"Checkmate."
At Jameson's voice, my head jerked toward our chess board, surprise slamming against my ribcage.
In our entire year together, he'd never beaten me at chess.
Never.
And never was not a word that ever regarded Jameson Hawthorne.
The only reason that I was currently struggling, however, happened to be a concoction of flashbacks.
Flashbacks of Toby.
Eve.
Playing for my win but not necessarily theirs.
What I'd done to Toby.
"Heiress."
My head jerked once more, although this time it was towards my boyfriend.
In all his glory, Jameson Winchester Hawthorne was sprawled on the deckchair across from me. Between us, a picnic table perched — just a few feet scarce of the roof's edge. For our impromptu date, Jameson had invited me to the highest assent Hawthorne House reached — the very top of the seventh story.
It was beautiful, as I'd expected, although the weather seemed to have a grudge against me. Storm clouds cruised over the Texas skyline, far too close for my own comfort.
Jameson didn't seem to mind.
He was a thrill-seeker, after all.
If he told me that he'd been struck by lightning, I'm not sure I'd blink.
Hawthorne men were a completely different breed.
Before my thoughts could fester any further, Jameson slid his hand across the table. I watched it narrowly miss the pawns we'd both discarded minutes ago, and then arrive at my own fingers.
"You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"
I wasn't used to Jameson's voice being so soft.
He knew that despite the brave face I put on for the cameras, my trauma couldn't be undone.
The entire world could be planted in my fingertips and yet I still wouldn't be healed.
Digging for a grave.
Eve's betrayal.
Toby, in danger — because of me.
I must have forgotten to breathe, because the next thing Jameson said reminded me of such: "Exhale, Heiress."
I complied with noticeable struggle.
Between one moment and the next, Jameson had taken my hands and pulled me to my feet. As his thumbs stroked over my knuckles, I lamely looked down at our chess board. "You didn't take out my king."
"I'd hardly consider that a priority." Jameson cradled my face in his hands. "You're pale, Heiress."
"It's just the cold." I nudged my head toward the rain clouds shading the sun.
"This is Texas — it doesn't get cold."
"Just finish the game, Jameson."
He shook his head. "If you think that's really what I'd rather do right now, then you don't know me at all."
"I'm fine," I insisted, pleading with my eyes. He thought I wanted to talk — but the truth was, I didn't.
At least not yet.
It had only been two months.
Maybe in two more I'd be ready.
But for now, the wounds were too fresh, and ripping the bandaid off would only impair my healing.
Jameson rested a hand under my jaw. "You tell me everything."
"I'm not ready yet."
"You're shaking." He lifted my arm for reference, and the gesture was accompanied by a few fleeting raindrops on my forearms. "Is that the imaginary cold too?"
I pushed away from him in frustration. "Yes."
Undeterred, Jameson trailed me as I paced. I expected another comment, another mention of how I was supposed to tell him everything . . .
But he was silent.
Unnervingly silent.
Finally, after I'd taken an entire lap around the tiled roof, Jameson stole my hands into his. Resisting wasn't my motive, but I had no incentive to meet his eyes. Jameson fixed that issue, however, with a thumb beneath my chin.
"Listen to me, Avery." He waited for my eyes to fasten on him. Raindrops were trickling down his body, soaking his unbuttoned dress shirt. Even his hair was suffering. "I'm not going to pressure you into talking about it, okay? I just want you to know that I'm here." He cleared his throat before adding, "Whenever you're ready."
"That might be awhile," I warned.
"There's no time limit on my promise," Jameson murmured. His lips parted and his brow creased, but thunder stung the air before he could continue. Instead, his lips shifted into other words: "I should take you inside."
I shook my head earnestly. Thunderstorms had always been my favorite. "I'm not ready yet."
Jameson wrapped an arm around my waist. "Then I'm not either."
His hand went to my jaw, traced a gentle line down my throat. As his lips inched closer, I steadied my boots, refusing to slip on the slick tile. But when Jameson's lips twitched into a wicked grin, his fingers skating over the waistband of my jeans, my feet refused to coordinate.
With a weak gasp, my knees gave out. Jameson tried to catch me, but his own shoes weren't secure.
How could they be?
As a last resort, Jameson pulled me down with him, his chest cushioning my fall. The moment I landed, I tried inspecting him, insuring that he hadn't hit his head . . .
But Jameson was simply staring at me in amusement, his entire body soaked but somehow still warm.
"You know what I told you," he said. "Hawthorne men have nine lives."
"You're down to eight," I pointed out, rolling off of him.
Before I could get any further away, though, Jameson grabbed my wrists and pinned them. The next thing I knew, his body was hovering over mine, his lips tilted up. Jameson sneaked a glance back at our drenched chess board and leaned down, smirking.
Before he kissed me, Jameson lowered his lips to my ear and murmured, "Checkmate."
