“That sounded elitist, didn’t it?” Jameson sighed. “I don’t mean to be that way. But my life—the way you and I were both raised, Julia—”
“It’s okay, Jameson. I get what you’re saying.” I interrupted him because I didn’t want to hear the rest of that particular thought process. “So, a woman with a career.” My thoughts instantly centered on Leslie. Wow . . . Jameson hit every one of her five qualifications. Huh. It was a good idea, possibly a great match. If Leslie weren’t so hot on Scot, I might even hook her up with Jameson. “Go on,” I prodded.
“Someone who can take care of herself.”
“So . . . ah . . . no damsels in distress or women who need the big, strong prince of a man to make everything right for them?” And there I went down Fairy Tale Lane again. “Got it. A strong, self-assured, career-focused woman who is looking for an equal partnership.”
“Exactly. So, can we continue with our date now?”
Oh. I’d almost forgotten this was a date. Warmth trickled into my cheeks, so I faced the window. “Of course. Sorry!”
Jameson took the next exit. “From here on out, you’re not Julia Collins, the owner of Introductions. For the rest of the day,” he said, slowing and then stopping at a traffic light, “you are Princess Julia, being escorted by—”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. References to fairy tales seemed to be shadowing my every move. “A prince?”
“Close, but no . . . not a prince. Not yet.” His tone was easy, bantering. But the tiniest hint of seriousness lurked beneath. “I’m like the frog, perpetually waiting for the one kiss from the right woman who will forever remove his amphibious shackles.”
“You’re not a frog,” I said lightly, trying to match his tone. “And I gotta say, more women than not would view you as pretty dang perfect just the way you are.”
I twisted so I could see him again. The faintest flush of pink stole over his complexion and he cleared his throat. “Hm. Well I don’t know about that, but thank you for the compliment.”
“You’re welcome. So . . . ah . . . where are you taking me?”
“The Brookfield Zoo.” He turned the car and nodded out the front window. “And we’re here. A day spent outside will lift anyone’s spirits.”
Well, he had a point. And I loved the zoo. I was even a card-carrying member. But, “It’s November and there aren’t any special events or exhibits happening.” Not to mention my lack of sensible clothing or footwear. I had on a skirt and heels. “It’s kind of cold out. My legs are going to freeze.”
Jameson parked the car and removed his sunglasses. Mischief and boyish fun sparkled in his too-green-to-be-real eyes. “We’ll hit a gift store right off and I’ll buy you whatever. They sell sweatshirts, sweatpants, anything you need. I’ll happily buy you three of each in increasingly large sizes so you can layer up.”
“And my shoes?”
His forehead wrinkled in thought. “Didn’t think about . . . Well, perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea for an outing.”
Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to spend the day at the zoo. “I’m sure there’s some type of a store up the road. Feel like buying me a pair of sneakers?”
The disappointment fled Jameson’s features. He stared at me, his gaze as steady as a surgeon’s hand. “Add that to the list.”
“Yes. Sneakers, sweatshirt, and sweatpants. Got it.”
“Not that list. The other one.” Jameson pivoted and started the engine. “A woman who can live in the moment. Add that to the list of what I’m looking for.”
“Oh. That list. Will do.”
I pressed my lips together to stop a question I shouldn’t ask from tumbling out. I had to be wrong. Jameson didn’t like me, like me. I couldn’t be a contender for the one woman with the one kiss he’d referred to earlier. After all, our going out was instigated by our parents. Sunday dates were for current girlfriends, not for would-be girlfriends. When a man wants to impress a woman, especially a man raised in the manner of Jameson, he wined and dined her. That’s what was expected.
For me, though, a day at the zoo ranked well above the standard wine and dine. Had Jameson known that and was trying to impress me, as he’d jokingly stated at the restaurant, or was this just a lucky guess and a nice way to spend an afternoon with the daughter of a business associate?
I stifled a groan as Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” swept into my head. Only instead of the graceful sound of a piano or an orchestra or even a freaking guitar, I heard . . .
“Ribbit,” I murmured.
“What was that, Julia?” Jameson asked. “Did you say, ‘Ribbit’?”
