by S. E. Harmon
“I know Julian,” he agreed. “I don’t know Jackson.”
“You don’t need to know Jackson,” I said around a piece of sharp cheddar. “I know Jackson.”
We stared at one another, him trying to break me and me trying not to blink. My eyes were getting itchy but I kept them nice and wide. His eyes narrowed a pinch. “Why haven’t we heard about him until now?”
“We haven’t been dating all that long.”
“How long is long?”
I didn’t want to specify. Mostly because I couldn’t remember what Jackson and I agreed upon. “Long enough,” I hedged.
“How much do you really know about this guy?”
“Christ on a crutch.” I sent him a scowl. “Want me to leave and come back to give you time to set up a proper torture rack?”
“No,” he said after thinking for a moment. “I’m about to make my roux and I want you to finish the damned cheese.”
“You’re so annoying.”
He snorted. “More annoying than when we saw the Avengers and you talked like Thor the entire night?”
I waved my grater in his direction threateningly. “Speak thy foul utterings again, peasant, and you shall face my wrath.”
“Dear God, not again.”
“I shall grate thy salty cheese no more.”
“AJ—”
“Mjolnir!” I shouted, screwing my eyes shut. I waggled my fingers as I waited for my mighty hammer to come winging out of nowhere.
He swatted my hand back down, but his eyes twinkled merrily. “I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.”
I handed him the grater with a satisfied smile. A few moments later, the kitchen was abuzz with activity, and he had no more time to send me resentful glares over his simmering roux. Lane and Rick came in and he put them to work—Lane on poultry patrol and Rick on the dishes. I racked my brain to figure out where I would be most helpful, and came up with sitting on my ass on a barstool, sipping an Arnold Palmer.
I wasn’t prepared for the strong arms that suddenly wound around me from behind. My nose twitched pleasantly as I caught a whiff of pine-scented soap and something that was simply Jackson. I got a better sniff when he leaned in and dropped a brief kiss dropped on my shoulder. I tried to look stoic and unaffected, but the rough brush of his five o’clock shadow against my skin gave me an involuntary shiver.
By the time he finally stepped back, the fool had given me goosebumps. Actual goosebumps. I got a good look at him and scowled. While I had been climbing K2 with a watermelon and a case of Arizona iced tea on my back, apparently Jackson had been somewhere working on becoming a GQ model. His appearance matched his sexy smell, from the jeans that clung to his long legs and rode low on his hips, to the soft, tan, chambray shirt. I would have been a liar to say I didn’t find him ridiculously sexy.
When I looked at him wide-eyed, he sent me a wink. That wink said show time. Right. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to come over me any time Jackson put his hands on me. The man was trying to help me out and here I was blowing it already.
I scrambled to think of something to say. It had to be something nice. Something that a caring, considerate girlfriend would say after seeing her boyfriend freshly showered, changed and well-rested.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “I’m pretty sure I busted something internal lugging in groceries.”
“I had a chat with your father and he gave me the grand tour. Then I took a quick shower to get the road dust off me. Sorry.” He sent me an evil little grin. He wasn’t the least bit sorry.
Luckily, I was too distracted by what he’d said to kick up static. “My father?”
“Yeah.”
“John Winters.”
“Uh huh.”
“About six-one, salt and pepper hair?” Art peered at Jackson with a skeptical expression.
“Yep.”
Art and I shared a glance and then shrugged. Our father wasn’t really the “let me give you a tour” type. He was more of the “maybe you’d be more comfortable at a Holiday Inn Express” type. Before we could address this anomaly any further, Jackson went over to the fridge and pulled out a beer. And before we could say a word, he popped the top.
We all gasped. It was like watching someone go in a barrel over the edge of Niagara Falls—you knew he wasn’t going to make it, but you couldn’t help but watch the lunacy. Opening my father’s beer? His Black Note Stout, bourbon craft beer that was only released in the winter months? The way he hoarded that beer, I was pretty sure the crafting process took place in the belly of an enchanted leprechaun and was packaged with a dragon’s single tear.
Damn. It was unfortunate, but to avoid guilt by association, I was going to be a stool pigeon and dime Jackson out immediately. I shook my head regretfully as he took a long pull from the black bottle. God, he was so young and way too pretty to die.
“We’re not allowed to drink his beer,” Art informed him with a ‘nice knowin’ ya’ expression.
I was mentally organizing a prayer vigil for him in my head when Jackson said off-handedly, “He told me I could.”
We all gaped at him for a moment, processing that information. He might as well have told us a mule was in the living room wearing trousers.
Lane recovered first, shaking her head. “Clearly I’m in the Twilight Zone,” she muttered as she went back to prepping chicken.
“I’m not allowed to even look at that beer,” Rick said mournfully. “And I’ve been in this family for years. I gave that man grandchildren.”
“I gave that man grandchildren,” Lane corrected. “And I’m not allowed to drink it.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Do any of you have a client who can get your girlfriend’s father season tickets to the Heat?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Well, maybe you should.”
