One Crazy Week

by Claire Kingsley

  I raise my eyebrows and look at the woman sitting at the bar. What the hell? “I don’t?”

  She purses her pretty lips and shakes her head. “Nope. Just because something’s fucking expensive, doesn’t always mean it’s better.”

  “Then what do I want?” I ask, fascinated. I can’t remember the last time anyone contradicted something I said. Except for Tammi. My assistant is sometimes too honest, but that’s one of the reasons we have a good working relationship. Not everyone can handle me.

  She scrutinizes me up and down. I love the way those brown eyes rove over me, like she’s undressing me in her mind. Women do that to me all the time, but this one … there’s something different about the way she looks at me. And I won’t lie; it’s a fucking turn on.

  “Glenlivet,” she says. “But, Danny, don’t even look at that goddamn twelve-year-old. Give him the twenty-one.” She moves her eyes back to me. “If you want to drop some cash, it ought to be worth it.”

  “All right,” I say. “Make it two.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “Thanks anyway. I’m fine over here by myself.”

  That sounds like a challenge.

  “I insist,” I say. “And I don’t take no for an answer.”

  “One of those, huh?” she asks. “All right, captain. Danny, pour up.”

  “On the rocks,” I add.

  “Oh, no, no,” she says with a maddening roll of her eyes. “Do not pour that lovely Scotch on ice.”

  Okay, now she’s pissing me off. “Why is that?”

  “Ice destroys the flavor,” she says, sitting up taller and scooting that hot little ass around on her stool. “The proper way to drink a good Scotch is straight up with a splash of water. A Scottish mineral water like Highland Spring is preferable, but since we’re in Danny’s Tavern, a bit of tap water will have to do.”

  I gape at her while Danny pours us each a measure of the Glenlivet twenty-one-year-old, adding a splash of water. I eye my glass while she takes her first drink. This woman wants to tell me how to drink Scotch?

  Who the hell does she think she is? And why is this kind of turning me on?

  I take a sip, fully expecting to put my glass down and argue with her. It slips down my throat, smooth as anything. Huh. It is good. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

  She takes another drink and glances at me from the corner of her eye, a little smirk on her face.

  Oh, hell no. She is not getting away with that.

  I grab my glass and move down the bar to sit next to her. “Jackson Bennett,” I say, holding out a hand.

  She takes my hand and shakes it. Her grip is firm, but her hands are soft, almost delicate. What a contradiction she is, all curves and edges.

  “Melissa Simon,” she says. “Thanks for the drink, Jackson.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Melissa,” I say. The pleasure could be yours, if this goes well.

  “So what brings you to Jetty Beach?” Melissa asks. “Since I know you aren’t a local.”

  “Business,” I say.

  “That’s a very nonspecific answer,” she says. “What sort of business?”

  Wait, does she not know who I am? “Development, investments. I have my hands in a lot of different things,” I say. “I’m working on a deal down here, and it could be the first of several.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” she says.

  “And what is it you do, Melissa Simon?”

  “I’m a teacher,” she says. “Fifth grade.”

  This just keeps getting better. She’s a schoolteacher? Hot for teacher, indeed. My dick stirs in my pants. “Do you teach in town?”

  “Yep,” she says. “Born and raised here. What about you? Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Chicago, but now Seattle. I live on Queen Anne.”

  She smiles, but doesn’t look particularly impressed. She’d be impressed if she saw the view. I try a new angle. “So, how do you know so much about Scotch?”

  A new smile crosses her face. There’s depth behind that smile. “My daddy. His little girl was not going to grow up to drink Scotch on the rocks. He fucking raised me right.”

  “What does your daddy do for a living?”

  “He’s a commercial fisherman,” she says.

  “I guess that’s why you drink Scotch straight up and have a mouth like a sailor,” I say, imagining that dirty little mouth wrapped around my cock.

  “Mouth like a fisherman,” she says. “Sorry about that. My ability to censor myself is eaten up during the school year.” She holds up her drink. “And drinking brings out the worst in me.”

