by Tiffany Snow
The awesome thing about this convertible was that the car was designed in such a way that you didn’t get blown to pieces just because the top was down. It also had a climate system that sensed the temperature and kept you warm from the neck down—in my case, the eyebrows down—so even if it was a bit chilly like today, I was still toasty warm. It was an absolute dream car and I didn’t want to know how much he’d paid or what part of his soul he’d sold to get it before it had been released to the market.
Unfortunately, the restaurant really was right around the corner, as in less than a mile away, so I didn’t get to ride in it for very long.
The staff knew Jackson on sight and the host smiled, rattling off something in Spanish to which Jackson readily replied. Apparently, he knew Spanish.
A gorgeous, filthy rich, multilingual genius. Was there anything this man couldn’t do? Maybe animals hated him. Or he was stumped by a Rubik’s Cube. I bet he had ugly feet. Oh, who was I kidding? His feet were no doubt as perfect as the rest of him.
We were led to a booth and I slid in on the far side. The host set a menu in front of me and another in front of Jackson. I immediately began studying it as though preparing to take a pop quiz.
“The enchiladas are particularly good here,” Jackson said.
I took that as a decent suggestion and when the waiter showed up, ordered the enchilada trio. Jackson ordered the same thing, plus a margarita with Patrón. Now it was my turn to stare.
“Did you want a margarita as well?” he asked politely.
“I don’t really drink much,” I said. “But thank you.” Which was an understatement. I drank once in a blue moon, mostly because I couldn’t hold my liquor. Zero tolerance plus a body weight barely into triple digits meant I could handle approximately one and a half drinks before I was drunk. Being drunk wasn’t a particularly good look for me, so I avoided alcohol.
Once the waiter had brought my water and his margarita, Jackson smiled and said, “So tell me a little more about yourself, China.”
My mind went blank, like a deer caught in headlights.
“Um . . . well, uh . . . I, um, guess there’s not a lot to tell,” I said at last.
“Sure there is. I read your employee file. You’re quite extraordinary, actually. And you come from the Midwest, right?”
I was blushing from the “extraordinary” comment, but managed to nod. “Omaha.”
“You have siblings?”
“Two older brothers.”
“I see. So you’re the baby of the family, then.”
“I’m the youngest, if that’s what you mean,” I said. I’d always disliked being referred to as the “baby.” Maybe it was because of my size. My brothers both topped me by a foot or more and nearly a hundred pounds each.
“Are your brothers similarly gifted?”
“That’s a trick question,” I said.
Jackson’s lips lifted ever so faintly. “How so?”
“Well, A, I don’t think of myself as ‘gifted’ and B, my brothers are extraordinary in their own ways. I’m not ‘better’ than them just because my IQ is higher.”
“So then tell me what these extraordinary older brothers do for a living,” Jackson said, and I had the feeling he was being sarcastic, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Oslo is a risk analyst for an insurance company,” I said. “He’s the oldest. Jack is the middle child. He runs my dad’s farm now. Oslo is twelve years older than me, Jack is eight.”
“So you came along late?”
I nodded. “My mother really wanted to have a girl, but they had trouble getting pregnant again. I think they’d given up and then wham! I showed up.”
Jackson smiled slightly. “Are you close to your parents?”
That struck the part of me that always hurt when I thought about my mom. “I was close to my mom,” I said, ignoring the twinge of sadness. “But she died in a car wreck when I was eight.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” He seemed sincere, which was a nice change since up to now he’d had a slight edge to his questions, as though he was humoring me or finding me amusing or something like that. It was hard to say, which only fueled my frustration and irritated me.
I couldn’t fake a smile now even if I cared to make the effort, which I didn’t. “Yeah. It was . . . hard.” An understatement. I’d spent years longing for my mother, wishing she’d been able to give me advice. She alone had understood me and how difficult it was for me to interact with people. She’d guided me and “translated” when I just couldn’t understand. Were they laughing at me or did I say something funny? Is that person sad or angry? Was that a sarcastic statement or were they serious? I missed her every day.
Mom had been the one who’d fought to keep me with other kids my age, saying they could get me tutors to advance my schooling, but that my social development was important, too. Once she’d died, Dad had quit fighting the schools that recruited me, dangling scholarships in front of us and saying it would be a crime to not allow me to explore my full potential.
“And your dad?” Jackson asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“He coped okay. He’s never remarried and he’s stayed on the farm. Jack worked for ConAgra for a while, then started working with my dad when he needed help. He’s gradually taken over more and more as my dad has gotten older.” I didn’t want to keep talking about myself, so I turned the conversation toward him, as my mom had taught me. “What about you?”
