“Wow, that’s awful,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s too bad that your family is so distant. I guess it’s hard for me to relate. I don’t have a big family—it was always just me and my dad—but we’ve always been close.”
“What about your mom?” he asks.
I look down at my hands. It’s hard to tell people about my mother. “She died when I was four.”
“Oh, Melissa, I’m sorry,” he says. The concern in his voice is so genuine.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I mean, it is sad. But I don’t remember her, or remember being sad about losing her. Not really. It was much harder on my dad.”
“So your fisherman daddy raised you in Jetty Beach, all by himself,” Jackson says.
“That he did.”
“Is that why you still live there?” he asks. “To be close to your dad?”
“Partly,” I say. “It’s home.”
“I’ve never had a place like that,” he says. “I grew up in Chicago, but it never felt like home to me. I got out of there as soon as I could. I can’t imagine going back.”
“What about Seattle?” I ask.
“I like living there,” he says. “What the fuck do I know? I have a penthouse condo with a view of the entire city. It’s pretty amazing. I’d say that’s a damn good home.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I say. “Now will you tell me where we’re going?”
“No.”
My jaw drops when he takes the exit to the airport. The thought crossed my mind, but I dismissed the idea outright. He can’t be taking me to get on a plane. We didn’t bring anything with us. I have my ID on me, but only because I grabbed my purse. Other than that, I have a few bucks in cash, some lip gloss, a hair tie, and whatever miscellaneous things I left in my handbag over the last few months.
“Are we going to the airport?”
“Of course,” he says.
He doesn’t take the exit to the main terminal, instead driving toward the off-site parking lots. He turns into the driveway of a tall building. It ends with a large, closed garage door. Jackson taps a few buttons on his phone, and the door opens.
He glides the car inside. It isn’t a parking garage in the traditional sense. The floor looks more like marble than concrete. The finished walls are painted a soft beige, with art hanging in front of each parking spot. Jackson pulls the car into an empty spot—there are about a dozen all together, with two other cars parked further down. Nearby is a black limo with a driver in a suit standing next to it.
Jackson gets out, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt while he walks over to open my door. I’m not a fan of the whole door-opening thing some guys do—I can open a door for myself, thank you very much. But in this moment, I’m too dazed to even notice. I get up, remembering at the last second to grab my purse. Jackson puts a gentle hand on my back, his touch adding to my jitters.
The driver opens the limo door for me and Jackson guides me inside. He stands outside the door for a moment, talking to the driver. I don’t hear what they say, but I see another man come out of a door off to the other side. Jackson talks to him too, and I think I see him slip him some money. A tip, I suppose.
I sink into the black leather seat. It’s almost as comfortable as Jackson’s car, but I don’t think anything can compare to that. The L-shaped seat goes along the back and one side. The other side has a counter. A bottle of champagne sits in a silver bucket of ice and a dark wicker basket holds small, packaged snacks.
I wait while Jackson speaks to someone on his phone. My heart races. What is this? The last time I went to the airport, I parked at a cheap lot two miles away and a stinky ride-share van took me to the terminal.
“Sorry about that,” he says, sliding into the seat next to me. The driver shuts the door and, seconds later, the car starts moving.
“That’s okay, but … what is all this?”
“Yeah, sorry, this isn’t mine,” he says. “This was the best they could do on short notice.”
I stare at him, mouth wide open, while he checks something on his phone. A little voice in the back of my mind says I should text a picture of this insanity to Nicole, but I can’t think straight.
The drive to the terminal is all of five minutes. Jackson gets out and pauses next to the open door. He offers me his hand and I let him help me out of the car. His hand feels strong and warm. It anchors me to some sort of reality—a reality that is quickly spinning out of control—and I don’t want to let go.
“You ready?” he asks, his voice soft and low, as if we aren’t standing in front of a crowded airport with cars rushing by.
“I think so.”
With his hand on the small of my back, he guides me inside. His touch does nothing to ease my tension. His hand lingers, teasing just above my ass, first so light it almost tickles, then harder, his hand pressing into me with more authority.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” he says. We walk up to the premium counter of one of the airlines. He pulls a card from his wallet and hands it to the ticket agent. “We need a flight.”
The woman takes his card. “Of course, Mr. Bennett. Where are you traveling today?”
He looks at me and grins. “Where should we go?”
I probably look like some ditzy airhead, staring up at him like an idiot. “I … I don’t…”
He turns back to the woman. “What do you have leaving in … ” He looks at me again. “What, the next two hours? We don’t want to wait around too long. Do you have a passport?”
I blink at him, then dig through my purse. I have a passport, but I don’t carry it with me. Why the fuck would I need a passport on a regular basis? “No, not on me.”
“Domestic, then,” he says.
The ticket agent checks her computer, fingers tapping against the keys. “We have a flight to New York, with one layover in—”
“Direct only,” he says. He rubs his hand up and down my back. I don’t want him to stop touching me.
“All right,” she says. Her eyes flick back and forth and she keeps typing. “There’s a direct flight to Austin, Texas that leaves in ninety minutes. Kansas City, leaving in two hours. I have San Diego in seventy minutes, and Chicago leaving in three hours. That’s all, Mr. Bennett. The rest are all booked.”
