The Sweetest Jerk #2 (The Sweetest Jerk Series, #2)

by Ava Claire

  He didn’t ignore my statement, or laugh it off like I was expecting. His face was unreadable, the shadow cast by the string lights showing me more than I was supposed to see.

  I saw nerves.

  Something that should have been a foreign concept for a man who plowed through women like a runaway freight train.

  “No other woman has been onboard,” he said intently. “Not like this.”

  My jaw dropped in disbelief. I almost scoffed, but instead I just whispered, “Why?”

  Some brutal war waged in his eyes, and the confidence that he wore well seemed to slip and I got a peek at something else. A peek at surrender.

  “Because I think I was waiting for you, Natalee.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: JASON

  “I know this may be difficult for you, Sienna, but try and contain the urge to talk about...” Dad’s impassive face flashed with the elephant we all refused to admit was stomping around the room. “The thing.”

  I balled my fists in the pockets of the khakis I hated and chewed my gum until I tasted teeth. It was a quick walk from the security gate to my grandparents boat, but considering we’d just wrapped up the longest half hour drive of my life as my parents played ‘Whose Fault Is It Really That There’s A Thing, Anyway?’, I had a feeling I was in for round 2.

  I wanted to leave them both in my dust, leave all of this behind, but if I got the lead out and stormed off in a huff, they’d argue about that, too.

  “Ken,” Mom growled, her heels clicking like bullets falling into the chamber. “I have a mother. We’ll see her in a few moments, in fact. And if I wanted a tutorial on public decorum and protocol when your seventeen year old son knocks up-”

  “Don’t be crude!” Dad growled, bringing the train to a screeching halt as he whirled to face us. We all looked utterly ridiculous in our white and khaki ensembles. The crisp couture of people with too much money and too many rules. But Dad was the worst of the bunch. A bleached white polo stretched over his massive chest and an argyle sweater was draped over his linebacker shoulders. But in this moment, even though he looked like a joke, there was no hint of humor in his voice. In the way he glared at us both like we were on the football field—and on the opposing team. “We will not speak of this problem. It is being handled. And it is in the past.”

  The minute he turned around, Mom was back at it, her words slicing like a thousand tiny paper cuts. “That seems like your approach to a myriad of things, sweetheart.”

  There was no love or affection behind the term of endearment. I was no fan of that kind of shit myself, but my stomach still churned at the realization that I couldn’t remember a moment where my parents ever seemed happy. They merely tolerated each other, and lately, they barely seemed capable of that.

  Mom ruffled my hair, a tiny smile on her lips when I swatted her hand away. “I won’t have you teaching our son your bad habits-”

  “Permission to board, Captain?” Dad bellowed, slicing through Mom’s tirade. I glimpsed the first genuine smile I’d seen on his face in God knows how long when Grandpa stepped out onto the dock.

  Grandpa should have looked as silly as we did with his navy blue and white linen pants, complete with a hat that had ‘CAPTAIN’ emblazoned on the tongue. But he was just my grandpa, a fit version of Santa Claus with rosy cheeks, a full white beard, a thick head of silver and white locks and an eternally sunny disposition that he definitely didn’t pass onto Mom. I’d planned on playing the role of brooding teenager, but I couldn’t help but smile as Grandpa pulled me in for a bone crushing hug. He smelled like tobacco and the butter mints that he used to sneak me before dinner when no one was looking.

  “How are you doing, my boy?” he asked cheerfully, shining as bright as the sun that was beating down on us. Making sweat bead at my brow. The truth felt like the sky would fall down and crush me. This whole mess had taught me just how good I was at lying.

  “I’m great, Gramps!” I clapped him on the back as he turned to Mom, pecking her on the cheek and making her blush. “Ready for Delilah’s maiden voyage!”

  I told myself that sharing about Cassidy and ‘the thing’ would sour our trip. Today was about family. About celebrating my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary.

  Following Dad’s lead and not talking about it was the right thing to do.