I smothered the swirling sensation in my stomach with a nervous laugh, knowing I was being silly. “Nope. I said . . ., ‘Terrific.’ As in, the zoo is a terrific idea.”
Reaching over with his right hand, he lightly touched my knee. “I’m glad you think so. It’ll be fun, I think.”
“Mm. Me too.”
We weren’t the only crazy people who’d decided the zoo was a great way to spend a chilly Sunday afternoon. Couples and families dotted the walkways and exhibits, though not nearly the numbers you’d find during spring or summer, or even during the zoo’s special holiday-lights exhibit in December. It was nice. I liked the less hectic atmosphere.
“Warm enough?” Jameson asked for the third time in ninety minutes.
We’d managed to find a small strip mall not too far from the zoo that had several clothing shops and a discount shoe store. I’d tried to purchase the jeans, sweater, socks, and sneakers I now wore, but Jameson insisted on paying. I chose to let him rather than argue.
“Yep. I’m good.” We’d entered the zoo from the south gate, and had already visited the baboons, the birds, the reptiles, and the pachyderms. The west side of the zoo boasted several large natural habitats for a variety of animals, but we bypassed that area, focusing instead on the individual houses and smaller areas.
“Ready to go Down Under?” Jameson asked in a fake Australian accent. But the question came out as “Rudy to go Dune Oonder?” As far as impersonations went, not that successful. But he made me laugh.
“Yeah. But then we’re going on the carousel.”
We stopped at the field-research station and poked around a little, reading up on the ecosystem in Australia and the various animals represented here. I’d read and seen it all before, naturally, but that didn’t lessen my enjoyment. Jameson had been right. My spirits were lifting. Funny, really, how sweet a drop of normalcy tastes when you’ve been choking down gallons of the abnormal for days.
“Look.” Jameson weighted his arm on my shoulders and pointed toward several megasized black and white birds that were clumped together in twos. “Emus.”
“Uh-huh. Do you know they travel in pairs?” His fingers wove into my hair, startling me. “Sometimes . . . well, um, sometimes they’ll group together in la-larger flocks. But normally”—my neck stiffened as his thumb grazed my jawline—“they pair up. They like to pair up.”
Babble City, USA, here I come.
“You sound like a romantic.” His arm tightened around me, and he twisted a few strands of my hair in his fingers. “Are you a romantic at heart, Julia? I wouldn’t have guessed that of you.”
I laughed. Cackled, really. A nervous, strangled, I-don’t-know-how-I-feel-about-this cackle. “Me, a romantic? Surely, you jest.”
The wind picked up and blew a lock of my hair into my eyes. Jameson stepped around so that he faced me, and he pulled me close. With his free hand, he gently smoothed my hair back. “I’m not jesting at all. You do run a dating service,” he said in a warm, low voice.
“I . . . ah . . . yes. But that’s about people and logic and . . . and . . .” I inhaled a breath. “Not a romantic. Not me,” I said loudly. “The birds . . . I just think they’re, you know, really beautiful. And that they pair up is interesting. Good bird trivia.”
“Hm. I suppose I can see that. But I think birds in general are a bit on the scary side.�
� He shuddered, but there was a teasing glint in his gaze. “They have beady eyes that bore into you. You haven’t noticed that?”
I swallowed. He meant the birds. I knew that. But with the concentrated, focused way he stared at me, as if he was going to kiss me . . . “Yes. Very scary. You’re right. I’ve never noticed that before. Thanks for . . . pointing that out.”
He grinned and dipped his head. “Julia,” he said. “I think—”
I blinked, craned my neck back, and stepped out of his embrace. Glancing toward the overlook platform, I attempted to speak in a controlled voice. “Hey! Let’s go over there and check out the kangaroos. They’re like big bunny rabbits, and their eyes are anything but beady. Nothing scary at all about kangaroos. Think there will be any joeys? I love looking at joeys. They’re really cute.”
Humor darted over him but he refrained from laughing at my babble. “There’s only one way to find out. Lead on, Princess Julia.”
