by Remy Rose
I’m okay with that.
Jack puts a hand lightly on the small of my back as I present our tickets to the smiling woman at the table outside the ballroom entrance. We go to the silent auction room first to make a few bids—Jack on a ski weekend at Sugarloaf, an Old Town canoe and Patriots tickets, me on two nights at the Samoset, a pub crawl for four and a gorgeous watercolor painting of an apple orchard—and then we enter the grand ballroom.
It’s classic, elegant, opulent—stunningly-remodeled and 19th century with regal, dark mahogany woodwork, ornate chandeliers glittering with crystal teardrops and antique paintings of racehorses. Jack is looking overhead and nodding in approval, clearly impressed with the coffered ceiling. “Wow—beautiful workmanship.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Just seeing this is worth the price of admission.”
“Would you like to be alone with the ceiling? I could step out for a minute, or...”
“Ha! Nicely done, Callaway. Speaking of the price of admission...I’m just remembering that I still haven’t paid you for my ticket.”
“And you aren’t going to—I invited you. You’re doing me a favor by coming.” I pause, smirking. “And yes, I realize what I just said.”
“Coming is my absolute pleasure. Believe me. I love to come.”
I burst out in completely unladylike, snorty laughter, and Jack is grinning from ear to ear. This is utterly juvenile and totally silly, but I love it. I love being like this, with him.
We’re standing there smiling at each other. I’m vaguely aware that there are lots of other people around, walking past us, and that all of us have a purpose for being here. But right now, all I can see, all I can think of, is this beautiful tuxedo-ed man with uncharacteristically well-behaved hair, standing in front of me.
Deep sigh, and then I reluctantly come back to reality. “Want to find our table and then get a drink?”
“Sure. You’re in charge tonight.” He winks. “I’ll go along with whatever you want.”
Oh, Jesus. Here we go again. “Whatever I want, Jack? Are you sure you won’t regret that statement?”
He bends down, puts his lips next to my ear. His breath tickles, his words ignite me. “Highly doubtful, Callaway. Because there’s a very good chance that what you want is what I want as well.”
The fire that he started within me has apparently seared my brain so that any rational thought is fried. God, I wanted to stay cool tonight, but Mr. Mercury here is making that virtually impossible.
Cue the sweating. Again.
Thank God Jordan suddenly appears to rescue me, like some angel sent from Heaven.
“Hey, Maddie! Have you seen any other Maine Coastals yet?” She’s smiling brightly at me, trying like hell not to gape at Jack. I have to bite my lip to hide my smile.
“Not yet—you’re the first.” I introduce her to Jack, the two of them shake hands, and when Jack is distracted by a waiter with an appetizer tray, Jordan catches my eye and mouths oh my GOD! Blushing, I nod and smile, remembering I had a very similar reaction when I saw him for the first time. And basically every time after.
We each take a stuffed mushroom, and Jordan points out her boyfriend sitting at one of our two reserved tables in the far corner before heading over there herself.
I turn to my date. “Ready for that drink?”
“Absolutely.”
As we walk to the bar, he again places his hand at the small of my back. It fits just right there.
“I’ll take a Jack and Coke, please.” Jack turns from the bartender to wink at me, grinning.
“I have no doubt that drink was named after you. Cosmo for me, please.”
The bartender prepares our drinks. I look up to smile at Jack and discover that he is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite place—humor blending into something else more intense, serious. It rattles me a little, so I sweep my gaze around the ballroom. There is so much to fill the senses, tonight. Color, sparkles, candlelight. Tables set in gold and ivory, with a bright burst of fall flowers at the center. Jazz music from the ensemble in the corner, the rustle-y sounds of women walking in dresses, fairy lights twinkling in the potted ficus trees. So much, and yet none of it compares to the man next to me.
I want to fill my senses with him.
I want to taste him.
I slam on the brakes before this streetcar named desire goes careening out of control. Platonic. Platonic. P-l-a-t-
“Your Cosmopolitan, miss.”
