This was a jaw-dropping moment.
“I don’t know.”
“You want to know what I think? I think you’re purposely dating the wrong men.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Honestly, I think you’ve been biding your time.”
“For what?” My eyes suddenly drifted over to the small house next door.
“Now, isn’t that the question of the day?”
Our phone call finished up soon after that, and I spent the next hour staring at my closet, wondering why it seemed like everyone in my life had suddenly decided it was their life mission to counsel me.
Did they have degrees to do this kind of shit professionally?
I sighed audibly as I sunk further into my closet, bending over in search of denim.
Why didn’t I own more jeans?
Jackson had said to dress comfortable. On most days, that was my normal attire. Light, airy dresses and skirts were the epitome of comfort. But he’d also said to prepare to get dirty, which required an entirely different outfit.
I needed denim and a T-shirt—two items that were scarce in my closet. While most women could live in jeans, I personally hated them. They were tight, constrictive, and stiff.
My girlfriends thought I was nuts, too.
Biding my time? That was ridiculous.
Mia clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
It was almost as ridiculous as saying I purposely dated the wrong men because I feared they would all leave me like my father.
I froze, nearly tumbling head first into the darkened depths of my closet.
“Oh crap,” I muttered.
Did I really do that?
I stood upright, my eyes becoming unfocused, as I let my mind wander back to all the men I’d dated and dumped over the years.
I was always the one who had broken it off. I was always the first one to walk away.
Holy shit, I am a nut case.
In an attempt to move past my own self-realization and instead of diving headfirst into denial, I began digging through my closet with gusto. I managed to find a couple of pairs of jeans that didn’t scream soccer mom or that didn’t magically time travel me from the ’90s, and I threw them on. They actually looked pretty good and hugged my hips and ass nicely. Paired with a black tee and some old boots, I was nearly ready to go by the time the doorbell rang. I threw on a pair of earrings, spritzed on some perfume, and high-fived myself in the mirror for being almost on time.
How about that?
I resisted the urge to throw a couple of bangles on my wrist or to accessorize my plain black shirt with a scarf, and I forced myself down the stairs. Jackson had been waiting long enough.
Stopping at the door, I took a deep breath and pulled it open.
Jackson was dressed in similar attire, and I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the way his T-shirt molded to his upper body, outlining every defined muscle.
“I will never look at denim the same way again,” he said as his eyes traveled back up to meet mine. “You look hot.”
“These old things? Really? I pulled them out of the back of my closet.” I turned toward the kitchen to grab my purse, feeling his eyes on me.
“That’s what all women say.”
“No, I’m serious. I literally pulled these out of the back of my closet. I hate jeans.”
“Well, they definitely don’t hate you,” he said, his Southern drawl growing thick and sultry.
The corner of my mouth twitched as I tried not to grin. I didn’t usually give in to cheesy lines like that, but damn, he could read the phone book with that Carolina accent, and my clothes would probably melt away before the end of the first page.
“So, where are we going?” I asked, snatching my purse from the counter.
We headed out the door, and I locked up.
“I’m not telling, but I will guarantee that it will be a dating first for you.” His grin was cool and so very confident.
“And how exactly can you guarantee that? I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve probably done every cliché first-date thing you can imagine.”
“I know, which is why we are doing something completely different.”
He held his hand out toward me and raised his eyebrow. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I answered, placing my hand in his.
“Good. Let’s go get dirty.”
~Jackson~
“If you’re taking me to a NASCAR race, then I hate to burst your bubble, but that’s already been done,” Liv said as we pulled away from the curb of our street.
“No car racing,” I answered.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her nibble on her bottom lip as we took a left toward downtown.
“Rodeo?” she guessed.
“Around here?” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I don’t know—I’m sure it comes to town every once in a while. I was going to guess a hike, but then you turned the wrong way, so I’m clueless.”
Placing my hand on her bouncing knee, I steadied it.
“Then, stop guessing. You don’t have to be in charge all the time, Liv. Learn to enjoy the passenger seat for a change.”
Her eyes briefly met mine before I set my sights back on the road. I heard her shift back in her seat, relaxing into it. Her leg remained steady, and her breathing evened out.
“Picnic?” she whispered.
“Shut it.” I laughed.
Ten minutes later, I was parallel-parking a block away from where we were supposed to be.
She nervously looked around. “Um…you know this isn’t a great part of town, right?”
“I’m aware.”
We stepped out of the car. I made sure the doors were locked, and nothing was in plain view. It was daytime, and my truck was by no means new, but I didn’t want to tempt anyone.
“Okay,” she answered. “I actually used to work down here, a few blocks back that way.” She pointed the opposite way we were headed. “It has a bad rap. There are lots of drug dealers, and it’s a run-down neighborhood, but there are still families who need help and children who just want someone to talk to.” She looked around, taking in the buildings, as we walked down the sidewalk, hand in hand.
“It was here where I really discovered my love for what I do. I always knew it was something I was interested in, but here—working with families and getting to know them and the lives they lived—that was when I truly knew it was what I was supposed to be doing.”
“I honestly don’t know what that’s like,” I confessed.