“Hmm, not great options,” he says. “What do you think?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He pulls out his phone and taps a button, then puts it to his ear. “Tammi, what are my options in San Diego? I’m not thrilled about it, but I don’t want to sit around at the airport, and there’s a flight.”
He pauses, listening.
“Good. Right, that place wasn’t bad. The food was incredible. Is it available?” He waits, moving his hand from my back and putting it in his pocket. “Well, tell them they have to move. How many? Yeah, they can move. Tell them it’s on me. Find them something else and I’ll pay for the rest of their stay. Of course you did. This is why you’re the best. Yeah, just take care of it. It’s fine, I don’t care about that. Perfect. Okay.”
He hangs up, turns back to the ticket agent. “San Diego it is. Two.”
8
Jackson
Melissa and I take seats at a small table in the airline’s executive lounge. The lights are dim and soft music plays in the background. She blinks at her surroundings, like she isn’t sure how she got here. I check my messages while we wait for someone to take our drink orders.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bennett.” A young man in a shirt and tie stands next to the table. “What can I bring you?”
“Is it time for Scotch?” I ask.
Melissa nods. “It’s definitely time for something.”
“Glenlivet twenty-one, is that our favorite?” I ask. “Two. Straight up, with a splash of mineral water.”
“Very good, Mr. Bennett.”
“Did I get it right this time?” I ask.
“I’m impress
ed,” she says. “It appears you can be taught.”
Damn, I like her. Completely out of her element, her eyes as wide as a little kid at Disneyland, and she still has a saucy comeback.
This is definitely a good idea. I wasn’t lying when I told Melissa I have no plan. I woke up this morning and decided I was done flirting with her over fucking texts. I want her. I want her so bad I can already taste her. At this point, I probably could have fucked her twice—once on her couch, and once in her bed—but I don’t want it like that. I spent two agonizing weeks thinking about her, dreaming about her. She dug in, getting so deep under my skin I have no idea how to separate myself from her. I don’t simply want sex. I want Melissa. I want to know what’s going on behind those brown eyes, want her to tell me all her secrets with those sweet lips.
And sure, I want to impress her along the way. Sweep her off her feet. Do something crazy and unexpected. My assistant will need to juggle some things for me, but that’s part of why I pay her so much money.
San Diego is hardly my first choice, but the villa where I’m taking her—it’s worthy of Melissa Simon. She’s going to love it. As far as the rest of it, I figure it doesn’t matter where in the world we go. All I want is the chance to be with her—no distance, no interruptions.
I’m going to rock her world.
In the meantime, the anticipation is fucking delicious. I sip my Scotch, watching her. Her eyes move around the room, her finger circling the rim of her glass. She has that rare, effortless beauty, a look that’s completely natural, and so alluring. I bet she looks amazing from the moment she wakes up in the morning. She’ll linger in bed with me, letting me kiss her, touch her skin, run my fingers through her tangled hair. No getting up and rushing to the bathroom to put on makeup before I can see her. She’s incredible. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks.
“Because you’re beautiful.”
The corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly and she sips her Scotch. “You’re crazy.”
“A little bit.”
I want to touch her again. Aside from putting a hand on her arm the first night we met, and helping her out of the car, I haven’t felt her skin. I kept my hand on her back, only touching her through her clothes. I did it on purpose, waiting, keeping my hand just on the edge of how a lover would caress her. Familiar, safe, only hinting at what I have in store. Soon, I’ll touch her skin again. I’m not sure if I’ll do it now, or wait until we’re on the plane. I want to draw it out, make every moment arousing.
Not that I need help there. The constant hard-on is getting a little uncomfortable. Every time I relax, I look at her or think about getting her to that villa, and I’m instantly hard again. Fuck, she is so tempting. Part of me wants to take her somewhere—now—and fuck her blind.
But this way is going to be so much better.
Her hand is on the table, her fingers just brushing her glass. I shift so my hand is near hers. I touch the backs of her fingers with the tips of mine, so light. Not too much. Not yet. My hand buzzes at the feel of her skin, and she draws in a quick breath. Oh yeah, baby, I feel it too. I trail down to the back of her hand and she twitches. I get to her wrist and circle my fingers around it. So delicate. I turn her hand over, palm up, letting it rest in mine. With my other hand, I run a finger down each of hers, starting at the tip and stopping at her palm. I circle my finger around her palm, and her fingers curl up. I press my hand into hers, spreading her fingers, and rub up to her wrist. I let my fingers brush her forearm, then slide my hand back down, relishing the feel of her skin. It’s better than it was in my mind, and my cock strains against my pants.
I think about bringing her fingers to my lips, but that will have to wait. I’m torturing myself, and hopefully her too, but I love it. This isn’t my usual style. I usually get what I want, when I want it—I’m not very good at denying myself. But this is different. She’s different. I don’t want to move too fast and break the spell.
“Your flight is ready to board, Mr. Bennett.”
I glance up at the waiter. “Thank you.” I look back at Melissa. “Ready?”