“Thank you.” I smile at the bartender, take my drink and have a generous sip. I can feel Jack’s eyes on me.
We mingle for a bit. Most of Maine Coastal has arrived, and some of them casually wander over to be introduced. Angie clasps his hand warmly, beaming. Jack charms them all, including my senior agent Walter, who can be a bit on the grouchy side. Conversation flows easily, with topics ranging from house flipping to rental properties to a question one of my agents has about installing plank flooring. The emcee, the director of economic development for Ellsworth, goes to the mic at the podium and thanks a list of sponsors before announcing that dinner will be served soon. The jazz trio starts up again, and we go to our table, Jack sliding out one of the cloth-covered chairs for me.
“You are a true gentleman,” I tell him. “If this was an actual date, I’d be very impressed.”
“Don’t be fooled, Callaway. I’m not thinking very gentlemanly thoughts right now.” He raises his water goblet to his lips, looking past me benignly, and I have to wonder if anyone actually went into cardiac arrest from being flirted with, because I feel like I could.
The mouth-watering aromas of warmed bread and baked chicken, mingling with the essence of Jack Decker, are doing glorious things to me. I am feeling delicious, relaxed...like everything is right in the world. And the night has only just begun. Even though I know I shouldn’t have any expectations, I allow myself to stray from the present moment and think about the possibility of slow-dancing with Jack—to be in his arms, next to his body. His hard, masculine body...
Damn it.
“Wow.” Jack dips his spoon into the lobster bisque. “Hands down, best I’ve ever had.”
“First the ceiling, now the soup...I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.”
“How do you know I was talking about the soup?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Now you’re just going for more points.” I wrinkle up my nose at him and give him a little shoulder bump. I’ve done well so far keeping my hands off him; I figure touching him with my shoulder doesn’t really count.
The servers bring the main course, and I give myself a silent high-five for keeping food off me—made it through the stuffed mushrooms and the smoked trout cucumber cups with only a few brush-able crumbs on my bodice, and no drips from the orgasmic lobster bisque. We toast to the steadily-improving real estate market and decreasing interest rates; we eat, laugh and drink. I’m on my second Cosmo, and between that and champagne, I feel a pleasant buzz starting to spread through me. The alcohol may be clouding my senses, but it seems like Jack is leaning into me an awful lot—talking to me with his lips practically brushing my ear or his mouth inches away from mine. Closer than necessary, really.
I’m not complaining.
We’re finishing our chocolate mousse when the emcee takes the mic again, thanks the jazz band and introduces the deejay. The dancing will start momentarily. I take my last spoonful of heavenly dessert. Most of it makes it into my mouth, except for the dime-sized splotch that’s found itself a home on the coral material an inch above my right nipple. My God. Jack is engaged in conversation with Walter about mill rates, so maybe he won’t notice. I discreetly dip the corner of my napkin into my water glass and dab the spot.
“I’d consider it a victory, Callaway.”
I look up to meet Jack’s gaze.
“You got all the way to dessert without a wardrobe malfunction.”
I try like hell to glare at him, but the amusement on his face is contagio
us.
“The way you wear food is one of the cutest things about you.”
“Stop.” I’m dabbing at the stain which seems to be spreading a bit.
“I’m serious. And if it’ll make you feel better...” He takes his dessert spoon, scoops up the remaining bit of chocolate in the dish and swipes it against his shirt. “There. Now we’re twins. Mine’s even a little worse—brown on white.”
I start to giggle. “My God. You’re crazy.”
“You have that effect on me.”
He flashes me a dazzling smile that makes me feel like I have champagne in my knees. Still giggling, I wet the corner of my napkin and clean up his spot as best I can. “I’m not taking you on the dance floor looking like this.”
“Oh, we’re going to dance, are we?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“Bossy.”
“In charge. Remember?”