The waiter interrupted, setting two identical plates down in front of us. The food smelled heavenly and my stomach let out another growl in anticipation.
“Not much to tell,” he said. “Only child. Parents still alive, but divorced.”
I burned my tongue on the enchilada, of course, and had to gulp down some water, so it was a moment before I could respond. “Do they live around here?”
Jackson shook his head as he chewed his own enchilada, which obviously didn’t burn his tongue. “They both live in Florida now.”
“Did they know you were . . .” I faltered. Special didn’t sound quite right, and I wasn’t sure I could say genius without sounding like I was sucking up.
“Did they know I was gifted?” he supplied. I nodded. “They found out pretty quickly. I was speaking in full, complex sentences by the time I was two. Reading by the time I was four. Math development was similar. Things took a pretty advanced path after that.”
I nodded, then drew a blank on what to ask next or how to keep the conversation going. I settled for taking another careful bite of my food.
“How do you know about cars?” he asked.
Shit. That’s what I got for not having another question prepared. Now I had to talk about myself again and he’d see just how boring I actually was, if he didn’t realize already.
“Nothing special,” I said. “Self-taught.”
“But why? You just like them?”
“It was something I could talk about with my dad and brothers.” If I was being bluntly honest, and really, that’s the only way I knew how to be. The art of subtle obfuscation escaped me.
Jackson paused in his chewing, his brown eyes intent on me. I was rethinking that blunt honesty thing when he spoke.
“Why would you think you needed to find something that interested them? Couldn’t they have been the ones to find a commonality between you?”
And again, I couldn’t think what to say. But he was waiting for an answer, so again that honesty thing came out.
“I’ve never thought that way,” I said with a shrug. “They’re normal. I’m not.”
“Bullshit. You’re better than normal.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, taking another bite of his food afterward. My throat thickened and with horror I realized my eyes stung.
Oh my God . . . was I going to cry??? I never cried. Ever. It would have to be while I was having my first, and probably only, lunch with my boss that my girly emotions decided to let me know they really did exist.
The wai
ter walked by and I reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Margarita on the rocks, no salt.”
“Sí,” he said with a smile and nod before hurrying off.
I cleared my throat and applied myself to eating my food, avoiding looking at Jackson. If I’d been unsure what to talk about before, now I was at a total loss.
The food was good and I was starving. I pushed the unsettling conversation to the back of my mind and ate every bite on my plate. The margarita arrived and I sucked that down, too, ignoring the little voice of warning in my head that said it might not be the best idea.
The waiter took away our plates and I expected him to bring the check, but instead he brought fried ice cream and set it in front of Jackson.
“I always get fried ice cream,” he said, pushing it into the center between us. “Have some.”
My last date had been five years ago. It had been with my lab partner at MIT, Rolf. He’d taken me to Cracker Barrel for dinner, then had spent an inordinately long amount of time in the bathroom. There hadn’t been a second date. But we’d both gotten an A in the class. However, we hadn’t shared dessert.
Jackson dug into the ice cream like it wasn’t a big deal to be sharing with me, though it felt very different from my side of the table.
Tentatively, I picked up my spoon and scooped a bit of ice cream. It was good. Jackson ate more than I did.
It felt so odd to see him like this, casual and relaxed. In the office, he was unapproachable—the lord presiding over the peons. At least, that’s how I felt. Others spoke of him with admiration and awe. My interactions with him, until now, had been minimal and perfunctory at best. A “good morning” or “good evening” exchanged, but nothing more. And now I was sharing dessert with him.
Surreal.
I was feeling that margarita now, belatedly regretting my sucking down tequila in the middle of the day. It loosened my tongue, and, given my already dysfunctional social thermometer, that was a Bad Thing.
“What’s it like being you?” I blurted.
Jackson’s eyebrows climbed as he scooped up the last bit of fried ice cream. “What’s it like being me?” he echoed.
I nodded. “You’re like . . . perfect.” My voice got dreamy as I elaborated. “Supersmart, handsome, rich, famous. You have it all, right? What’s that like?” I couldn’t imagine. I was smart and yes, made a good salary, but that was where our similarities ended.
He grimaced. “It’s not as great as you make it sound. I live in a bubble, every move is scrutinized in the gossip rags, the finance pages, and the tech blogs.”
“Oh.” I was kind of let down. Jackson was likely the closest I’d ever be to an honest-to-goodness superstar.
Maybe Jackson sensed my disappointment, because he added, “But it does get me the Cabriolet.” And he winked. I smiled. “And apparently you think I’m handsome.”
