The Truth About Fairy Tales by Annie Walker Page B

end. By the time our attentive waiter took our plates away, Mr. Accomplishments was all done with his life story.
                  I sat sipping the very expensive wine he’d ordered and wondering where exactly the conversation would go from here.
                  “Do you dance, Mary Margaret Monroe?” I closed my eyes and cringed at his use of that old-fashioned name. I cursed my mother once more for insisting upon naming me that. No one but those closest to me knew my real name. I’d gone by Maggie for so long that I’d almost forgotten that awful name existed. Not even Ben knew about it.
                  I looked up and found he was no longer seated across from me but standing, hand outstretched, looking nothing like the in charge kind of guy I would always, always associate Jackson Riley as being.
                  “I love this song, Mary Margaret. Don’t refuse me this one request. Please dance with me.”
                  I hesitated only a moment, and then I took his hand and let him lead me out onto the small, dance floor. The second I went into his arms I forgot everyone else in the restaurant.
                  The song was so slow and oh so romantic that I almost started to believe in fairy tales.
                  Here in Jackson’s arms with one song ending and another more seductive one beginning, I had to remind myself that my future lay in Santa Anna.
                  I’d just dance this one last song—well, okay, maybe one more—and then that would be it. I’d ditch him the first chance I got. Then I’d go home and finish off that steamy little novel.
                  So by the time we left the restaurant and after all my promises to myself, I was suddenly extremely nervous. I’d just laid down the gauntlet. I couldn’t back down now, could I?
                  The second Jackson turned off 2222, I knew where we were heading. We weren’t going back to the restaurant where I worked so I could get my car and leave him. We were heading right straight for his house.
    Jackson wasn’t even asking me what I wanted. He was taking it for granted that I’d fall into his arms without an argument.
    He stopped the car in the same spot inside his garage and I felt déjà vu all over again.
                  “I’m not going in there with you.” Boy did those words sound familiar. How many times had I uttered them over the past few days?
                  He, in turn, simply smiled at me then got out of the car and opened my door for me.
                  I followed Jackson inside. I didn’t even try to talk myself out of it. I followed him like some foolish little girl that didn’t have an ounce of sense left to her name.
                  He closed the door behind me with the hollow sound of betrayal echoing through the house and I tried—I really tried to put as much space between me and my dangerous addiction as possible.
                  It didn’t work. Jackson caught up with me before I got but a few feet away from him.
                  The second his lips found mine, I was lost.
                  “No. I’m not doing this with you again. I, I don’t even like you.”
                  Okay, so it wasn’t a good attempt, but the best I could come up with under those circumstances.
                  “I think you ‘like me’ just fine.”
                  Was that all this meant to him? His answer hurt.
                  “This has nothing to do with like—it’s only sex…”
                  “Is that all you think there is between us, Maggie? Just sex?”
                  For the first time since he’d started touching me, I froze. My eyes met his. Jackson had never looked more serious or more uncertain than he did right at this moment. He