Well, that certainly explained it. Generally, my father had no affinity for the men I’d dated—not that I’d brought many home. He always found some reason not to approve of them. I was convinced the only reason Adam had made it through the dragnet was because of his love of sports, and that had still taken a good two years before my father had warmed up to him. And he still wasn’t allowed to drink my father’s beer. Less than an hour in Jackson’s company, and my father was ready to marry me off.
I muttered so that only he could hear, “You can turn down the Mr. Wonderful act a bit.”
He waggled his eyebrows at me and took another swig of the enchanted beer. “If only I could.”
*
Art shooed us out of “his” kitchen as he finished fixing dinner, and we all migrated toward the living room. We decided to do something useful. Productive. We came to a group consensus that our useful and productive activity would involve hooking up the Wii, and firing up one of the sports games. We grabbed nunchucks and rackets and commandeered the big TV in the living room.
I was schooling Jackson on the finer points of a down home ass whoopin’ and why, exactly, I should be selected for the next Wimbledon tournament, when my father ambled through. After clearing his throat several times and being soundly ignored, he finally sighed and jabbed a finger on the pause button on the remote. We all looked at him like he’d lost his ever lovin’ mind.
He cleared his throat, ignoring four identical glares. “I’m glad you’re all down here.”
Lane shook her racket at him. “We’re kind of busy here.”
“It’ll keep.”
“Wimbledon waits for no one,” she informed him.
“Hush, or I’ll pull out the plug.”
The old man meant business, and I held up my hands, palms out, like this was a hostage situation. “What do you want?”
He glanced around. “Where’s your brother?”
“In the kitchen,” I supplied. “He’s making us dinner.”
“I wanted to talk to you guys.”
When Irene came bustling down the stairs, I started getting a gnawing feeling in the pit
of my stomach. Since when did they need to talk to all of us jointly? Nothing good came out of joint discussions. Usually someone was moving, getting in trouble, or getting a divorce, and since none of those applied—
Irene clapped her hands, interrupting my thoughts. She beamed and said, “We’re getting married, kids!”
Married? My mother had only been gone for a few years. How could he possibly be getting…married? In the resounding complete silence, a bell went off in the kitchen. A few moments later, Art shouted, as polite and genteel as ever, “Dinner!”
Apparently in Irene’s world, complete silence was a sign of joy. She chattered on, completely ignoring the fact that no one had said a word in at least a full minute. “I know you kids thought this was just a birthday celebration, but John and I figured, why not kill two birds with one stone? It’ll be more economical than you guys having to travel all the way back.”
The room was a rictus of frozen faces. I looked at my sister and she looked about as pale as I probably did. But someone should say something, anything, to break the Godawful silence—
Art popped his head in the door, face flushed from the heat of the kitchen, dark hair mussed. “My lemon pepper chicken is best served hot. What’s keeping you guys?”
“Marriage,” Lane muttered. “Dad is getting married.”
Art blinked, letting go of the swinging door so that it whacked him in the face. “Ouch!” He grabbed the door with one hand and absently rubbed at his abused eye with the other. “Dammit. What did you say?”
“Married,” Lane said again, loud enough this time for the hearing impaired.
When in doubt, speak as a parrot does. “Married?” Art repeated.
“Married,” I confirmed grimly.
Sweet Jesus, you’d think we hadn’t ever had a functional conversation in life. A room full of graduate degrees and we could only come up with five words between the three of us.
“Congratulations, you two.” Jackson finally stepped in, sending us all a curious look, probably wondering what to do when three people suffered a simultaneous stroke. He juggled his nunchuk and racket into one hand and shook my father’s hand with the other. “I haven’t known you two all that long, but it’s always wonderful to find someone who makes you happy.”
My father gave him a half-smile. “I appreciate that, son.”
“Yes. Congratulations,” I finally blurted, relieved to finally have control over my vocal cords again. “To you both.”
“Yes,” Lane agreed, almost desperate to jump on my train of thought. “So, so, so happy for you guys.”
I tried to come up with something else. “We’re just thrilled.”
Lane tried her best to help. “Overjoyed,” she said, a touch too loudly.
All right, so we were laying it on a little thick. I looked at Art, who was still staring at our father. Since I was too far to elbow him, I cleared my throat loudly. “You said something about lemon pepper chicken?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d used poultry to defuse a situation, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last.
CHAPTER NINE
Sharing two bathrooms with a house full of people was an exercise in extreme patience. It was well past eleven o’clock by the time I finally got my turn, and hot water was but a distant memory. Still, I wasn’t the last in line, which was worthy of celebration. I showered in peace, but dried and dressed to the tune of Lane and Art banging on the door. Ah, just like old times.
On the way out, I snapped them both with my towel, whipcord fast. There were several yelps, and a loud yell of “Avery!” that was like music to my ears. I took off down the hall like a pajama-clad Usain Bolt before they could reciprocate. Like I said. Just like old times.
When I finally got back to my room, Jackson was already in bed, looking incredibly comfortable. He was lounging on top of the covers in drawstring sleep pants and a faded t-shirt, busily typing something on his laptop. I had to grin a little at his absent-minded professor look—he had taken out his contacts and had his glasses on, and his hair was mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“Should I even ask how you got in the bathroom first?” I asked, rubbing my hair vigorously with my towel. “Again?”
