A Slippery Slope

by Tanya Gallagher

  Chapter 40

  I’m elbow-deep in the pastry case at Holy Grounds when the bell over the front door rings to announce a customer.

  “Just a minute,” I call, setting a blueberry muffin in place behind the glass. Technically we’re not open yet and I could use the extra time getting things in order. Jess didn’t show up for her shift, meaning I’m flying solo this morning. I’ve spent my time getting our machines up and running and trying to unload the pastries from the local bakery’s delivery, but I’m way, way behind. I’m also way undercaffienated to be handling this alone, but that’s another story.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  I glance up at the sharp tone. Mr. Spence pushes his way toward me, his eyes dark and hard.

  “Just getting ready to open,” I tell him.

  “Why are the chairs still in their closing position?” He glances pointedly at the chairs, still stacked on top of the tables after last night’s floor cleaning. Every night we put the chairs up so we can wash the floors, and with everything else going on, I haven’t had a chance to take them down.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “And the daily special hasn’t been written out.”

  “Right.” I grit my teeth. “I’ve been here alone this morning.”

  My boss doesn’t seem to care that I’m doing a two-person job. He sucks air in through his front teeth and makes a disapproving sound. “This is not going to cut it, Natalie. Get this place together ASAP. We’re not here to play on our cell phones all day.”

  I feel my face flame and I have to bite my tongue to stop the “fuck you” from falling out of my mouth. Not only is my phone nowhere on my person, I’m doing the best I can. Alone.

  Spence shuffles off into the back room, not even offering to help.

  I drop the rest of the pastries onto the back counter to move the chairs. I don’t bother to set them down softly, either. I let them slam down, just to piss him off.

  Jesus. I know Spence is the owner of this place, but he doesn’t need to be an ass. It’s infuriating, actually, that someone else can have this much control over my life. I’m just another cog in the wheel for this business, someone who can be replaced if I blink the wrong way. God forbid Spence actually see the injustice in all of this.

  It’s so different from Penchant, where I call the shots and actually matter. I settle the weight of the chairs in my hands and hear the satisfying plunk as I set each one down. I want Penchant to work so, so badly. The more I’ve treated myself like a boss, the more I feel like I deserve to be the boss. Spence doesn’t get to set my value. I do. Except I hadn’t factored in the cost of a launch party for Penchant, and with my credit cards maxed out, I need extra money to foot the bill. I need my Holy Grounds job just to keep my business afloat. So I steel myself and keep working.

  Jess doesn’t show until two hours into her shift, and by that time I’m just over it.

  “Sorry, Delilah,” she says with an air kiss, tying on her apron. “Alarm didn’t go off.”

  I freeze, my hand hovering above a cup of coffee. Delilah?

  Oh shit. She knows.

  “What did you call me?” I whisper, my throat suddenly dry. I should have confronted her before now. I should have explained this all away before it became something she could hold over my head. My palms start to sweat.

  Jess’s Cheshire-cat grin is all teeth. “Sorry, did I say Delilah? I meant Natalie. Slip of the tongue.” She leans against the counter instead of helping me with the drink orders I’m filling.

  I dart my eyes toward the back room. No Spence. For now. If Jess tell our boss about my lube business, he’d fire me faster than you could say “coffee.” And I’m screwed without this job.

  But then Jess’s phone chimes, and when she pulls it out of her back pocket yet again instead of helping me, something snaps. Without thinking I snag the phone from her grasp.

  “What the hell is so important on here?”

  Jess’s face gets pale under her makeup. “Give that back.”

  “Only if you do your job instead of bailing on me.”

  She sends murder eyes at me. “I was just kidding about the Delilah thing, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny.” I clutch the phone and sigh. Jess looks like she’s going to have a panic attack and I know how awful that feels. I don’t want to be the cause of it. “Sorry I took this. I’m clearly having a terrible day but that’s no excuse.” I lift the phone to hand it back to her, but pause when I catch a glimpse of what she’d been looking at.