We get right on the plane and settle into our seats, first class, first row. I never sit anywhere else. I don’t like looking at the back of some asshole’s head.
Melissa fastens her seatbelt and tucks her legs up. “I’ve never flown first class before.”
I’ve never not flown first class. I don’t even know what the back of a plane looks like. “If you have to fly commercial, it’s the only way to go.”
“Have to fly commercial?” she asks. “How else do you fly?”
“I charter a private plane more often than not,” I say. “I don’t own one. I’ve never bothered. Seems like too much hassle, so I charter when I need one. But for this little adventure, commercial seemed like the way to go. It adds to the spontaneity; don’t you think?”
Her eyebrows draw together and her mouth hangs open. I can’t wait to devour that sweet mouth. But not yet. Once I start, I won’t be able to stop.
“You live a very strange life, Jackson Bennett,” she says.
“Do I?”
We sit while the rest of the passengers get on and the plane taxis to the runway. I fire off a tweet and send a few emails. Melissa watches out the window while we take off. When we get to cruising altitude, the flight attendant brings us drinks. Melissa tosses back her whiskey pretty fast. I order her another.
“Are you nervous on planes?” I ask. The flight took off without much turbulence, and so far everything has been smooth.
“No, not really,” she says. “Today has just been such a whirlwind.”
She sits leaning toward the window, resting her elbow on the opposite arm rest. Her drink is perched on her knee. Her hands are too far away for me to touch, but her feet… She let her sandals fall to the floor, and her feet are tucked up on the seat next to me.
I can’t keep the grin off my face as I put my hand on her foot. I don’t want to startle her, but she meets my eyes and laughs a little. Her toenails are painted bright green. I wrap my fingers around her foot and slide my hand toward her ankle. She shifts in her seat, stretching out her legs to put her feet in my lap. I rub my thumb around the ball of her ankle and she sucks in a quick breath.
This is going to be a long flight.
It’s ridiculous how turned on I am, just by her feet. I’m not necessarily a foot guy. Everyone has their thing, and feet aren’t mine—although I do love how a hot woman looks in a sexy pair of shoes. Apparently I have a Melissa thing, because I want every bit of her. I clasp her foot with both hands and dig my thumbs into the arch, rubbing back and forth. Her eyelids flutter, and a slow smile crosses her face. I already love making her feel good. I want to see more of that face, feel that body relax against mine.
The flight goes on and we have more drinks. I find excuses to touch her—always her hands, her feet, or her arms. Nothing else. I’m saving the rest for later, and just knowing it’s coming has me dying for the flight to be over. After a while, she leans closer to me and I play with her hand again, running my fingers up and down, tracing the lines on her palm. Her breathing is slow and even, and her head slips down to my shoulder. I rest my cheek on her head. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or just relaxed, but I let her be, still playing with her fingers and hand.
I drift off—which is weird, because I never sleep on planes. When the flight is over, we disembark—no need for baggage claim—and head outside. The sky is dark and headlights flash. I lead her to the car that’s already waiting for us, and get in after her.
Melissa stares out the window as we drive to the villa. Neither of us say much on the way. We’re both tired from traveling, and I’m a little buzzed from all the drinks on the plane. I send a few emails and check in with my assistant. Melissa hasn’t so much as looked at her phone, but I figure she’s just tired.
The car turns into the driveway and stops in front of the triple garage doors. I
get out and go for Melissa’s door, but she beats me to it. I’m disappointed we’re arriving after dark—it’s hard to see, and we’re right on the beach. Still, we’ll wake up to it in the morning.
A man in a white polo meets us out front. “Mr. Bennett,” he says. “It’s good to see you. I trust your flight was pleasant?”
I shake his hand, searching my memory. “Nathan,” I say. “Is that right?”
“Yes, good memory,” he says.
The last time I was here, Nathan was in charge of the villa. I remember him because he did such a good job, and he was personable without kissing my ass. I like him. “Thanks for getting things ready on short notice.”
“Of course, Mr. Bennett,” he says.
Another man in a matching polo steps forward with a tray. “Champagne?”
I take one and hand it Melissa. She blinks at me, but takes the drink.
“Thank you.” I take one for myself and follow Nathan inside.
We walk in through a tiled foyer and up a short set of stairs. To one side is an expansive living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. A wet bar with a long granite countertop stands along one side, and a small staircase leads to another sitting area. More tall windows display the breathtaking view. The beige-and-blue furnishings are classic without being gaudy. I pause and survey the space. Tasteful. It will do.
“Your things have already been taken to your room,” Nathan says.
“Our things?” Melissa asks, leaning toward me and pitching her voice low.
“I had some things sent over,” I say. “I had to guess at your size, but it should get us through for now. We can go shopping for anything else you need tomorrow.”
“The main living space is here,” Nathan says, gesturing to the spacious room. “The kitchen is that way. Chef Louisa will be available daily to see to your meals. Downstairs is another living area with doors that open to the pool deck. From there, you’ll find the staircase leading to the beach. I’ve set you up in the main master suite, but there are four other bedrooms to choose from. Feel free to select any one you’d like. Would you like the full tour, or shall I show you to your room?”
One Crazy Week Page 5
