Becca comes over to let me know I can take a break in another ten minutes. Thank goodness. I need a burger. Fries. A milkshake. And an apple pie. Possibly two.
I say goodbye to the bubbly teenager who I suspect is nowhere near old enough to be reading about Bryant’s throbbing manhood and then reach for the next book on the table as another person steps forward. Without looking up, I get the Post-it stuck on top of the cover. “Hi, lovely to meet you. What name do you want your book signed to?”
A glance at the writing on the yellow slip of paper.
#NotJasonMomoa
Time stops. Everything comes to a crashing halt. It can’t be…
I look up.
It is.
Jackson is standing in front of me with the hint of an enigmatic grin. I drink him in hungrily. Two months is not that long but it seems like a millennium. He is an oasis in the midst of a wasteland and I drink him in hungrily. The crinkled edges of his dark eyes. The lock of hair hanging over his right eye. The line of his jaw with its rough edge of bristle. His mouth – which makes me immediately think of all the things he can do with it. The sheer size of him as he towers over me in a suit jacket over an open-necked shirt. He radiates sensuality and I am drowning in it.
Breathe Scar.
From far away, I think he says something. But I cant make it out through my dazed haze so he has to lean forward and repeat it.
“I got your message,” he says, and the grated coconut edge of his voice is a delicious treat.
“My message?” I say inanely. Then it makes sense. “Oh.” Comprehension dawns. “You read my blog.” I stand up so abruptly that my chair falls over backward. The crash resounds through the hall and Alex races to pick it up. Everybody’s looking now. Suddenly I’m regretting my very public love letter appeal. Because now he is here, in this very public place. What was I thinking?!
I shut my eyes for a moment and wish for this to be a dream. But when I open them again, he’s still there. I want him to go away. But I also never want him to leave. A rush of wanting hits me, so powerful so overwhelming that I almost fall over.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. When really, I want to tell him how breathlessly happy I am to see him. Be this close to him.
“To get my book signed of course. Plus, I brought you something.”
He hands me a cake box. I open it. Cookies. A little misshapen and crumbly, but most certainly cookies. White chocolate chip and macadamia nut.
“I made them,” he offers. “From your recipe on the blog.”
Little pitter-patter footprints of joy dance through me. “You made me cookies?”
He is delightfully rueful. “Still haven’t got ‘em right. I’ve been practicing. This is my fourth try. You never told me baking was dangerous.” He holds out his hand. “Burnt it trying to get them out of the oven.” In that moment, I can imagine him in the kitchen, sweaty and harassed, trying to make my favorite cookies, getting frustrated.
I take his hand, loving the feel of it in mine, pretending to study it. He’s telling the truth. There’s a raised red blister burn on two fingers. I can’t resist. I blow softly on the burn and then kiss his palm. That’s when the watching crowd erupts. Cheers and catcalling. But I don’t hear them. Me and Jackson are now in our own perfect bubble of white chocolate macadamia cookies, sweetly rich with so many unspoken words and unwrought emotion. I raise my eyes to his. “That’s so sweet of you,” I say inanely, “I can’t believe you did that for me.”
A shrug. “Trying to check everything on the list.”
“Huh? What list?”
He counts off on his fingers. “The list for Scarlet’s perfect boyfriend. One, must have big muscles – which I think we’ve established already can certainly carry you.”
Oh we sure did. Fire flames at my face at the memory. But he’s not done. “Two, not be ugly. Your nieces assure me I pass that measure. Three, should be fun and funny.” A fake frown. “I’m nowhere near as funny as you but I’m trying. And four, can I make cookies. That, I’m working on.” He continues, hesitant now. “I was thinking, maybe when you’re done here – we could go get a coffee. Talk. You could try the cookies. Give me some tips.”
“Yes. I want you – I mean I want to.”
He laughs and everything is right with us. He’s holding my hand across the table and it feels right. The universe realigns and everything is in synch again. Jackson is here.