  What was another lie on top of everything else?

  ~

  “Why don’t I take Natalee on a quick tour and you can check and see if everything is ready?”

  Lauren McDonald nudged me with her shoulder, the gentle smile on her wrinkled face reminding me that maybe the night could be salvaged.

  I’d met the woman for the first time during my grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary. It was the first time I’d boarded Delilah and I distinctly remembered oohing and ahhing in the entryway. My smile had dropped like a hot potato when I saw the stern looking woman with her harsh little bun and eyes that seemed to judge me before I opened my mouth. Lauren was Grandpa’s ‘first mate’, a Jill of all trades who was in charge of everything from the kitchen being stocked to managing the rest of the bare bones staff onboard.

  Lauren and I hadn’t been on nudging terms back then, both of us cool and cordial. We’d come a long way. To a place where she could tell that the tense and awkward energy in the room would only be handled if she separated me and Natalee. That she’d offer help instead of shrugging and leaving me to drown.

  It wouldn’t have taken very much to make me drop to the bottom of the ocean since Natalee looked eager for a reason to get the hell away from me.

  “Because I think I was waiting for you, Natalee.”

  What was I thinking sharing that sappy shit?

  Natalee’s olive eyes shifted from my chin (since she still hadn’t looked me in the eye since I dropped the bomb), then dashed to Lauren, her cheeks darkening. “I’d love a tour!”

  I tried to not take the diss personally, but it didn’t help when Lauren gave me a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. Like the pitiful little league team that went home with a participation trophy.

  I peeled off my jacket and tossed it on the table in the entryway, pushing both hands through my hair and locking them behind my neck.

  Did I really just utter some shit out of a movie? And not the kind of movie that I’d be caught dead at, with some teeth rotting, sticky sweet score, and everyone in the audience armed with Kleenex.

  I just...

  She just...

  Her eyes. They said so much. Bared her very soul. Natalee worked so hard to not wear her heart on her sleeve and it made those piercing green eyes of hers that much more beautiful.

  She couldn’t hide. She tried to, attempting indifference while she laid out her theory about the stream of women that swept in and out of these walls.

  But there were none.

  She was the first.

  And I knew it was because she’d seen inside of the walls of me. Seen me at my ugliest—and she didn’t run. She had this spark of hope that I’d never experienced up close. And she made me want to dig deeper, to be vulnerable, because together-

  The internal walls came rushing up to meet me, stopping that nonsense before it took root.

  Because being vulnerable has worked out so well for you in the past, right?

  I turned back to Plan A, not getting weird, going into the evening with no other expectations other than sweeping Natalee off her feet.

  I made my way to the stairs that led to the kitchen, packing away my heart and getting a brutal reminder that I hadn’t eaten anything today other than OJ and half a bagel.

  I had memories of that kitchen once churning out the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I’d ever tasted, courtesy of my grandmother. Grandpa would have given her the world, including a personal chef and whatever else led to her not having to lift a finger, but she refused. My grandparents grew up in poverty and despite Grandpa’s work in telecommunications ensuring neither would have to work another day of their lives, they live
d well below their means. Delilah was their one indulgence. A dream that Grandpa had as a child. I just wish he’d had more years to enjoy her.

  I moved down the stairs to the kitchen like I was running from my past. Running from the emotion that bubbled inside me. Memories of the two people who were essentially my safe haven growing up.

  The man who was bent over the stove snatched me right out of the past and dumped me into the bittersweet present.

  Francois Drumond prepared the best beef wellington I’d ever had while I was on a business trip in Paris a few months back. I’d offered him a salary that made his mahogany eyes nearly drop into the soup he’d been in the middle of taste testing. I’d asked if he'd fly to the states for any special events. And tonight, I hoped, would be very special.

  “Mr. Cox!” Francois greeted me with a hearty hand shake, the smell of salmon and an array of top secret seasonings reassuring me that at worst, Natalee would walk away with the best culinary experience of her life. Something to make up for my fumbled attempts at romance.