  I pull the phone back to my body and curl over it. “Oh my god, Jess.”

  Her face twists, embarrassment and a little fear. “What?”

  I lower my voice so Spence can’t hear us. “Is this what you’ve been doing whenever you were supposed to be working?” The phone screen is open to Jess’s Instagram account, and instead of the selfies and party pictures I expect, the images are filled with words. Her poetry.

  Jess’s cheeks grow pink and she stares at the ground. “I’m trying to have a portfolio I can show to colleges.”

  I nod. “These are…These are really good.” I return her phone with shaky hands. “It’s a great idea. And don’t worry, I won’t tell.” I have a feeling that she’ll keep my secret too.

  For the next six hours Jess and I actually talk. Like humans. It’s not a miracle or anything, but she tells me about college and helps me fill orders and doesn’t laugh when I accidentally burn myself. Twice. I wave the white flag, too, and tell her about writing and even a little about the way I’m trying to start my own business. And by the time I reach into my purse for bandaids at the end of my shift, I feel like we’ve reached a shaky truce.

  My cell phone, wedged just next to the bandaids, announces a missed call from Jackson. My stomach flutters and my pulse skips.

  God, just seeing his name makes my heart race. How did I get here? Loving Jackson is everything I warned myself about and yet here I am, wanting him more than is fair.

  I dial Jackson from my car, my cell phone balanced on my lap as I drive home past the elementary school and the oak tree that the kindergarteners decorate with glittery stars each December.

  “What’s up?” I say when Jackson answers the phone.

  “Do you want to go to dinner tonight?” His voice spreads like honey. I think about other slippery liquids and get so distracted I almost miss my next turn.

  “Um, what?”

  “Dinner. You know, the event where people shove food in their faces to sustain life. I can swap shifts, if you’re free.”

  I blink at the road, realizing I’ve barely seen the last mile fly by.

  “I’m going to a signing at the bookstore tonight,” I finally respond. I don’t say anything about his offer to swap shifts or what it means that he would rearrange his life to share a meal with me.

  The truth is that’s not where I’m at. I’m not rearranging my life for Jackson. I’m moving to Boston and getting on with my life without wondering about his role in it. In the future he might not be in my life, and I can’t plan a space for him without knowing what role he would play. It makes things feel fuzzy and unsettled.

  “McCafferty’s sounds fun,” Jackson tells me.

  I can’t quite hide the surprise in my voice. “You want to go?” I twist my hands around the steering wheel, ten and two.

  “Sure,” he says. “After all, it’s hard to woo you when I don’t get to see you.”

  “Jackson, ugh. You are not trying to woo me.”

  There’s a smile in his voice. “I am.”

  Trees streak by so fast my head spins, or maybe that’s just Jackson. Even if he is serious, it doesn’t mean I’m falling for it. My elbows draw into my sides like a shield. “But this is just—”

  “Casual?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Casual.” Why does the word make my mouth curl in disappointment? I’m the one who wanted this. I frown at the road. “I’m not saying I’m not having fun. This just isn’t a
long-term thing. You’re already in my pants. No need to woo.”

  “What do I need to do to get my message across to you?” He is a persistent bastard, isn’t he?

  I bite my lip, concentrating on the road. I need to keep things light. “Oh, you know. Probably stand on your head wearing a tutu.”

  Jackson snorts. “Okay then. Note to self.” His voice brightens. “So what time is the reading tonight?”

  I roll my eyes but he can’t see me. It’s fine. Anyway, I should probably tell him about Jess. I press my foot to the gas and fill him in on the details.

  Chapter 41

  The moment we step into the nonfiction section at McCafferty’s, Abigail wraps me in a honeysuckle-scented hug.

  “You came,” she squeals. Her name tag cuts into my chest but I squeeze her back.

  “Of course I came.” I lean back and smile at her. “I’m supporting you and learning all about memoirs. Two birds, one stone.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m a bird?”