I rush on, “It’s my break now.”
Taking my cue, Becca steps in with a smile and a pleasant but firm announcement for the remaining readers. Something about Scarlet going for a thirty minute lunch break and she’ll be back soon. But I’m not listening because Jackson has tugged me around the table and into his arms so he can kiss me. Again the crowd of readers is cheering. Phone cameras are flashing.
It’s a long, slow kiss of re-acquaintance, delicately tasting and teasing. He is the milky sweetness of white chocolate and the salt tang of macadamia. I come up for air and say, “You ate some of my cookies!”
He grins. “I had to taste them didn’t I? Chef’s privileges.”
From far away I am conscious of the curious eyes and the hushed buzz of onlookers, the amused questioning stares of my team. I tip-toe to whisper in his ear. “Let’s get out of here.”
He takes my hand in his as we walk off the dais and because it’s not Samoa, personal displays of affection are allowed and I don’t need to pull my hand away, or pretend that every breathless fiber of my being isn’t panting with happiness. Jackson is here. He’s holding my hand. Walking beside me. And everything is right with the world.
Six Months Later
Jackson is taking me to meet his family. In Texas. For the past month he’s been asking me to go home with him because he says his parents want to meet me. I have successfully wriggled out of each invitation until now. I thought we would drive, but nope. We’re flying.
“A private jet? Like some freaky Christian Grey sex plane? You have a private JET?! That’s a joke right?” Heads turn at my raised shriek of a voice and Jackson has the grace to look embarrassed.
He takes my elbow and ushers me through the airport. “It’s not mine. It’s the company jet.”
I give him an arched eyebrow of #ImNotStupid snark. “The company that has your name on it? The one called Emory Steel?”
He gives me a shrug and a half-grin, the kind that does delicious things to my insides and probably my outsides too. And then I forget what I was going to say next because we are whisked through check in and out onto the tarmac where a gleaming silver plane awaits us. A man in a suit welcomes us on board and shows us to our seats. There’s plush carpet, and luxury features I’ve only ever seen on movies with Air Force One in them.
The pilot comes out to talk to Jackson and I give in to my agog curiosity, running my fingers along the gleaming interior and feeling the cushions.
“Madam, can I interest you in a drink?”
It’s the man in a suit, holding a silver platter with two glasses of champagne on it. He reminds me of the butler in every British movie I’ve ever seen. My butler radar goes off even more when he gives me a little bow by way of introduction. “My name is Franklin, madam. I’m here to ensure you have an enjoyable flight. Anything at all, please let me know.” Seeing my hesitation at the champagne, he adds smoothly, “We also have an extensive wine list, spirits, cocktails, and an assortment of juices. Of coffee perhaps? We have coffee from nearly every country in the world. We even have a beautiful roast blend from Samoa.”
All the options are making my head spin. I give him a smile and ask for a Diet Coke. Playing it safe on my first time on a private jet. I won’t be getting drunk on this flight with Jackson. I buckle up and grip the arm rests firmly, then turn when I feel Jackson’s hand on mine.
“You okay?” he asks with soft concern in his eyes. “Franklin carries a range of meds if you need anything for anxiety.”
I take a deep breath and wait for the familiar panic to bubb
le and build inside me as the plane starts its slow taxi down the runway. But it doesn’t come. “I’m fine. So far anyway.” I cant resist giving him a cheeky grin. “Hey, maybe I need to fly on a private jet everywhere I go from now on?”
Jackson quirks that familiar eyebrow at me. “Maybe you should. But not any random private jet. Just this one. Sitting next to me.” He leans across to gently tug me closer, so he can capture my lips with his. A long, languorous kiss that lasts an eternity but is still all too fleeting. By the time the kiss ends, the plane is in the air and I didn’t even realize it was taking off.