  I knew I was playing with fire by trying to sneak a peek at his progress. Under different circumstances, he would have snatched his chef’s hat off and hurled it at me, complete with a string of accented profanity. Instead, he gave me a pinched smile and busied himself with stirring some unknown treat in a stock pot.

  “Dinner is about twenty minutes out, sir.” His accent was chipped with thinly veiled impatience.

  “Say no more!” I grinned, making my way back to the staircase. I paused, my hand gripping the bannister, catching the tiniest imperfection in the glossy wood. It was a spot Grandpa always intended to fix. A spot I still hadn’t fixed, for nostalgic purposes.

  I cleared my throat, pausing on the second step, realizing I’d forgotten something. “Thanks for your help, Francois.”

  The stirring stopped and when I peered over my shoulder, I saw the man was gawking at me like I’d just quoted “Lady Marmalade”. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  I continued my ascent, a disgusting thought batting around my head. Why did I get so wrapped up in business, in myself, that people were flabbergasted when I showed gratitude?

  On that note, I moved soundlessly through the halls, wondering what Lauren had in store since I’d asked for her help in setting up the evening. I told her the G-rated version of me and Natalee’s story, wincing through my fuck ups and focusing on the fact that this woman was different; that I wanted her to know that what we were doing was different and new and meant something to me.

  When I twisted the knob for the main cabin, I’d guessed that the room would be filled with candles. Rose petals scattered across the bed. Enya wafting through the room, setting the mood with her ethereal whatever.

  Instead, the lights were dimmed, the glow from the night streaming in from the balcony. There was a single red rose on the bed and I followed the line down the middle of the expansive room to the balcony, where a second rested in a crystal vase on a table set for two.

  I made my way toward the balcony, frowning, trying to figure out the second item on the table, nestled beside the vase. When I reached the french doors, I realized it was my grandfather’s journal. A leather-bound book he left for me in his will, along with Delilah (much to my mother’s chagrin).

  I scrubbed my face of the emotion that seemed to be inescapable within these walls, wondering if I should have just invited Natalee to my place. It would have been easier. Safer.

  I brushed my finger along the worn leather cover. Picking it up, but not opening it. Grandpa was long gone now, but it still felt too soon. Too private. Too raw.

  “So...what do you think?” Lauren’s deep voice drifted up from the lower deck. My fingers gripped the leather like I was locked in some silent prayer. Hoping Natalee’s reply wouldn’t be, ‘Could you sneak me off this thing before Jason notices?’

  Even though I couldn’t see Natalee’s face, my mind conjured her up. The gentle curves of her eyes, the green deepening as she tried to pretend that she could care less how this thing turned out. Her lips—the bottom left pulled into her mouth as she chewed on the words that lingered on her tongue, left unspoken.

  Natalee cleared her throat nervously. “It’s...”

  I held my breath.

  Too much?

  Too late?

  I was hoping that Lauren wouldn’t offer any help in filling in the blanks. When we first met, I’d been a seventeen year old prick. She was the help, and I treated her as such. It wasn’t until my grandmother’s funeral when she helped Grandpa to the altar with tears swimming in her eyes that I saw how much she’d meant to them. How much they meant to her. That made me feel even more guilty because ‘the help’ was closer to family than I was—and I realized it was 100% in my court if I wanted to make the most of the time Grandpa had left.

  Lauren tolerated me for those final years and Grandpa had ensured that the two of us would have to bury the hatchet eventually, if we didn’t want to drive each other crazy.

  Lauren lived on Delilah practically full time, and Grandpa ensured that no one, not my mother, or even me, could send her packing. Having Lauren onboard was like a piece of Grandpa was still around, which meant I wouldn’t bring pieces of tail onboard. This place meant too much to me.

  That was definitely something I wished I’d shared with Lauren, so she’d be more likely to put in a good word with Natalee.

  “Overwhelming,” Natalee finished, exhaling like she was grateful that she could finally unload some truth.

