by Ava Claire
Now, with her face frozen in this glacial, I-dare-you-to-come-over-here-Jason-fucking-Cox, her smile empty and stapled to her face for professionalism’s sake, I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that if there was anything sharp handy, Natalee Madison would likely cut off something I’d miss.
The obvious, too little, too late commentary was courtesy of none other than the illustrious Jessie Stone, though Delia’s silent condemnation said it one more time so my poor judgment could truly sink in.
I turned away from Jessie, remembering why I avoided the woman as best I could. This time, my annoyance wasn’t born out of her ruling her event like some mad tyrant on the rampage. There wasn’t a carousel of sniffling, jumpy staff at this event. I was annoyed because when I’d gone against Jessie’s advice and decided to attend the conference, she’d pulled me aside before we walked on the stage, her demeanor as cold and efficient as I remembered. Her gaze had clawed at me like a ghoul from the grave, warning me that danger was ahead.
“I know romance, Mr. Cox, and I assure you—nothing is romantic about this surprise.”
Picking up the mantle while I started downing every champagne glass that glided past, Delia officially jumped on the bandwagon.
“What did you say, Mrs. Stone?” Delia rubbed my nose in it. “That it would seem insensitive and opportunistic?”
“And a smidge obsessive,” Jessie added, drumming her blood red talons on her bicep. Arms crossed. Judging me. It seemed to be how things worked with us. I was surprised she hadn’t commented on how many glasses of champagne I’d chugged, because I had no doubt that she was keeping track. “And I can assure you, watching her from afar isn’t helping your case. The damage is done, you should get whatever it is that you couldn’t share via email, text, or phone, over with.”
I didn’t have a retort ready, and it didn’t matter because Jessie ended the conversation in her usual manner, by just disengaging altogether. She did me and Delia a solid by at least giving us a crisp nod, then stomped off to berate someone else.
I swiped another glass, stealing a look past the velvet curtains backstage, past the women who were waiting for me to re-emerge, with bated breath. The thing was, their attention was the last thing I was searching for. None of the pictures, or the ‘I love you Jason!’s that had turned my statement of support for The Women’s Collective into ‘blah blah blah’ was why I decided to accompany Delia.
“I came for Natalee,” I said out loud, my tone bristling with a flash of dejection when Natalee glanced toward the stage and scowled, like she’d heard my words and was calling bullshit.
“Want some advice?” Delia offered, waving away the server before I could grab another glass.
“No.”
“It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” she said, ignoring my decline of her input. “You keep saying you came for Natalee, but is that really true? You found out her schedule, you saw this event and reached out to Jessie, and you wrote a cheek.”
“A check that basically covers The Women’s Collective’s operating budget for several years,” I grumbled, pacing back and forth. Not ready to listen because I was too busy nursing my bruised ego. Definitely not ready to admit that there were a whole lot of you’s that she just laid out. “I was trying to do something good.”
“Do you want a medal? A parade?” Delia didn’t shake her head, but I knew she was tempted. Wanted to hang her head and write me off as a lost cause to mankind. “That alone is proof that you did it for yourself. You donated that money so they’d have no choice but to be welcoming to the man who had to give his two cents at a conference about women’s empowerment. Because you wanted to look good. Because you want Natalee to forgive you, whether she’s ready to do so or not.” Her voice took on a softer tone. “You have to ask yourself: is this about her, or is this about you?”
I stopped pacing, but my head was spinning - and it had nothing to do with the champagne. I had all my excuses, all my supportive arguments for why I should-
I stopped myself before I got in too deep, shifting my gaze to an empty chair because I didn’t want to look at Delia, because then I’d have to admit that maybe she had a point.
I was the kind of man that was a fan of a sink or swim approach. I jumped into the deep end. Sometimes I swam like Michael Phelps, and sometimes I sank like a stone.
Like when you drowned in all the disappointed stares after your toast at the wedding.
Like Natalee’s face, creased with sorrow and disgust when you couldn’t remember her name. At this rate, she was probably wishing your paths had never crossed.
I was coming to terms with the idea that I sucked at this dating thing. Almost as badly as I sucked at asking for help. Especially when it had been less that a week since our last conversation on this very subject and I was either stubborn, or beyond help.
I gathered what was left of my pride, peeling off my blazer and feeling more like myself. More in control. Even the button down shirt felt like I was playing dress up; playing the role of the respectable businessman. Wearing my father’s favorite disguise when I knew I was most comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans.
At least I had the jeans part down. Something authentic...other than the fact that I was truly sorry.
“This was a horrible idea.” I acquiesced finally, shaking my head.
Delia could have made me marinate in my defeat, but she just shrugged. “What’s done is done. She’ll either think you’re more drama than you’re worth, or she’ll see that you’re just being a guy. Impatient, stubborn, and utterly missing the point.”
I frowned. “And what point is that?”
“That you don’t need to try so hard,” Delia sighed, like it should have been obvious. “She likes you.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced of that. “This is what liking me looks like? Ignoring me? The pinched and painful smile on her face?”