That’s a pretty apt description for what the last six months have been like. A long, languorous kiss that lasts an eternity but is still too fleeting. Dating Jackson so far has been a constant adventure of discovery and at the same time, like finding the familiar, coming home. I keep waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, for him to reveal his hidden axe murderer soul, because there must be something wrong with him, right? For him to be so utterly captivated by me? Because captivated is the best word for it. Jackson so far is the perfect boyfriend. Attentive, thoughtful and caring. I think I’m a rather spectacular girlfriend. If I do say so myself. He sends me flowers – just because it’s Tuesday. I write him dirty sultry poetry and send it to him at work – just because it’s Thursday. He has a fig honey pastry courier-delivered to my apartment where I’m holed up working on my next book – because he was at a restaurant meeting and came across a dessert that he was sure I would like to sample.
I had worried about trying to fit into Jackson’s CEO billionaire lifestyle, the parties and glittering galas. But I quickly found that he didn’t go to any, preferring instead to catch a movie, check out new restaurants and go dancing in dimly lit salsa clubs, jam packed with people who looked like us. “But I saw on your Facebook,” I say to him. “All those photos of you at the fancy places with the fancy people?”
He shrugs. “That was my ex’s crowd. I went along because it was important to her, but I wasn’t comfortable. We didn’t last long.”
Our weekends are a combo of adrenaline-filled and lazy long days in bed. He’s teaching me how to ride a motorbike. I’m teaching him how to bake cakes and how to speak Samoan. All the swear words first of course. We go to the library and I introduce him to all my favorite books. He promises to try and get to know them. Then he corners me behind the stacks and we have wild, furtive sex where he has to cover my mouth with his hand so I don’t scream the place down and get banned for life from my happy place. After, I wait until we get outside and then demand with laughing severity, “What the hell was that?!”
“That was library sex,” he says with a big smile. “Cross that off from the Scarlet and Jackson sex bucket list!”
“What bucket list? I didn’t know anything about a sex list,” I splutter indignantly. “We went there for the books. You said you wanted to read my favorites.”
He tries to look repentant. “I did want to. But then I saw how excited you get when you’re talking about your favorite books, and you’re just so fucking hot that I couldn’t help myself. I must say, a library can be quite an arousing environment. You seemed to be quite aroused anyway.” Innocence personified. “I didn’t know libraries had that effect on you.”
“It wasn’t the library and you know it. It was you.” I shake my head at him, laughing. “What else is on this list anyway? I should be briefed ahead of time so I can be prepared.”
“It’s a surprise. Wait and see!”
I take him to Sunday lunch at the Aunties house. They adore him as I knew they would. He thinks Nina is scary amazing especially after we go to watch her show. She thinks he’s good for me. I am happy that my boyfriend and my best friend approve of each other.
I tell my sisters about him. Tamarina isn’t surprised. She sends me a video of the children cheering and excited. Of Stella saying, “I knew it!” Naomi is in Washington D.C and pregnant. Morning sickness is making her life hell so her reaction is much more subdued. But Troy’s cheerful teasing of his Best Man makes up for it.
I even tell Mother. She wants to know if they need to start collecting finances for a wedding. I roll my eyes at her from the safe distance and invisibility of Vegas.
Yes, the last few months have been perfect. I don’t know why we have to ruin it by going to meet his parents. They’re going to hate me. I know how important his relationship with his parents is to Jackson. I don’t know what will happen to us if they disapprove of us being together.
I’m getting anxious and he mistakes it for something else. He takes my hand in his, whispers, “Hey, it’s okay. This plane has an impeccable safety record and my pilots are the best in the industry. The flight will be over before you know it.”
I give him a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
He kisses me again. The best way to cure my anxiety. I lean into him, wishing there were no barriers between us, an almost-whimper when the kiss ends. He holds me captive in his gaze, my face cradled in his hands. “I hate thinking about you being afraid on a plane anywhere. Without me.”
“You do?” Why am I always a parrot stupidly repeating sentences whenever this man kisses me?
“I was worried about you. Back in Samoa, when you left suddenly like that? I kept thinking about you on those long flights back to Vegas without me by your side.”