  “No need to apologize,” I say. “What kind of fish?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What kind of fish does your daddy catch? When he’s being a commercial fisherman.”

  People wonder why I’m successful, but it’s pretty simple. A lot of it comes down to being able to read people. Melissa’s eyes light up when she talks about her dad. It will work in my favor to ask personal questions she feels good about answering.

  “Crab in the winter, longlining for black cod and halibut in the summer. He goes salmon fishing when they’re in season, mostly just to fill our freezers though. And he smokes it. Oh my god, his smoked fish is to die for.”

  “Is it? I can’t say I’m a fan,” I say. I’m lying. I loved smoked salmon. But I want to see what she’ll say.

  She arches her eyebrow at me. “Oh, captain, you have a lot to learn.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to teach me.”

  She laughs a little, but I can tell I’m getting to her. I keep my eyes on her, not bothering to hide that I’m staring.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I was just wondering how I got so fortunate to find you here tonight. Alone.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. She looks … amused. “Bored on a Friday night, I guess.”

  “You don’t have anyone to take you out?” I ask.

  “If you’re trying to find out whether I have a boyfriend, I don’t,” she says. “But don’t get too excited.”

  I lean closer to her. Little strands of hair fall around her neck and she trails a finger on the rim of her glass. Long, dark eyelashes frame her eyes, and she wears almost no makeup that I can see. She is absolutely nothing like the women I usually date, with their manicures and foiled hair and fussy wardrobes. The women I spend time with are beautiful. But this woman, she smolders. She radiates sex appeal.

  And I have the feeling she has no goddamned idea how hot she is.

  “You’re coming back to my hotel with me later,” I say, absolutely confident. When I want something, I get it. And right now, I want Melissa Simon.

  She shifts toward me and raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  “Definitely.”

  She tosses back the rest of her Scotch. “Usually men don’t go straight for the kill like that. Don’t you want to build up to it first?”

  “Not particularly,” I say. “I don’t like to waste time.”

  She stands up from her stool and shoulders a small handbag. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jackson Bennett, but I’m not going back to your hotel with you.”

  She is not turning me down. I touch her on the arm, my hand gentle. She’s already on the defensive. I need to coax. Her skin feels exquisite beneath my fingertips, making me want her all the more.

  “I think you are,” I say.

  She meets my eyes, utterly fearless. “Thanks for the drink, captain.” She turns and walks away, leaving me gaping at her.

  3

  Melissa

  I walk out the door, my heart beating so fast I can barely breathe. What just happened in there? One minute I was sitting at the bar, pathetically alone, trying to ignore the dipshit hitting on the girl at the table behind me. The next minute, I’m telling some guy what kind of Scotch to drink.

  And he was literally the hottest man I have ever seen in my entire life. The kind of man you don’t see in places like Jetty Beach, or anywhere that
actually exists. If I looked at him straight on before I spoke up, I doubt I would have been able to get a word out. He would have ordered his stupid expensive Scotch and been on his way, leaving me a drooling idiot in his wake.

  But I did talk to him, like a crazy person. I told him what to drink, and how to drink it. Of course, I’m fucking right. But that’s beside the point. He looked at me like I grew a second head.

  And then moved to sit next to me.

  I keep walking, fast, away from Danny’s Tavern. I don’t think I can handle it if he follows me out. The walk to my house isn’t long, and it’s a good thing I didn’t drive. The few drinks aside, my head is spinning. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but he smelled better than he looked. His clothes fit perfectly, straining just slightly in all the right places. All of them. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and I knew he had a set of delicious abs under that button down shirt.

  I’ve never met a man who was so instantly appealing.

  It was fun trading a little flirty banter with him. Until he told me, flat out, that I was going back to his hotel with him. That made me stop in my tracks. I wasn’t offended. I liked his bold attitude. He was cocky as shit, and that shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did.

  I left because I was fucking scared.