  “The yacht?” Lauren asked gently. “Or-”

  “Him,” Natalee blurted, her voice tinged with sadness.

  The blow sailed to my chest and if I wasn’t worried that any sudden movements would give me away, I would have crumbled in one of the seats, popped the bottle of wine, toasted my incredible gift of alienating the people who meant the most to me, and put us both out of our misery.

  I’d been ready to fight, to show her that I was more than the things I’d done, that I could be the man that she deserved, but Delia’s words kept me from gearing up for that battle.

  You have to ask yourself: is this about her, or is this about you?

  “Overwhelmed is exactly how any woman would feel in your shoes, Natalee,” Lauren said to Natalee. “But I’m guessing you wouldn’t be here if a part of you wasn’t hoping that this thing between you guys could work.”

  It was a record scratch moment.

  A word that made me grab the journal and back slowly into the bedroom.

  I didn’t need to hear more, I just needed to hold onto that word.

  Hope.

  ~

  I refused to check my watch because it would have only made me feast on my nails instead of the dinner that Francois had unveiled. A salmon dinner for two, with a party of one awkwardly wondering if he should start eating alone.

  Wondering if I’d get that text that she should have sent the night I’d invited her to Crave. Something came up. Or she just couldn’t do this.

  I was trying to embark on a new leaf, but a part of me hoped she’d go with the first excuse. A lie. I couldn’t handle the truth.

  Two military precise knocks sounded at the door. I knew it was Lauren, here to deliver the news. I rose from the table with a speed that resembled molasses, having to work harder than I expected to put on the charade that Natalee leaving was no big deal.

  By the time I reached the door, my smile was cemented on my face. Thank God there were no candles. I didn’t want to see pity on Lauren’s face.

  But when I pulled open the door, I didn’t see Lauren’s face at all.

  Natalee’s bright green eyes blinked at me, a hesitant smile on her lips as she brought her right hand to her temple and gave me a salute. “Permission to come onboard?”

  “Fuck yeah!” I blurted, cheesing like a fool when her eyes dropped to the floor and slowly worked their way back up to meet me.

  The desire to physically carry her over the threshold was strong, and the fire that flashed
in her gaze told me she was expecting it.

  Craving it.

  She was inches from me, so close that I felt every rise and fall of her chest surge through me.

  I lifted her braid, slightly tousled and wild from the ride, leaning into her, feeling her exhale into me as I made my lips, my body wait.

  I brushed my lips against her earlobe instead. “Permission granted.”

  I retreated slowly, watching her swallow a moan that colored her cheeks with desire. She was suddenly in a hurry, squeezing past me, switching the subject to safer territory.

  “This ship, boat, yacht, palace is just...” She twirled in a circle, her eyes not sure what to take in first. When she saw the balcony, she let out a whimsical sigh. “And there’s dinner, too?” She walked through the french doors. “Oh my God, I love salmon!” She nestled her chin against her shoulder and flashed her green eyes at me. “Which you probably learned while you were cyber stalking me, huh?”

  She had a sinister, all knowing smile that told me she was giving me a hard time (literally and figuratively) and I wanted to tease her for a bit, too. I didn’t even have to break a sweat to discover she’d done some cyber stalking herself, but I decided to let her have her tiny victory.

  “Guilty,” I winked, letting her think she’d caught me. I didn’t have to always be the smartest one in the room.

  I followed her out to the balcony, smiling as she took her chair, snapped her napkin, and wasted no time digging in. She was several bites in before she took a break, covering her open mouth with her napkin. Masking the red that invaded her cheeks.

  “Sorry,” she said after she was done chewing, lowering her napkin to the table. “I’m not the pick at my salad type.” She toyed with her braid nervously. “I probably should have pretended I ate earlier and asked which course was first and-”

  “Don’t.”

  She dropped her braid, squinting at me in confusion. “Don’t?”

  “Don’t ever apologize for being yourself. Not when you’re so damn amazing.”