Loving Jackson (Wishing Well, Texas Book 10) Read online

  “On Grad Night you two streaked through the town square and jumped on the wishing well. You guys—”

  “Okay, yeah,” I interrupted her. “I can see how I got that nickname.”

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it out and saw that it was the flight information for Josie.

  “Is that your girlfriend?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It’s Mia.”

  “Is there a girlfriend?”

  I looked up and saw the hope in Madison or Melody’s eyes. I’d never looked at the triplets in that way. Honestly, I’d never looked at anyone from my hometown in that way. I think it was because I associated looking at someone like that as a death sentence. Because to me, being stuck in Wishing Well was as good as being dead.

  “No. No girlfriend.”

  “No one tamed the wild one?”

  I chuckled. “I don’t think I quite live up to that nickname anymore.”

  “Shame.” A flirty smile lifted on her lips. “Are you hungry? We could grab a bite at the Spoon.”

  “I can’t. I have to go run an errand for Mia.” I picked up my phone that displayed the text.

  “Shame,” she repeated before starting the engine.

  Was it? I didn’t think so.

  Chapter 2

  Josie

  “When life hands you lemons, add vodka and make a martini.”

  ~ Josephine Grace Clarke

  My boyfriend wants to have a threesome, but I’m not really into it. What do you think I should do? – Confused in Connecticut

  Kick him to the curb. That would be my response. My grandmother, however, would definitely have another take on things. I copied and pasted the text to forward in an email for the show tomorrow.

  Hot Tea with Josephine had begun as an advice column for my grandmother’s blog when she started feeling out of touch with “young people”. The first blog post was ten years ago and over the past decade, it had morphed into a critically-acclaimed, award-winning podcast that had sat in the number one spot thirteen times over its run.

  The name was an ode to my grandmother’s English heritage. I’d originally pitched Tea Time with Josephine, but my grandmother felt that title was too tame for the direction she wanted to go. Her vision was to candidly speak about sex and relationships. She loved being scandalous. The name ended up being fortuitous. Since the inception of her advice blog “tea” had taken on an entirely new meaning. It was now widely accepted slang for gossip or shade.

  Ten years ago, I’d started helping her with the blog as a distraction from my own life, which at the time was a dumpster fire, but it had turned into a full-time job. As proud as I was of what Hot Tea had become, I was ready to do something more with my life. I wanted a challenge. That desire was why I was currently seated in DFW waiting for my phone to charge so I could text my producing partner that I had arrived an hour early.

  When I’d checked in with a few hours to spare at JFK this morning, they’d offered to upgrade me to first class if I’d take an earlier flight. Who’d pass up first class? Not this girl. I’d had an amazing flight and had arrived over two hours before my original flight landed. I would’ve just taken an Uber or gotten a rental car but Mia, my producing partner, had insisted on picking me up.

  So, living up to my millennial status, I was catching up on work in a Starbucks. Which meant I was sorting through the submissions for the advice portion of the show. I scrolled down to the next question.

  I want my girlfriend to give me more blow jobs. How do I make that happen?—Dry Dick in North Dakota

  This was exactly the sort of question that my grandmother wanted to answer. As much as it pained me, I copied and pasted it. The past ten years had been a constant tug-of-war between us, me pulling for more meaningful content, and her fighting for salacious. I supposed the balance we typically struck was why the show was so successful.

  Thanks to the blowjob questions, we had great click-bait and once listeners found the show, they got hooked by the heart and humor. My grandmother’s candid, opinionated, shameless, unapologetic responses to everything from body odor to masturbation had captivated the hearts of millions of listeners.

  “Excuse me.”

  I looked up and saw a woman with a white halo of curly hair, and brilliant blue eyes surrounded by wrinkled skin staring down at me. She reminded me of Rose from Titanic. Rose at the end of Titanic, anyway—the one who throws the necklace into the ocean.

  “Sorry, did you want to sit down?” I lifted up my computer bag to make room for her.

  “Oh no, dear. I’ve just been talking to my Herbert.” She motioned to a sharply-dressed gentleman seated across the airport coffee shop. The man was ninety if he was a day. He tipped his bowler hat toward me and I smiled. “We noticed you when you came in…”

  When she paused, I turned my attention back to her and waited, assuming that there was more to her story. But she just stared down at me with a sweet grin on her face.

  “Oh.” I smiled, wondering if she’d meant it as a compliment and perhaps I should thank her.

  Her eyes squinted and she leaned forward slightly. “We both think you look so familiar. But we just can’t put our finger on how we know you.”

  This wasn’t a new conversation for me. I was recognized all the time for one of two things; my grandmother, or a reality show that I was on when I was eighteen. Or, more accurately, the scandal that had followed the reality show I was on.

  The first reason never bothered me. My grandmother, Josephine Grace Clarke, had been a studio darling in the Golden Age of Hollywood and appeared in over eighty films. Her costars included legends such as Bette Davis, Gene Kelly, Katharine Hepburn, and Cary Grant.

