucks his hands into his pockets and starts off down the corridor.

“Let’s go, Ellison,” he calls. “Time for bed.”

“What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

“I don’t need you to walk me home,” I protest.

He stops and turns to me, sighing. “Can you please just humour me?”

“Why?”

“Because lucky for you, I’m a nice enemy, too. And despite what you may think, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, especially while you’re not yourself.”

My heart does a funny little skip.Traitor.

I try really hard, but it’s difficult to be indignant when he says something like that. I don’t even point out that FraisierCreek’s crime rate is practically in the negatives. Instead, I follow him down the hall, and then I lead him out the front door of the inn.

My home is off to the edge of the property, shielded by trees to give the illusion of privacy. All along the gravel path from the inn to the front door of my tiny cottage, Jackson keeps pace with my slightly unsteady wobble.

Now that the adrenaline of confronting him has worn off, I’m dead on my feet. Trying to unlock the door requires herculean effort, but I swat Jackson’s hands away when he tries to assist. I certainly don’t needhishelp.

“Son of a bitch,” I curse as I drop my keys for the umpteenth time.

Before I can bend down again, Jackson swipes them off the ground and nudges me out of the way. Within seconds, my door is swinging open.

Do I enter? No, I linger like the stupid drunk woman I am.

The nighttime air smells of spring. It kisses my skin, sending goosebumps scattering across my exposed flesh. It’s now that I realize I left my jacket in my office at the inn.

Standing here in the moonlight, my keys clutched in my palm, the teeth biting into my flesh, a wave of embarrassment washes over me. Not only am I a sloppy drunk, but I fully leaned into that sloppiness and made acompletefool of myself in front of Jackson.

And I’m somehow supposed to run an inn with this man.

Nausea does a gold medal-winning somersault in my gut. Why did I ever think I could do this? I haven’t even signedthe paperwork to officially become the owner and I’m already fumbling, big time.

Abruptly, I turn away from Jackson and step into my house. I throw a smallthank youover my shoulder—because my mama raised a woman with manners—and then I move to slam the door. I want to shut out this night, both metaphorically and physically.

Jackson still stands on my stoop, hands in his pockets. “Ellison?” he calls.

I reluctantly meet his eyes. “Mhm?”

I was fairly certain I couldn’t dislike this man more, but then he decides to drive the knife of humiliation even deeper.

His smirk is taunting. “I really hope you remember this in the morning.”

CHAPTER 7