“I know a little something about bathroom wars,” he said without looking up. “You can’t be afraid to use elbows, AJ.”
“You’re a trust fund baby who grew up in a mansion on Hillside.” I tossed the towel on the ottoman at the end of the bed. “Who exactly did you fight for bathroom space?”
“I went to boarding school most of that time. So to answer your question, everyone else who had been shipped off to Siberia because their parents couldn’t be bothered.” He finally looked up, sending me a flippant grin. “Rich kids filled with ennui can be a little aggressive.”
He may’ve been flippant about his parents sending him off to boarding school for most of his life, but it made me a little sad. And angry. Kids weren’t hobbies to pick up and put down as you saw fit. I’d spent the majority of my life in this very room, and long after I’d left, I carried the memories with me.
I had to admit, being back in my old room was strange. It made me feel like I was a kid again, even though the décor was completely different, and all my junk was gone. The room was no longer an obnoxious teal that I had strangely found attractive in my youth, but a soothing mélange of neutrals, all cream and brown and beige. No more boy band posters, but a mirror in the shape of a starburst. The neon space decals I’d had on the ceiling had been peeled off, and only smooth cream surface remained.
Actually, now that I looked, the popcorn ceiling was gone, too. Now it was resurfaced and smooth, with recessed lighting. The full-size bed was different, too—I’d had a twin for most of my life. Lane and I had shared the room until our parents had built an addition on the house. She’d moved her twin bed out, and I was so used to it by then, I hadn’t wanted to bother with anything different. A full-size bed had seemed too big back then.
It seemed kind of small now, and not because I had a queen-sized bed at home. Mostly it was because I was going to have to share it with Jackson. I certainly couldn’t ask him to sleep on the floor. How would that look if anyone came in? Besides, two people could certainly share a bed without getting physical. We’d all had sleepovers in our youth. I’d done it even in college, when I’d crashed with a fellow inebriated buddy on whatever surface was available. It wasn’t sexual, it was merely sleep.
At this point, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. All day, I’d been telling myself it was only the ruse messing with my head. Playing girlfriend and boyfriend was a lot harder than I’d thought it would be. After being without someone for so long, my skin had yearned for touch like the desert missed rain. Now my poor skin was on sensation overload—all day, his casual touches had driven me crazy. The brush of his shoulder against mine. An arm around my waist. A hand on the nape of my neck after dinner as he stood behind my chair.
But now we weren’t pretending to be a couple. We were behind closed doors, and I could relax. He hadn’t touched me since dinner. I huffed out a frustrated breath. I shouldn’t know, without even thinking about it, the last time that he’d touched me.
Hmph. Well, there was one thing I had going in my favor. I glanced down at my apparel with a satisfied grin. If ever there was anything made to cool someone’s ardor, it was my pajamas. My nighttime attire certainly wasn’t going to drive Jackson Sparks—or anyone with working eyeballs and taste—to the brink of lust.
With that thought in mind, I clambered in bed. Dates with potential might get the Avery special—hair brushed to a glossy shine and cute lingerie that only looked good on Victoria Secret mannequins. Fake dates got the real AJ. Tonight, “the real AJ” featured SpongeBob Squarepants sleep shorts and a faded tee that at one point might have been royal blue but was now a little closer to periwinkle. Black framed glasses and my hair up in a messy topknot completed the look.
I watched him typing on
his computer for a little while, his long, elegant fingers moving across the keyboard with ease. I smiled a little as he paused to push his glasses back up on his nose. “Breaking up another marriage, Sparks?”
“Don’t you mean saving someone’s sanity, Winters?” The side of his mouth curved. “My clients come to me for a reason.”
“Yeah, because they’re as disillusioned with love as you are.”
“This woman’s husband cheated on her with her sister. You don’t think she deserves a beach house and all their argyle sweater-wearing corgis?”
“You talk about it like it’s a game.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes glittered with something hard. Something indefinable. Something I wagered was about more than the thousands of cases of love lost that came across his desk. Something personal that he wasn’t about to let me get near.
I didn’t bother to respond. Mostly because after tonight’s pre-dinner announcement, our attitudes on love were a better match than ever before.
I sighed. “I can’t believe I had to call Julian and rearrange our schedule yet again. Another three days off. That’s a total of six days, Sparks.” I pointed at him. “I don’t give six days to just anybody.”
“You’re a giver,” he agreed.
“Which reminds me, you can take the car back. All the rental information is in the visor. I’ll probably catch a flight.”
“We’ll go back together like we planned,” he said, not looking up from his keyboard.
“I don’t want you to miss any more time,” I said, frowning. “It was already an imposition.”
“I rearranged some things, too.” He gave me a look that I couldn’t quite read. “I’m not letting you face the wedding alone.”
I bit my lip. I wished I had the strength to do the right thing and tell him to leave. But I really, really wanted him here. I needed his calm, steady support right beside me. And I wasn’t selfless enough to give that up, even when I knew I probably should.
“I assume they weren’t happy with you requesting another few days.”