  When he uttered those words, I wanted nothing more than to do exactly what he said. This feeling swelled up inside me, a burning need. In half a second, I imagined it all: following him to his car, letting him drive me to his hotel, going with him into his room, enjoying a night of mind-blowing sex with this perfect specimen of a man.

  I’ll probably never have a chance like that again. I’m not usually one to jump in the sack with a guy the first time we meet (those few one-night stands in college aside). I love good sex as much as anyone, and holy shit it has been too long, but running off to sleep with a stranger is a stretch for me.

  Except with Jackson Bennett, I wanted to. Oh my god, I wanted to.

  And when he touched my arm… I don’t even know what that was, but it made me feel like I was melting.

  I hug myself against the chill night air. He was overwhelming, filling my senses. And son of a bitch, my panties are so wet I’ll need to change when I get home. Tonight might be a night for my little battery-powered buddy. I’m so agitated, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.

  A few cars pass, and my back clenches each time. Is it him? If I see him again, if he looks at me with those insane blue eyes, I know I’ll be powerless to refuse him. And that thought terrifies me.

  By the time I make it home, I’m pretty convinced I imagined the whole thing. There’s no way that man was in Danny’s Tavern. And if he was, there’s no way he talked to me. And furthermore, if he did talk to me, it is positively impossible that he wanted me to come to his hotel with him.

  No way. It didn’t happen.

  I shuffle inside and toss my phone on the couch, heading straight for bed. A shower sounds good, but there’s the slightest whiff of his cologne lingering on me. It’s probably in my hair. It didn’t happen—Jackson Bennett did not exist—but I’m not quite ready to let go of the dream.

  I get up the next morning feeling more like myself. After a little DIY time last night, I went to sleep fairly relaxed. I try not to think about the fact that I dreamed of a mysterious man with piercing blue eyes all night. It’s over, and I didn’t take the chance. On to the rest of my life.

  My phone rings, and I pick it up, sitting down on the couch and putting my feet up. I really need to change my ringtone. This one is getting old. It’s Nicole.

  “Hey, Nic. What’s up?”

  “Hey, did you get my email?”

  “Um,” I say. I open my laptop, squinting so I don’t have to see the dick pic again, and close out of the dating site. I click on my email. “Just saw it.”

  “Okay, no big deal,” she says. “I just sent you some ideas for bridesmaid dresses.”

  Right. Bridesmaid dresses. Lovely. I love that she asked me to be her maid of honor, but fancy dresses aren’t really my thing. And isn’t the wedding, like, next year? “Cool, I’ll take a look. But you know this isn’t my area, right? Just tell me what to wear and I’ll cope with it.”

  Nicole laughs. “Sure, but I want you to love it, too. Or, if you refuse to love it, I want you to be comfortable. Anyway, I think all the ones I sent would look amazing on you.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “So, what did you do last night?” she asks.

  “I made a profile on a dating site,” I say.

  “Awesome,” she says. “Did you get any messages?”

  “Um, yes. Three. A socially awkward guy who wants to know if I’m fat, and a serial killer.”

  “Oh shut up, he wasn’t a real serial killer,” she says.

  “He looked like one. He had a face tattoo, Nic.”

  “Ew,” she says. “You said there were three. Who was the third?”

  I start laughing before I can even tell her. “He sent me a dick pic.”

  “A what?”

  “He sent me a picture of his junk.”

  “No.”

  “I swear,” I say.

  “Wow,” she says. “That’s horrifying. Now I feel bad for suggesting you do that.”

  “It really was horrifying, but it’s okay. It’s not your fault some guys shouldn’t be allowed to have contact with other humans. I ended up going out for a couple drinks at Danny’s.” I pause. Should I tell her? Why the fuck not. “A hot guy bought me a drink.”

  “Ooh,” Nicole says, her voice going all squee-ish. “Tell me more.”

  “Eh, there’s not much to tell. This guy came in and tried to order a stupid expensive scotch. So like a dumbass, I jumped in and told him not to order it.”