So I did. We watched the kangaroos for a while, but weren’t able to see a baby one anywhere. The entire time we stood there, though, I tried to work out why Jameson’s touch bothered me so much. It was more than my anti-touchy-feely tendencies. And what I’d experienced wasn’t so much an uncomfortable sensation as an unfamiliar one. Different than Scot. But hell, that wasn’t a surprise.
Also just different. Period.
Ugh. Deciding the best way to get over my weirdness was to touch Jameson before he touched me again, I angled my arm through his and tugged. “Let’s go ride the carousel.”
On our way, we passed the aardvarks and then the camels. Fewer and fewer people milled about, and it sort of felt as if we had the zoo to ourselves. I kept my arm securely tucked into Jameson’s as we walked, stopped, looked, and chatted. For some reason, it was important to prove to myself that normal human contact with a nice guy, a guy I rather liked, didn’t turn me into a spaz. I did okay, and was a lot more at ease when we reached the carousel.
Of course, that all changed when he kissed me.
We were nearing the end of our second carousel ride. The music was lively, the wind blew in my hair, and an invigorated, happy rush of being alive and having fun swept through me. I’d focused so hard and for so long on my business, I’d sort of forgotten the simplicity, the pure joy, of doing something for no other reason than to have fun.
I looked over at Jameson, who was seated on a zebra next to my tiger, and I smiled. He smiled back and tipped his imaginary hat. Laughing, I said, “Thank you for bringing me here! This is wonderful, and exactly what I needed.”
In a moment that can only be described as a scene from an incredibly romantic movie, probably a chick flick, Jameson half slid, half leaped off of his zebra—which, yes, is against the rules when the ride hasn’t ended—and came to my side. My hands clenched the pole tighter, and my legs squeezed around the tiger for balance. Nervous trembles cascaded down my spine in a wash of awareness.
Jameson smiled again. “You’re most welcome.”
He waited until the tiger was moving downward before cradling my cheeks in his hands. And then, he kissed me. A slow, searching, yearning type of a kiss that answered all of my earlier questions regarding Jameson’s intent. Yes, it seemed that Jameson liked me. As in liked me, liked me. Or if he didn’t, he sure knew how to pretend.
The kiss itself was nice and caused a warm little somersault in my belly. Not a flash of searing, blood-pumping heat like with Scot. But nice. Nicer than I’d have thought. Nicer than I expected.
We separated when the music ended, when the ride came to a stop. Jameson clasped my hand and in a gallant—dare I say, princely?—move, helped me off the tiger. It was all very sweet, very enjoyable, and in all honesty was probably the most romantic gesture any man had ever offered me. But as we walked away, I couldn’t help continuing my comparison of Jameson to Scot.
And I couldn’t help but notice that my knees didn’t wiggle or jiggle at all.
When I arrived home that evening after Jameson dropped me off at my still-parked-at-Magical-Matchups car, I heated up my uneaten lunch and camped out on my couch. We’d only spent another thirty minutes or so at the zoo, having already gone through most of what the park offered. He hadn’t kissed me again, though.
I was okay with that. I still didn’t know what to make of the first kiss. Especially because I couldn’t get my mind off Scot. Or the journal. Or Verda. Or Leslie. But I knew this: if I’d had that date with Jameson before any of this madness with Scot, soul mates, and magic had occurred, I’d have been pleased. Very, very pleased.
Jameson and I were cut from the same cloth. Our parents were friends, gathered at the same social events, and our fathers were business associates. Our life experiences were eerily similar, as were our goals for the future. Yes, we were a good match. Hell, we were a great match. A match like this between any of my clients would have me grinning and jumping up and down with joy for days. Instead of brimming, I was somewhat deflated.
The chicken still tasted bland. I threw it away. I stood in the kitchen, not knowing what to do with myself. I stared at the phone, and the desire to hear Scot’s voice hit strong and heavy. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d had a nice date with a nice man and we’d shared a nice kiss. Now I wanted to call a different man. A man who was my complete opposite. A man who infuriated me and turned me on all in the same breath. A man who, other than an acknowledgment of his sex appeal, had barely been a blip on my radar four days ago. And finally, a man I didn’t—couldn’t—belong with.