Delia looked ready to pull out her hair by the fistful. “I’ll be right back.”
Still trying to put together what her plan was, my eyes widened when her intentions became clear.
She was aimed in the direction of the Madison Creations table.
My gut did a slip knot combination as I tried to refrain from reading lips, body language, anything that would give me a spoiler for what came next. I debated heading over myself, no fan of my assistant taking matters into her own hands. This wasn’t junior high and I wasn’t a pimple faced, braces wielding freshman, pining over the star quarterback.
I took a step toward the opening between the curtains and turned to stone when I realized that Natalee was handing Delia an apron.
Natalee drew a deep breath, then raised her chin and headed in my direction.
I had my speech, all the reasons she should give me another chance despite all the evidence to the contrary, memorized. I’d gone over it in my head while I showered, letting the water pound out the dissenting voice that told me that I should just let her go.
I eyed those tantalizing curves of hers and I had to wrangle the overwhelming desire to unzip my fly, like she had the last time we were together, and tease every growing, hungry inch of me until I could feel her body wrapped around me again. Until I went back to bliss. The place without words, because my words seemed to keep failing me. I wanted to go to a place where the past was put on hold in favor of an erotic present where we both found the pleasure that erupted when we touched.
From the way she smoothed her blouse and dusted her slacks, her head bowed as she raked her fingers through her brown hair, it became impossible to get a grip on the lust that coursed through me like electricity. It was more than my carnal knowledge of what was beneath all those pesky clothes. More than my curiosity about if she liked it rough. What sounds she’d make if I wrapped those long, dark locks around my fist and tugged.
I wanted her...and the fact that she cared how she looked when I’d want her if she was in one of my t-shirts, hair going this way and that, eyes crusted with sleep, or if she was dressed to
the nines, told me that I liked her, too. And if she didn’t like me, she would have told Delia to mind her business, and she wouldn’t have given a damn about her clothes being tidy and professional. She would have marched over like she was on a mission to rip me a new one; hair, clothes, whatever be damned.
Clearing my throat, I stifled my smile as best I could.
From her snarl when she pushed back the curtain, I didn’t stifle it well enough.
Natalee stopped just past the curtain, her arms crossed and combative. “Hello, Jason.”
Even pissed, she turned my name into this throaty, sexy thing. I’d planned on being smooth, not blurting an apology, but all that went out the door as I let out a gravelly, “How’s it going?”
She inched closer. Two tiny steps. She could have wheeled it around and headed back to her table with a scoff, effectively shutting down any delusions of a fresh start. But she was still here.
And still pissed.
“How am I? Well, I’m wondering if I should feel flattered and honored that I caught the attention of a man who would write a check for tens of thousands of dollars just to force me to talk to him again-”
“That’s awfully presumptive of you,” I slipped in, offering her the chair with a wink. “Maybe I’m just dedicated to making the world a better place, one woman at a time.”
She didn’t move a single muscle, except the ones in her face, the sides of her mouth dipping into a scowl. “You haven’t done a single thing in your life that didn’t suit you in some way. If you cared about the mission, you would have made the donation anonymously. Or let your assistant speak on your behalf. Instead, you came here, and made it all about you.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “How benevolent of you. How universally loved you are by women, young and old!”
“I think I could name a woman or two who aren’t big fans of mine.” I clenched my jaw, losing a bit of my playful lilt.
“I think you’re underestimating that number, and definitely overestimating your charm.”
She was taking every gust of wind out of my sails—and I had no one to blame but myself. Jokes, flattery, and charm weren’t getting me out of this one. She saw through all that. I wasn’t used to being called out. Being the one that was pursuing something relentlessly to no avail. And as badly as I wanted to take her by the shoulders and force her to tell me she had no feelings for me, to lie to my face, I knew that was the exact dick move I was known for. Classic Jason.
She made me want to do it differently.
That meant that I’d have to do something that made my gut wrench and my heart do...things. Stuff it hadn’t done in a long time. Things that should have been enough to make me say to hell with this and put as much space between me and vulnerability as possible.
All of her beautiful features, the eyes, round and mysterious; her cheeks that told me she was either upset or struggling to pretend she didn’t care or both; to the lips that were stubborn and currently locked in a sneer—none of it was a match for me when I made up my mind.
I decided to roll the dice.
Stop trying to guide the hands of fate and let what was gonna happen, happen.
I laid it all on the line. “I’ve said my piece-I’m sorry-and if you want me to leave you be, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Her sneer melted into an O of surprise, her lips trembling. Punched me right in the chest because it finally hit me that the pain she was in was my fault. I’d hurt her, and she would have been well within her right to never let me touch her again. But she had. And that night we spent together, the words that she’d spared after I showed my ass on several occasions? It was more than I deserved.
I thought the apology was two words. ‘I’m sorry’.
Repeating it over and over, until she accepted it and we could move on. But I saw how selfish that concept was in the face of what I’d done. If I was truly sorry, I’d let her go.
I’d own my shit and let the chips fall where they may.