  I was not only her namesake but also her gene-sake. I’d inherited her long red hair, large brown eyes, and full red lips. I was the spitting image of her, and I wasn’t complaining. She was quite the bombshell in her day. She’d even dated Elvis Presley, who’d referred to her as the ginger Marilyn Monroe. She loved that particular anecdote.

  The second reason people recognized me was much more disturbing. I’d been on a reality show that was a cross between Love Connection and Big Brother. It was basically eight girls and eight guys that lived together for three months and dated each other. The show itself was a mild success. My two minutes of fame—two minutes that sometimes seemed like they would never end—had more to do with a relationship I’d had during the show.

  I’d met Giovanni Alexander on the first day of production and was instantly smitten with his dark hair, green eyes, and easy smile. We’d clicked from day one and within a week, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I’d never had a boyfriend before and was excited to have my first relationship.

  Unfortunately for me, my lack of experience made me very naïve. Behind the scenes, and unbeknownst to me, the editors made the decision to create our storyline around the narrative that I was a virgin. I’d had no idea that’s what they were doing and was horrified when it aired. I’d only spoken about my virginity with Gio. I’d had no clue that the bathrooms, which were supposed to be safe zones with no cameras, were, in fact, mic’d.

  In a major plot twist in my life, I found out too late that Gio had known that we were being recorded and what the storyline was. The producers had coached him into bringing the topic up with me and he’d played his part to a T.

  I’d always prided myself on being able to read people. I could sense if they were generally good or bad. They could fool other people, but not me. Time and time again, I’d been proven right by people who’d pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes. But Gio had shown me that when attraction was involved, my spidey senses were disabled.

  I’d thought that he loved me. I’d trusted him, only to have my trust violated in the most intimate way.

  Months after the show wrapped, I’d lost my virginity to Gio. And he’d filmed it without my consent or knowledge and released it online when the show aired. Of course he’d denied being the one to leak it, but I knew the truth.
Besides, just recording it without my consent or knowledge was a betrayal in and of itself. It had taken months for my lawyers to get it taken down from the site that hosted it, and by then it was everywhere.

  The granddaughter of silver screen siren Josephine Grace Clarke losing her virginity in a sex tape had made international news. It was a nightmare, one that had taken me years to wake up from. But now my nightmare was back. There’d been a resurgence in House of Love’s popularity thanks to Netflix streaming it. People were googling my name to see if Gio and I were still together, and guess what they saw when they did?

  “Where do we know you from?” the woman asked, still searching my face for clues.

  Considering her age demographic, I made a qualified guess. “A lot of people think I look like my grandmother. She was an actress, Josephine Grace Clarke.”

  The woman gasped. “Oh my word! That’s it! You are her twin! It’s uncanny!”

  She wasn’t the only person who thought so. My grandmother loved posting pictures of us, side by side, on Instagram and having her followers vote on which one was her. Half of them would get it wrong. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell.

  “Your grandmother was in the first picture I saw in a theater. Wild Stallions. I’ll never forget it. She lit up the screen. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. She took my breath away.”

  “I’ll let her know you said that.”

  “Oh yes, do that.” Elation lit up the woman’s face. “Oh my goodness. Josephine Grace Clarke. Can we take a picture together?”

  “Of course.” I smiled.

  After snapping a picture with her camera, I watched the woman shuffle back to her husband and show him the photo on her phone. Warmth spread through me as I watched his expression morph into awe and wonder as he looked back at me, seeing my grandmother in my face. It made me so happy that my grandmother brought people so much joy and happiness. It was humbling.

  When I looked back down to get to work, I was shocked to see that two hours had passed since I’d sat down. I needed to head out to the pick-up lane where I’d told Mia I’d be. She’d be here any minute.

  I unplugged my phone and gathered my suitcase, carry-on, purse and computer bag.

  When I left the coffee shop, my phone buzzed with several alerts. I realized I must not have had service in the coffee shop, so even after my phone charged, it hadn’t shown my missed calls or texts.

  I opened the text from Mia: Hey, doll. I’m having some cramping, nothing major but Travis is insisting I go get it checked out. His brother is going to pick you up.

  I quickly typed back: Let me know what the doctor says. And, honestly, I don’t need a ride. I can take an Uber.

  I hated that Mia was having cramping but was relieved that she hadn’t made the trip to the airport. I’d always hated inconveniencing anyone. One of my therapists, I didn’t remember which one, had said that it was because I’d always felt like a burden growing up.

  My mother left when I was one. She married a Greek shipping billionaire and signed over custody to my father. Which would’ve been fine if he’d had any desire to be a parent. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. So, by default, I ended up living with my grandmother, who forbade me to call her grandma or grandmother because she didn’t want her public associating her with that title.

  I visited my father on summer breaks, but he’d barely noticed I was there. I’d never felt like anyone actually wanted me to be around. Which had made me even more susceptible to Gio. I’d felt so special that I was the girl he’d chosen.

  I’d just walked out of the terminal when I received another text.

  Mia: Everything went fine at the doctors. I’m home resting. He left over an hour ago so he’s probably already there. It’s Jackson, btw.