  “That sounds like you,” she says.

  “Yeah, he looked at me like I was nuts, but whatever. I told him what to order and he insisted on buying one for me.”

  “And…?”

  “And, nothing,” I say. “We talked for a little while and I left.”

  “Didn’t you even get his number? Or give him yours?”

  “No.” But shit if I don’t regret it.

  “Well that sucks,” she says.

  “It kinda does,” I say. “I’m not gonna lie, he was fucking gorgeous.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “He looked right at me and said, ‘You’re coming with me to my hotel later.’ And damn it, Nicole, I had to prove him wrong.” More to the point, I had to get myself out of there before I did exactly what he wanted.

  “Wow, bold.”

  “I know,” I say. And way more of a turn-on than I want to admit. “Oh well. He was amusing and the Scotch was good.”

  “Did Mr. Expensive Scotch have a name?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to remember. “Jack. No, Jackson. Was it Benson? No, Jackson Benson sounds weird.”

  “Jackson Bennett?” Nicole asks.

  “Hey, good guess,” I say. “That was it. Jackson Bennett.”

  Nicole goes silent.

  “Nicole?”

  “Did you just tell me that Jackson Bennett bought you a drink at Danny’s last night?” she asks.

  “Yes…”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Sure it was who?” I ask.

  “Jackson Bennett.”

  “That’s what he said. Why, am I supposed to know him from somewhere?”

  “You’ve never heard of Jackson Bennett?” she asks.

  “Um, no. Why would I?”

  “Only you, Melissa,” Nicole says. “I don’t even know how to explain him to you. Just Google him.”

  I groan, but type in his name. Half a second later, the page loads. “Holy shit.”

  “Right?”

  I scroll through the results and my throat tries to close up. There he is, smirking at me from a hundred angles. This is definitely him. “Is that a magazine cover?”

  “Yep.”

  “Listen t
o this,” I say. “Jackson Bennett is one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors, but will a woman ever be able to tame his wild ways? Known for his lavish parties and late night excursions, as well as his tell-all Twitter feed, Jackson Bennett is one to watch. What is this guy, some kind of rich playboy?”

  “That’s exactly what he is,” Nicole says. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

  “You’re surprised?” I say. “This isn’t the sort of thing I pay attention to.”

  “Go to his Twitter feed,” Nicole says.

  “I don’t do Twitter,” I say.

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “Just look.”

  I bring up Twitter and fumble around, trying to figure out how to search.

  “Did you find him?” she asks.

  “Hang on.” I find his name, and that is definitely his profile picture. Clicking on it brings a line of tweets, or whatever they’re called. Some are just text, others are photos. In one, he’s surrounded by bikini clad women, in another he’s holding a glass of champagne, that little smirk on his face.

  “Holy shit, Mel, look at his tweets from last night,” Nicole says.

  I scroll back up.

  Flying solo at the beach. Boring as fuck. Heading out to find … something. #lonewolfontheprowl

  “Lone wolf on the prowl?” I say. “Who is this guy?”

  Nicole laughs. “He has a huge following. Look at all those comments.”

  I roll my eyes. The comments are a mix of women throwing themselves at him, and men giving him the equivalent of a bro fist.

  “Oh, what the fuck,” I say.

  Jetty Beach not without the hotness. Sassy girl schooled me on Scotch. The tweet is followed by a lot of requests for pictures.

  “Oh my god, is that you?” Nicole asks, practically squealing again. “You’re sassy girl!”

  “He twittered about me?” I say. I try to sound mad, but it’s kind of exciting.

  “Oh, calm down, Mel,” Nicole says. “He didn’t use your name or anything. He didn’t even take your picture.”

  Who is this guy? Playboy isn’t even the word. Half his twitter feed is filled with photos of him posing with gorgeous women at parties—the sort where people dress up and little lights twinkle in the background and they serve expensive drinks. What the fuck was he doing at Danny’s bar? And more importantly, why did he talk to me?