  “Not just any bird. You’re like, queen peacock.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” She looks over my shoulder and lowers her voice. “You brought Jackson?”

  The tips of my ears get hot. “I did. He insisted.”

  “I’m sure he did.” She spins me and points at a chair in the front row marked with a “reserved” sign. “That spot’s for you. I’ll add another sign for Jackson.”

  “Aww, Abs, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “What’s the fun in running the place if I don’t get to pass the perks along to my friends?” She smiles and weaves her way through the crowd of folding chairs to tape a sign onto a second one.

  I glance around the room and cringe. Jackson’s one of only two men in the audience. We’re here to see a memoirist whose latest book chronicles her battle with postpartum depression. Not exactly light reading material. Not exactly guy friendly. Whoops.

  I walk over to the display of the author’s books where Jackson stands, skimming the jacket copy. He holds up the book, tapping his finger on the cover image of a rocking chair and tiny baby booties. “So why the interest in memoirs?”

  A secret for a secret for a secret. “I figure I should probably get to know the genre a little.” I shrug. “Some of what I’m writing is turning out to be the story of Penchant.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Am I in it?”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you think?”

  His smile is so damn proud. “Well, let’s go learn about memoirs.”

  I grin back at him. His excitement is infectious but it would be a hell of a lot easier to be around him if he didn’t act like he cared. He’s one charismatic sonofabitch when he wants to be and it’s too easy to fall for his charms.

  Jackson and I weave through the crowd, and every step I take makes my cheeks grow warmer. By the time we slide into our seats I feel pink with embarrassment. For him.

  I glance around again. Still ninety-eight percent women. “You can check out the store if you want.” I flip absently through the pages of the author’s book while we wait for her to take the stage. My eye catches on the word “vagina” and I wince. If this is what’s in store for the reading, I wouldn’t blame Jackson for running.

  “I’ll stay.” He gives me a lazy smile and wraps an arm over the back of my chair. “We did get prime seating.”

  “Oh my god, this is so not your thing.”

  “You are my thing.”

  I have trouble breathing with that one, but Jackson just smiles pleasantly and turns his attention back to the front of the room as if he hasn’t just dropped the biggest bomb on me.

  I bury my face in the book, my skin heating. I want Jackson to not be so damn nice to me. It’s just going to make it harder when this thing between us ends. And it’s going to end. Whether or not he says it, there’s an invisible “right now” on the end of his sentence. As in, “You’re my thing…right now.” I don’t want to get used to feeling this way—feeling like I have feelings—only to have it taken away. I want to go back to being a shell.

  The author finally takes the stage but all I can notice is this—Jackson’s arm, warm on the back of my chair, his fingers buried in my hair, gently stroking my neck. Even I know how stupid I’d be not to enjoy this tonight—enjoy the company of a man who’d sit through a reading on postpartum depression, enjoy the careful attention of his hands—so I lean back against his touch and force myself to relax. I can do this. But that doesn’t mean I’m able to pay any attention to what the author’s saying.

  By the time the reading’s over, I’m heated and out of sorts. Jackson leans down close, the clean, fresh scent of him washing over me, and whispers a suggestion low into my ear. I look up at him and his green eyes are dark and familiar and dangerous all at once. The line to meet the author is thirty people deep. The choice is an easy one after all.

  We head back toward Jackson’s home without ever having gotten the stupid book signed, holding hands over the emergency brake. He runs a finger over the heel of my palm and my pulse beats out a rhythm in response. When we finally make it into his apartment I’m ready, ready, ready for more. Because, dammit, if I’m enjoying this, I want to really enjoy it.

  Jackson strides into the kitchen and props open the refrigerator door. “I’m pretty sure I still owe you dinner.” He looks over his shoulder. “Pasta or steak?”

  “Whatever’s easiest,” I tell him when he turns back to face me. “Or nothing at all.” I reach out, wrapping my arms around Jackson and slipping my hands up the back of his shirt. His skin is hot against my palms, his body hard against mine.

