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Jackson looked concerned. “It’s not even noon.” “It’s five o’clock somewhere. And you know how I love your family’s bourbon.” Jackson crossed to me and held out his hand. “Since you’re marrying into the family,” he murmured, gazing down at me with burning eyes, “bourbon it is.” We signed our marriage contract over snifters of Boudreaux Black Label at the formal dining room table. Rayford witnessed and then beat a hasty retreat. Then we put aside the fountain pens and raised our glasses in a toast. “To five years of wedded bliss,” said Jackson solemnly. “To not killing each other in our sleep,” I said, and guzzled the bourbon. When I finished, Jackson was staring at me with a c****d eyebrow and a sour twist to his lips. “You’re a true romantic, you know that?” “To the marrow of my bo
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