Mine Would Be You (27)

Jackson leans down, pressing his hand on my back. “Hey, it’s no pressure. You don’t have to answer right now, and you don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

My chest constricts with conflicting emotions. Glancing over to him, I mumble, “Can I think about it?”

His fingers begin tracing over the lines on my spine again, sending goosebumps over my skin. A soft smile pulls at his lips, like he’s got me right where he wants me. “You can take all the time you need, Valentina. I’m in no rush.”

“Okay, thank you.” I give him the tiniest smile. Just a hint.

He raises a brow. “For what?”

I shrug.

“You don’t need to thank me. Yes, I want you to come, but you don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to. Not with me.”

The tension between us is like a tightrope tied to one another on both ends, and every time we’re near each other it pulls tighter and tighter. I’m just waiting to see which side breaks first. I lean back into his hand, which is my first sign of defeat, and let the warmth of him spread over my skin.

I swallow, my brain going a little hazy, and take a sip of my drink and nod, leaning into his feather light touch on my back despite myself. Deep down, I know I’ll probably end up going. Harper and Sloan want to go and will do everything they can to convince me, but despite what they want, it’s also about me. And I want to make sure I’m okay with it.

Jackson not pushing, not insisting I come, makes me far more comfortable than I expected it to. And even though I try to deny it, I feel more and more drawn to him with every passing day.

I have a feeling that I am in far deeper water than I thought.





When I was growing up, after dinner I would make my mom and dad sit down and watch Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model with me religiously. Dad would be drawing designs for a client on a new building, Mom would be reaching out to families for her social work, and my eyes would be glued to the television screen, watching these brilliant designers and upcoming models.

Fortunately, I did take after my dad with his drawing talents. I would sketch designs. But I never quite acquired the fingers for sewing. Instead, I fell in love with journalism—fashion journalism. It’s been my lifelong dream to work at Poze. Once I got the internship during my time at FIT and later a full-time job, my dream became to be published in the September issue.

It’s Wednesday, and Miss Bisset has finally started calling different journalists in to announce whether their articles were approved or not. I’m impatiently waiting to hear about my own. Not even Fudge Stripe cookies can calm my nerves because my stash has sat untouched all day long.

Nervous doesn’t begin to describe it.

On top of that, the possible Hamptons trip is growing closer. Every night, I lay in my bed with Jenko on my chest, thinking of every possible scenario that could occur should I go.

Most of my scenarios either involve Jackson and his undeniable charm or Myles, should he attend. I can’t stop thinking about the wedding and what he was going to say before Emma interrupted us. I’m sure it was nothing positive, and I’m long past the point of waiting for—or wanting—an apology from him. But what would he think if I showed up? That I’m dating his best friend, even if I’m not really dating him? Drama would follow, and I’m just not sure I can deal with that.

I admit that I am extremely attracted to Jackson and his warm, inviting presence. Between the never-ending charm or the deep blue eyes, I’d be delusional to deny that I’m attracted to him, that I am into him.

I’m just scared of rushing in too quickly and getting drowned with no life vest in sight. Just like the past.

The sound of Miss Bisset’s office door closing, a noise I’ve memorized in the last few hours, brings me out of my spiral, and I look up to see her wave a hand in my direction. I stand up and will myself to stop biting on the inside of my lip, which is already raw. My hands smooth over my light plaid patterned pants and simple coordinating cream shirt before I take two deep breaths.

Either way, it’s not the end of the world. It’s not like I’m getting fired and I’ll never have the opportunity to be published again. I can always keep pushing at the September ones if this doesn’t go my way. Because at some point it will.

Miss Bisset is dressed to perfection as always. Her navy dress pants and immaculate white top are impeccably ironed even as she sits in her desk chair. I swear her lips almost pull up into the ghost of a smile as I enter. Even if she does mask it quickly, it still sends my heart into overdrive.

“Miss Scott, please sit,” she says, and I do just that. Not sure whether I should cross my legs or ankles to hide the fact that my left leg won’t stop shaking with adrenaline. Because no matter what I tell myself, this is still a huge opportunity and would be a giant step in my career.

“So, I’ve got good and bad news.”

Mierda.

“Good news, I adored your piece. Your maturity and the ability to open up the conversation on a huge topic in the fashion world, while making it seem accessible, was brilliant,” she says, obviously starting with the good. Her eyes are twinkling with warmth, which makes me relax the tiniest bit.

“Miss Young loved it as well. Your piece has been approved and will be featured in the September issue. Obviously, you’ll have time to edit it and interview the designers you were interested in. So, congratulations.”