  Jackson groans and catches my face in his hands, tilting up my chin to kiss me. His mouth moves against mine in that slow, leisurely pace of his.

  “Guess I should take you out more often,” he says.

  I kiss him back, harder, wanting more. Wanting to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him. Telling myself not to forget, because isn’t this the truth of it? Each moment we’re creating is a step closer to our undoing.

  “Jackson, please,” I whisper. He pulls back till we’re nose to nose. His breath comes out in short spurts and it makes me deliriously happy to know I’ve had this effect on him.

  “Not yet. We’re going to need some energy first. There’s plenty of time.” But it all squeezes in my throat because there’s not.

  I make a soft, disappointed sound against Jackson’s mouth and he laughs and lifts me onto the counter. He pours me a glass of wine and I sip it while I watch him cook, searing steak, arranging a salad with greens and grapes and a crumble of goat cheese.

  It’s a marvel to me that grown-up Jackson has all these things. Fancy ingredients, the ability to make them come together and sing. I still can't believe that he grocery shops at all. Considering my kitchen at the guesthouse currently houses one stale box of crackers and a heel of cheddar cheese, he’s putting me to shame.

  When we finally sit down at his little table, I have to admit I’m starved. The steak I shovel into my mouth is delicious—tender and juicy and savory. I was hoping that Jackson’s mac and cheese had been a fluke—the recipe that you’d pull out of your sleeve to impress someone in a pinch. But the reality is he’s really good at cooking.

  Jackson is so different from what I remember. There’s the Jackson who I met at sixteen and the Jackson I’m just getting to know now. And it’s like they’re layered on top of each other when I look at him—the past and the present colliding, pulling me in even as I tell myself to keep a handle on my heart. I’m afraid of how much I could love him.

  “Dammit, Jackson, you can really cook,” I admit, setting down my fork. Sometime in the last few minutes, my dinner has disappeared. Imagine that.

  “Life skill number three hundred and sixty-eight.” Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “Acquired just after number three hundred and sixty-seven: change batteries on the smoke detector.”

  I laugh and grab our empty plates. “I see
modesty hasn’t made it on the list just yet.”

  “Why call something a humble brag when it’s just a brag?”

  Jackson follows me into the kitchen, finishing his own glass of wine while I rinse our dishes in the sink. I hear the ring of glass on granite as he sets down his glass, and a minute later, his front presses against my back. I arch my butt into his hips because, let’s be honest, the whole night has been working toward this and I’m tired of waiting patiently.

  Jackson groans against my neck. “I see what you’re doing there.” He leans forward to bite my earlobe.

  “Hmm,” I say.

  He reaches past me to shut off the water, skimming his hands up my arms on the return trip, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

  Okay now. Okay.

  Then Jackson steps away, leaving me panting against the side of his sink. I groan in protest and turn. “Where are you going?”

  “Patience, young grasshopper.” He retrieves a dishtowel from one of the scratched kitchen drawers, then returns to gently dry my hands.

  “Thank you.” My throat is dry with need.

  Jackson sets down the towel but doesn’t immediately let go of my hands. Instead he turns over my left hand and traces my lifeline with the tip of his index finger. Then, ever so lightly, he bites the pad of my thumb and each of my fingers.

  The grate of his teeth, their gentle insistence, sends a shock through my body. When he presses a kiss into my palm, the whole world tightens into a coil in my belly.

  I’m so far gone. I should care, but I don’t. All I want is this and nothing else matters except for me and Jackson and this thing we’re creating in the space of his tiny kitchen. My shirt lifting up, up, and over my head. Jackson down on his knees, his nose at my waist.

  He catches me by the back of my legs, trails his fingers higher and higher until he reaches the point of no return and goes farther. Nothing else matters except the way my body comes to life for him, comes to life under him, the way kissing him feels like coming home.

  “This isn’t casual anymore, Natalie,” he whispers against my mouth, his heart pounding under my palms.