She was still recovering from my statement, wringing her hands as her hair masked her face. Forcing me to wonder if this was the last time we’d see each other. If I should be bold and selfish for a split second and raise her chin, cup her cheek and look into those emerald eyes of hers, just in case this was my last chance.
She sniffed, shooting a hand to her mouth, chewing her nail, and every second was magnified as she slowly lifted her chin from her chest. Her eyes were like sea glass, those cheeks of hers no longer angry, but tinted with emotion, making me wonder how gentle she’d be when she let me down easy.
“Jason,” she began softly, taking a step toward me but keeping her distance. “I should probably walk away. That would be the smart thing to do. But-” She turned a single syllable into something that she stretched into the unknown. “I think I’d regret it if I didn’t give this thing with us, whatever it is, a try.”
I’d been on my best behavior, but something in me snapped and all that nonsense was forgotten. I went to her, splitting the remaining distance between us.
I just wanted to be close to her.
To feel her body pressed against mine.
I weaved my fingers through her hair, my lips murmuring my apologies as they glided over her lips. Tasting the sweetness of her. Wanting to hold onto her, onto this, as long as I could.
I expected her to push me away. To slap me. I would have deserved whatever prize laid behind either one of those doors. Instead, she lingered, breathing in the moment along with me.
I finally ended it, but whispered my lips across her jaw, relishing the way she hitched her breath and leaned into me. “Let me make it up to you. For real this time.”
She raised her brows skeptically. “What do you have planned? Buying me a house? A new car?”
I feigned devastation, slumping my shoulders. “Would that be too much?”
She smacked my chest, letting out a chuckle that felt like the sun was shining right down on us. “How about we start out small? We can do that dinner you hinted at the last time we were together?”
I stroked her jaw with my fingertips and leaned in for another kiss, groaning when she took my bottom lip between her teeth and tugged, gripping my ass.
I was trying hard to behave—and she was making it impossible.
As badly as I wanted to have her, right here, I wanted her to see that she was more than a quickie to me. That I wanted more from her than her body.
“It’s a date,” I answered, already planning on how I’d sweep Natalee Madison off her feet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: NATALEE
“He’s gonna blow his load the minute he sees you!”
I knew she meant that as a compliment. It was Tamara’s brash version of ‘you look great!’, but I still blushed crimson and flicked a bobby pin at her. “Ew. That’s not exactly what I’m going for.”
She shrugged her shoulders, taking it in stride as she peered at her work like Michelangelo must have studied his masterpiece; analyzing and twisting locks that didn’t lay the way she wanted them to. Twisting my head to and fro and practically touching the tip of her nose to mine as she made sure my makeup was impeccable. “Not that he seems like the premature ejaculation type, I’m just saying. You’re a knockout, Nat!”
I’d been forbidden to look at a mirror until she was done, Tamara clucking her tongue whenever I stole a peek. The work in progress, hair still needing to be pinned, one eye dramatic and screaming ‘I dare you’ and the other bare and exhausted from work—I’d been a teeny bit skeptical. Going completely bare seemed like a bad idea, since my skin showed every bit of stress I’d endured over the past twenty four hours, including a venue change with less than an hour notice, several important packages went poof, and my mother dropped several hints that she’d be popping over to say hello in the near future. Some makeup to smooth my rough edges was definitely in order.
It still didn’t stop Tamara from threatening to cover up the mirror if I attempted to see the reveal before she was done.
Ultimately, I knew I was in capable hands since she worked the makeup counter at department stores part time in college, until she amassed several repeat customers that offered to pay her a pretty penny if she cut out the middle man and became their personal makeup artist. She was fearless with a makeup brush and hair straightener, but when I told her Jason and I were going on a date and I wanted a look that was casual yet still took his breath away, she’d clapped her hands together with glee, then went serious as the grave and asked if I trusted her.
After a wary yes, and an hour of prodding, primping, and pinning, she put on the final touches, swiping my cheeks with the makeup brush, a smile dashing across her face to the finish line.
“I’m done.”
I’d been so nervous, and a little unsure that a certified MUA who spent over an hour putting her face on could give me something low key. I’d played the seductress already. And as badly as I wanted him, I wanted more than just his body. Everyone wanted a piece of Jason Cox. Fantasized about the ripple of tight muscles beneath his shirt. Wondered if the bulge the paps snapped when he was leaving the gym was only a sneak peek of the delights that awaited the women he took to bed.
I wanted him...this dizzying excitement was proof of that, but I longed to see what no one else got to see. So I didn’t want to do what every other woman did if she got a night with him. Makeup that he’d smear, makeup that hid perceived blemishes. Hair that would go all over the place, the manufactured, tousled waves bone straight after he was done having his way.
I didn’t want him to look at me and calculate just how long he could do this whole date thing before he got to tear my clothes off.
I wanted him to see me, too.
So even though Tamara was doing some sort of jig that should have been impossible in my tiny bathroom and was waiting for me to see her handiwork with all the patience of children bounding into their parents room on Christmas morning with the sun barely out, I took my time. I stroked my knees, leaning forward on the toilet and going slow enough that I felt every muscle in me unfurling as I pulled myself up.
