Wild Child by Molly O'Keefe Read Free Book Online

lemonade.”
    She took off across the lawn and left Jackson swearing under his breath. She was inside the house before he caught up with her. His touch on her elbow made her whirl. Life had not done her a whole lot of favors in the last few months. She was raw with grief and confusion, and more than ready to use smacking the daylights out of his handsome face as a reason to feel better.
    He held up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “Good.” She continued walking; the sound of her heels hitting the oak floors of the Big House had a satisfying violence. If only she could punch holes through that floor.
    “No, Monica, please.” He stepped around her, barring her exit. She huffed to a stop.
    “This is a little much, Jackson.”
    “I am deeply sorry for the way I was talking. Especially about your father’s death. I extend my sincere regret.”
    “You can stick your sincere regret—”
    “Please.” He smiled, but it was careful again, strained—thatwhole lying with his face, telling the truth with his body thing—and for some reason that made her pause. “I … I am heavily invested in the results of this show. The whole town is, as you can imagine. The okra-processing plant has closed, the recession has hit us particularly hard, and the town needs this competition. And it needs to win. And perhaps I’m paranoid, but I have worked very hard to make sure that nothing jeopardizes our chances.”
    “And you think I will?”
    “I think … you,” again he gave that careful smile as if he were trying to sidetrack her from the horseshit he was throwing at her, “and talk of the murder might be a … distraction.”
    “I have a book to write. A deadline. People are counting on me.”
    “People are counting on me .” He shook his head, correcting himself. “On this show, I mean.”
    Total deadlock. They stared at each other.
    “Just spit it out—what do you want?” she asked.
    “Can you … leave? Just for the week?”
    It took some effort to pretend her heart didn’t take a dent after all that flirting to be told it would be better if she left. Another reason why flirting was best left to the young. She was not nearly as resilient as she used to be. She took this shit personally.
    “Screw you.”
    “You asked.”
    “Well, I’m not about to leave and I’m not about to stay locked in my hotel room, Jackson.”
    “There’s a compromise here,” Jackson said.
    She crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure.”
    “Can you just not … interview people for a week?”
    “No.”
    He sighed, hard. “Do you know what ‘compromise’ means?”
    For a moment she contemplated giving him nothing. Contemplated, in fact, setting up a booth in his precious downtown and inviting everyone to come and tell her their favorite story about her and her mother.
    Maybe she’d organize some reenactments.
    “Monica,” he said, dropping all that charm for the moment, and she saw just briefly the strings he held, the control he was trying so hard to exert. It was so vulnerable she wanted to turn her head away; it was like watching a car crash on the highway. “I cannot express how important it is that nothing jeopardize this America Today contest. They’ll be examining us closely this week, and that night … I don’t want them to see that night.”
    Monica had very little practice in not doing exactly what she wanted, exactly when she wanted. Outside of taking care of Jenna, she’d spent the last few years answering only to her publishing house. And to what passed for her conscience. She was as spoiled as Reba. So her compromise was rusty and came out petulant.
    “Okay, because I understand the situation, even though you’re a jackass—”
    “True. Very true.”
    “I’ll interview people quietly.”
    “Quietly?”
    “I’ll be discreet. That’s all you get.”
    “Then I guess I’ll take it.”
    Sun fell through the window over the door in a box of light, right between them, filled with