  My stomach dropped to the floor as soon as I read the message. Jackson Briggs was coming to pick me up. The photos I’d seen on Google images when I’d “researched” him after learning he would be coming onto the project popped into my head. He reminded me of Zac Efron’s sexier older brother.

  As my mind conjured up pictures of Jackson’s strong jaw covered with sexy scruff, piercing blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, every insecurity that I’d ever experienced came rushing back to me.

  Does he know who I am?

  Has he watched House of Love?

  Has he seen the video?

  I’d spent a small fortune in therapy to stop asking myself those questions every single time I met someone. It was the strangest reality to be faced with, knowing any stranger I met could’ve potentially seen me naked. Could’ve viewed the most intimate moment of my life.

  It had taken me years to finally get to the point where I believed that other people’s opinions of me were none of my business. Truly. It wasn’t just a platitude that I said to myself.

  But in one sexy fell swoop, Jackson Briggs and his rugged good looks had undone all the growth I’d managed to achieve.

  I’d known that I’d be meeting him, of course. After a large portion of our funding had fallen through, he’d graciously agreed to be our cinematographer as a favor to Mia, or more likely, to his brother Travis.

  And he was doing it for free. Which was amazing, because there was no way that we could’ve ever afforded him otherwise.

  Meeting him in a professional setting, with Mia, was so much different than this situation. I’d be meeting him alone. No buffer. Just us.

  For years after the scandal, I’d suffered from crippling anxiety and panic attacks. The moment I read the text, the tell-tale symptoms began to manifest in me. A sense of dread and impending doom overwhelmed me. I had shortness of breath as my heart started beating as fast as an Olympic sprinter coming off the block. Everything went blurry as the world spun around me. Or maybe it was me that was spinning and the world was still. I couldn’t tell.

  I had to get this under control. The only thing worse than meeting Jackson Briggs alone would be to meet him alone while having a panic attack. That would be humiliating.

  In an effort to calm myself I concentrated on the 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 method that one of my therapists had shown me.

  Name 5 things I can see around me.

  A red sports car.

  A stroller.

  A policeman.

  A No Parking sign.

  A Pomeranian in a dog carrier.

  Name 4 things I can feel.

  The breeze on my face.

  The phone in my hand.

  The sweat dripping down the back of my neck.

  The underwire of my bra.

  Name 3 things I can hear.

  A horn honking.

  A baby crying.

  A woman laughing.

  Name 2 things I can smell.

  A man’s cologne.

  The air conditioning escaping from the automatic door beside me.

  Recite a positive affirmation.

  I am confident in who I am and in my abilities.

  As I started to return to my senses, another text came through.

  Mia: Here’s Jackson’s contact info so you can let him know you arrived.

  My brain was still a little preoccupied with trying not to go into full flight mode, so it took all of my concentration to focus on what I needed to do.

  Contact information. Right. I needed to text him. My thick, clumsy fingers typed a text message, letting him know that I was here. It wasn’t until I pressed send that I read the message in the blue bubble that I’d just sent.

  Me: I’m horny.

  What?! No! I’d typed I’m here.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I shouted and frantically began typing again when I heard a deep, male voice.

  “Are you okay?” The deep voice infiltrated my panicked state.

  I looked up and saw the man that had sent me into this panic. Jackson Briggs was standing in front of me, and he was even more handsome than he’d been in his picture. And I’d just texted him that I was horny.

  I was wrong. Meeting him during a panic attack wasn’t the worst thing that coul
d happen. This was.

  Chapter 3

  Jackson

  “Happy accidents are fate. Unhappy accidents are karma.”

  ~ Josephine Grace Clarke

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for the feeling that came over me when the woman who was cursing to her phone lifted her head and locked eyes with me. The entire world could’ve exploded around me, and I don’t think I would’ve noticed.

  I blinked, sure that I must be seeing things. A creature this beautiful could not exist.

  All my life I’d seen the world through a lens. Even before I’d ever picked up my first camera, that was how I’d viewed everything. The very first memory I had was sitting in the back of my dad’s old ’72 Ford pickup truck and framing up a shot in my mind’s eye of a pasture filled with cows and a pond. I couldn’t have been more than three at the time because he got rid of that truck before my fourth birthday.

  Whenever I saw something truly beautiful, truly breathtaking, truly indescribable, my brain started taking mental pictures of it. Usually, it happened in the context of a breathtaking vista. Not just a nice view—I was talking about the sunsets on the Serengeti that brought people to tears. Or the Aroura Borealis in Alaska that left people speechless. Or the awe-inspiring, majestic peaks of Machu Picchu that people likened to a religious experience.

  I’d seen all of that and more but this woman—this masterpiece in front of me—didn’t just rival those things, she surpassed them.

  Long copper and gold spun locks fell long past her shoulders. Dark, perfectly arched brows framed large, almond-shaped doe eyes. A turned-up nose sat in the center of her heart-shaped face. Full, red lips complete with a cupid’s bow rounded out the perfectly symmetrical package.

  As I stared at the flawless beauty, my brain was in shutter mode, snapping pictures rapidly, one right after the other.

  I’m not sure how long I would’ve stood there, unable to speak, if my phone hadn’t buzzed in my hand.