“I do.” He takes a sip of water and stands up to follow me to the dance floor, which has become quite crowded. Jordan and her boyfriend join us. The alcohol, AC/DC and my dance partner have all combined to make me totally intoxicated. Jack, not surprisingly, has great rhythm and hot dance moves.
And then, a slow song.
We are both breathing hard. Jack is looking at me, half-smiling. Suddenly, I feel a flicker of guilt. I don’t want this to be forced. I don’t want him to feel like he has to slow dance with me. We’ve had fun tonight, and this is supposed to be just a low-key, friendly date of two people who used to have no-strings sex with one another. Slow dancing is intimate and something we’ve never done before. I don’t want Jack to feel pressured.
But oh, I want to dance with him.
I’m just about to say something that will give him an out when he steps forward and pulls me against him, wrapping his left arm around my waist and taking my right hand in his. He is holding me unexpectedly, breathtakingly close. I feel both my heart rate and my arousal climb to the coffered ceiling.
“I’m supposed to be in charge,” I whisper.
“Sorry. Old habits with you, I guess.” He pulls me in tighter. I can feel him. I can feel him there. “You don’t really mind, though, do you?”
“No.” I breathe in the warm scent of him, my nose pressed against his lower chest. His chocolate mousse sympathy spot is just above my head. There is a sweet, sweet ache in my stomach, radiating into my chest. And between my legs. Most definitely, between my legs.
He dips his head lower to murmur against the nape of my neck, making me shiver. “I lied, before.”
“What do you mean?”
“At your house, when I said you looked great.”
“I don’t look great?”
“No. You look absolutely stunning. Enchanting. I just couldn’t find the words, then.” The tips of his fingers press into my waist. “Still can’t.”
I have to fight the gasp that’s climbing up my throat. “Thank you,” I manage.
“Thank you, Callaway, for inviting me. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since...” He trails off and doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. I think I get it.
The song ends, and it is the very last note when we gently disengage from each other. It’s hot on the dance floor with all the people; Jack loosens his bow tie and takes off his jacket, going back to our table to drape it over the back of his chair. I feel a thrill spiraling up my spine as he walks toward me. I can’t stop myself from thinking that tonight, he is mine alone.
“Jack Decker?” A squeal from behind me. I turn to look. A brunette in a low-cut, form-fitting bright blue dress is heading for my date. She’s carrying twins—her infant-sized boobs—and teetering rather dangerously in her stiletto heels. I’m trying to clamp down on the bitch inside me that’s silently hoping she’ll trip, because who is she, and what’s her connection to Jack?
I need to know, but I don’t want to know.
“Hey, Tonya.” Jack is smiling like seeing her is no big deal. This makes me feel a bit better, because I don’t want it to be a big deal.
Tonya is apparently oblivious to me standing there. Throwing her arms around him, she crushes her twins against his chest. “It’s soo good to see you,” she croons. “How long’s it been? A year?”
“Pretty close to it. Still liking your kitchen?” He gives her a quick, stiff hug and takes a step back.
“Oh, definitely. You were amazing. In the kitchen, and in, um, other rooms.” She giggles, and I decide I hate her.
“Thanks. I’m glad I was able to do some work for you.”
He tries to sidestep around her, but she’s not having any of it.
“I’ll be calling you soon, Jack...I’ve still got alimony payments coming, and I thought I’d put those toward more renovations. That way, I’d get to see you.” She sidles up to him, lays a perfectly-manicured hand on his arm—the arm that tonight, is supposed to belong to me.
“My schedule’s pretty full, but sure, give me a call.” Jack looks at me over Tonya’s head, lifting his eyebrows at me as if to say, can you believe this chick?
What I can’t believe, Jack, is that you slept with her.
The delicious, warm feeling inside me has soured and cooled. But I can’t let Tonya and her bouncing baby girls ruin tonight. I have no right to be pissed about someone before me. And honestly, no right to be pissed about someone after me, because I am not with Jack.