Frustrated and lonely and both angry and proud for not giving in and calling Scot, I did something completely nonsensical: I made a batch of Jell-O. My rationale for preparing strawberry-flavored gelatin escaped me, but wow, I focused on this task with the precision and single-mindedness of a chef cooking for royalty. I made the Jell-O the quick-set way and then poured the glop into individual bowls so it would firm up even faster.
A cherry-blossom-scented bubble bath took up the better part of the next hour, me flipping through the latest issues of Money and Bon Appétit magazines, not finding much of interest in either. Then I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed one of the bowls of Jell-O, and retreated to my bedroom, where I situated myself against a pile of pillows. My chest felt heavy. Like a moose or a bear or some other large animal had curled up between my breasts. My throat had this scratchy, tight thing going on. My eyes were achy, tired, and hot. And my temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.
Miserable. That’s what I was. Probably a cold coming on. Or the flu. Ha. That would serve me right. Catching a cold after lying about having one.
I sipped my wine and ate a few bites of my gelatin. I stared at the walls and picked lint off of my pajama bottoms. I dug out an old bottle of nail polish and painted my toes a fiery red. Another hour passed with more inane tasks, such as reciting the fifty states in alphabetical order, the alphabet itself backward, and then in a last desperate attempt to not think about Scot, I counted to one hundred in French. This, sadly, was all I remembered from four years of high-school instruction.
When I ran out of ways to occupy myself, I pulled the journal from its hidey-hole and reread Verda’s message. I slid my finger over the ink, waiting for the heat, the pull, that had happened before. Nada. That didn’t mean anything. The magic was still there, still alive, just waiting for me to take pen to paper.
Oh, wow. I could. You know, if I wanted. Right now, if I wanted, I could wish for Scot to call or come over. Heck, I might even be able to dictate every word of our conversation, every action and reaction. I mean, I hadn’t tested that theory yet, so I couldn’t be sure. But what if I could?
What if . . .? Oh, God, a million and one possibilities flooded me all at once. My hand trembled with the need to try. Just to see, of course. Another experiment, another test. Verda had given me this journal with this power for me to use. So, why not?
I was tempted. So. Very. Tempted. I even went so far as to find a pen before lucid thought won out. While I b
elieved to the core of my being that Verda had somehow instilled magic into the journal, and while I believed that my other two wishes were going to come true, I also didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, and possibly most important of all, I didn’t know what, if any, the side effects would be.
Belief is one thing. And believing in magic had been a difficult enough barrier to cross. But I remained Julia Collins: rational, practical, focused on facts. I was still the same woman who planned out every step before taking it.
“You’re just chicken,” I said to the empty bedroom.
Yeah, well. That too.
With a sigh, I closed the journal and put it away. I got a second bowl of Jell-O and more wine, and then powered up my laptop. Googling “well-known slogans and jingles” brought up a host of sites with lists and lists of examples. I studied these lists as if I were prepping for a final exam, memorizing a handful that might stump Scot.
Returning to Google, I typed in, “Scot Raymond, Chicago IL.” Oh! He owned a business? I clicked on the link and a Web site opened.
“‘Raymond Construction & Carpentry,’” I mused, reading the header. The site was simple but clean and easy to navigate, consisting of a mere four pages: Home, About, Services, and Contact. He worked with a larger construction crew in the summer, but off-season he specialized in home improvements, odd handyman jobs, and carpentry.
Yep. A blue-collar guy. But also, a man who was good with his hands.
My melancholy mood lifted and I yawned, suddenly beyond tired. I shut everything down, locked up—including engaging the chain on my door for once—and crawled into bed with a contented sigh.
The image of Scot stepped to the front of my mind, and I sighed again. “Mmm,” I said, snuggling into my pillows. Verda had said three boys. Whom would they look most like? I hoped Scot. Brown eyes are dominant over blue, so chances were—
“Oh. Oh, hell!” I sat up in bed and turned the lamp on. “Damn, Julia! Damn, damn, damn, and damn!”
By Magic Alone Page 16