“You did?” I gulp.
His eyes speak truth and my heart is a gold medal ice skater doing a triple axle. He says, “Promise me you won’t ever take off like that again? Without letting me know first? Please?”
“I can’t expect you to fly with me, every time I have to go somewhere,” I laugh with a self-conscious little laugh and try to brush away his sincerity with a shrug and half-grin. But Jackson isn’t dissuaded.
“Yes. But if you let me know in advance, I can have you take the jet wherever you need to go.”
“I couldn’t do that Jackson. Impose on you and your company like that. You can’t spoil me with your kazillion dollar jet.”
He frowns and his hold on me tightens as he tugs me close for another kiss. This time it’s hungry and bold, a stamp of possession, fiery and scorching. It leaves me gasping for air. I have been well and truly marked by Jackson Emory and I like it. My inner independent woman falters and wilts before the onslaught. “We talked about this Scarlet. You are mine and I am yours. That means I get to spoil you with everything I have and everything that I am. Including my jet.”
There’s a finality to his tone that accepts no argument and so I shut up. That, and because Franklin chooses that moment to serve us a platter of divine looking treats. And a sinfully rich chocolate pie. We eat, sip champagne, and then Franklin retreats to wherever it is that private jet butlers go.
“Alone at last,” Jackson murmurs in my ear, laying a trail of hot kisses down the line of my neck.
“Quit it,” I laugh as I try to have another mouthful of pie. “You know my neck is ticklish!”
He growls, a delicious rumbling sound that starts low and deep in his chest, his fingers tip-toeing down my arm. “Okay. I’ll kiss you elsewhere then.” He takes my hand in his and proceeds to lick and suck on each one of my fingers. It has me gasping, both in delight and embarrassment as I look around for the staff.
“Stop it. What if Franklin sees?” I hiss.
“We have our privacy guaranteed.” In one swift motion he unclips his seatbelt and stands.
“What are you doing?”
“Seatbelt sign is off, see?” says Jackson, pointing at the sign. “Come on, I haven’t given you the tour.”
“Wait, what about the pie? I haven’t finished.”
“We’ll take it with us,” he says, grabbing the dish in one hand as he pulls me along with the other.
“What’s there to see on a jet anyway? Oh…” He leads me into a spacious cabin suite with a sprawling bed. It looks like we’ve walked into the presidential suite of a five star hotel and my OHHHH WOW is a long indrawn breath. “A bed? Really?”
Dimly I am aware of him laying me down, pausing to kick the door shut and snap the lock. My worry about Franklin walking in on us is immediately assuaged. I watch as he unbuttons his shirt. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, not for a single moment, leaving his shirt on the floor as he comes to kneel above me.
“So all this is for my benefit?” I tease. “The jet and the bed? You naked? So I won’t freak out about flying?”
He nods, grinning as he expertly unbuttons my shirt. “Of course. All for you and getting you through your flying anxiety. I’m willing to make whatever sacrifice is necessary. I’ve got moves that can help distract you.”
“You’ve got moves? Are you sure?” I tease him. “I don’t know. I was really enjoying that pie. Can’t your moves wait until I’m done eating?”
He raises that eyebrow at me, fake poses and flexes above me so that every ridged contour on his torso, every chiseled cut and muscular ripple is calling out to me. “You’d rather have pie?!”
I adopt a disinterested air. “Of course. Wouldn’t you? It is very good pie you know.”
He gives me a dangerous smile and the message in his dark eyes has my pulse racing, going wild. “You’re right. Let’s have pie.” Before I can decipher his intention, he reaches over and scoops a tantalizing glob of rich chocolate cream on his fingers, bringing it to my mouth. “Lick,” he says.
I do it. Sucking his fingers clean of the husky sweetness, adding a little moan to tease him as I pretend to be sucking something else.
He gives me a low, throaty growl of appreciation. “Still prefer pie?”
Scarlet Redemption Page 16