Say it with me, Self: I. Am. Not. With. Jack.
So I will do my best to just enjoy the rest of this evening, and I’ll dance and laugh and drink and drink some more and be glad for the chance to have seen him again.
It’s good in theory, of course. But in reality?
I’m not very good at faking things.
We do dance and laugh and drink, but Jack keeps sneaking quick glances at me, like he’s checking to see if I’m okay. When it’s over, we say goodbye to the Maine Coastal crew and walk to the parking garage. This time, he doesn’t put his hand on my back.
He catches my eye as he’s looking over his shoulder to back the truck out of the parking place. “Thank you, Madeline.”
“You’re using my first name. This sounds serious.”
“I am serious. I had a great time. I’m glad you invited me.”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely. The question is, are you glad you invited me?”
“Why would you say that?”
He turns on the radio, motions for a BMW to cut in front of us and grins at me. “Callaway, you wear your emotions the way you wear food on your clothes—right out there for everyone to see.”
“That’s not—why would you—” I’m sputtering, trying to find words to deny it.
“If you’re thinking I’m going to hook up with Tonya again, I’m not. I’m not even going to do any more work for her. The only reason I said she could call me was to make her go away. So I could get back to you.” He pauses. “Do you believe me?”
I nod. “Yes. I do.” I’m kind of astonished to realize that I do believe him.
“Good.”
But there’s more going on here than just Tonya.
I hate that this night is almost over, that the ride home is only ten minutes long. I hate that he knows I’m upset.
Most of all, I hate that he’s being so calm about all of this.
It slaps me, then—an icy-cold wave of wake up, Madeline—that maybe Jack is acting like he doesn’t care BECAUSE he doesn’t care.
And this is what I hate most of all.
I reach toward the dashboard and stab the volume button with my finger to turn down the music. “Okay. How do you do it?”
“Do what?” He looks bewildered, wary.
“Just—just move on from relationships, like they don’t matter.” Like I don’t matter.
I’ve hit a nerve. I can only see the right side of his face, but the muscles in his cheek are tight.
“It’s not that they don’t matter. It’s just that...I don’t know. I guess I’ve trained myself to let go. It’s a matter
of protection. Survival.” His voice softens. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Yes, I know. But you’re not the only one with trust issues, remember?”
“I never said I was.”
“Bad things happen to people, Jack. It hurts. It sucks. But you learn to move on.” I feel this crazy sense of desperation, like I need to convince him of this right now. “You learn to move on so you can enjoy your life. So you can be happy.” I feel a stinging in my nose. “I want you to be happy, Jack.”
“I appreciate that, Madeline. And I’m fine.”
“Fine and happy are not the same thing.” The clench of his jaw makes me realize I need to stop. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
But of course, it isn’t. I’m trembling inside my coat, hoping he won’t notice. By the time we pull into my driveway, the sense that I’ve fucked everything up is bubbling inside me like hot lava. There’s nowhere for it to go but out.
He puts the truck in park and starts to take off his seatbelt. Since he left his vehicle running, it’s clear he’s not staying but just wants to be a gentleman and open my door for me. This brings me to my boiling point. He probably went tonight because he felt sorry for me and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Little did I know that this charity gala would also turn out to be a charity case. For me.
I don’t need his pity.
In the way back of my mind, I know there’s a very good chance I’m completely wrong, but when you’re feeling this sorry for yourself and in the throes of PMS, rational thought takes a back seat.
“You don’t need to walk me to my house, Jack. I’m fine—just like you.”
“What is going on with you?”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“Charity? What the fuck are you talking about, Madeline?” His eyes are stormy—the ocean in January kind of stormy. He turns off the ignition and gets out of the truck, slams the door.
I walk quickly to the side steps, fumbling in my purse for my house key. Jack is right behind me. I push open the door, furious with myself for ruining what was a really wonderful night, and he follows me into the kitchen, banging the door closed behind him.