My smile disappeared. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, cursing Jose Cuervo. “I didn’t mean—”
“You’re not going to take it back, are you?” he asked, and he was still smiling, so I catalogued that as him teasing me. I relaxed.
“Nope.” I downed the final big swallow of margarita, ignoring the creeping embarrassment that would surely harangue me later when I was fully sober.
He paid, which I gave token protest to, but he overrode me with ease.
“Thanks,” I said, preceding him.
“You’re welcome.”
I felt a touch on the small of my back as we went out the door, and it felt as though I’d been given an electric shock. He’d touched me. Jackson. And I’d had just enough alcohol to appreciate it way more than I should have.
We were in the car when his cell rang. He answered and I tuned out the conversation, too busy studying the amazing stitchwork on the leather seats, until Jackson said, “I’ll be right there.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked as he ended the call.
“A friend of mine,” he said.
“Yeah?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.
“He’s dead.”
That sobered me right up.
4
I didn’t say anything as Jackson passed the turn to Cysnet and accelerated onto the highway. It appeared I’d be going with him . . . wherever we were going.
We headed north of downtown and twenty minutes later pulled into a nice, heavily treed subdivision. My eyes widened at the homes—beautiful, expansive brick structures with no two looking alike. It was a gorgeous neighborhood, especially with the leaves starting to turn, which is why it was so jarring to round a corner and see a line of emergency vehicles outside the last home in the cul-de-sac.
“C’mon,” Jackson said, parking on the other side of the street. He was up and out of the car before I’d even processed that he meant I should come, too.
I hurried to follow him, his long strides eating up the pavement and making me have to jog to catch up. He intercepted a fireman heading back to his truck.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” the man replied. “Privacy issues.”
“Fine. Where’s Madeline?”
“Who?”
“The resident.” Jackson sounded impatient.
“Oh. Yes, she’s inside. I believe the paramedics were seeing to her.”
Jackson was off before the man had even finished his sentence, heading for the front door, which was ajar. He went through and I followed.
The inside was as beautiful as the outside and tastefully decorated. The hardwood floor gleamed and the chandelier sparkled overhead in the sunlight, conveying a cheerful effect in stark contrast to the woman seated on an ottoman in the living room. She glanced up as Jackson reached her, and the expression of devastation on her face was painful to witness.
“Jackson, thank God,” she said, lifting her arms as her eyes welled with tears.
He crouched down and hugged her. I stopped a few feet away, feeling like an intruder.
The woman was older, perhaps in her fifties, and Asian. Her hair was beautiful: black, shot through with silver, and wavy down past her shoulders. Slim and long-limbed, she wore a long-sleeved wrap dress in a turquoise-and-white pattern.
“Tell me what happened,” Jackson said gently, pulling back and taking both her hands in his. His position put them at eye level as he crouched in front of her.
“I was out of town,” she said softly, and I had the sense she was trying to keep her composure. My heart went out to her. Obviously, the man—Jackson’s friend—had been her . . . husband? That seemed about right. “And I called last night. Tom was distracted, worried, but didn’t want to discuss whatever was bothering him. I don’t think he wanted me to worry.
“He said he had some work to do,” she continued, “so we didn’t speak for long. This morning, I tried to call him before I flew back, but he didn’t answer. When I got home, I couldn’t find him, and the house smelled funny.” Tears rolled down her cheeks now, but her voice remained steady. “I went into the garage, and that’s when I found him. The car was still running.”
Oh. Oh wow. She’d found her husband after he’d committed suicide. That was just . . . just horrible. It was hard for me to even begin to comprehend how Madeline must be feeling.
“Did he leave a note?” Jackson asked.
Madeline shook her head. “No. I just can’t believe he would’ve done this. I know he trusted you—that’s why I called. I thought you might know if he was in trouble somehow.”
“You’re thinking foul play.”
“It has to be, Jackson. You knew Tom. He wouldn’t have done this.”
I felt like an intruder, listening to them, so I backed off to give them some privacy. The police were wrapping things up and I saw the ambulance drive away. The fire truck was likewise gone.
A couple of cops were in the kitchen talking quietly when I walked in. They both glanced at me.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude. I was just giving the widow some privacy.”<
br />
“Sure, no problem,” one of them said. The other gave me a nod as he walked by and headed outside. “You’re a friend of the family?”
Easiest way to answer that was “Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” I hesitated, then said, “Madeline thinks foul play might be involved. Could that be true?”
The officer grimaced. “They all want to think that,” he said. “I don’t blame them. It’s easier to think their loved one was killed than that they’d take their own life.”
“But you don’t think it was.”
“No. There’s nothing to suggest that. It’s pretty clear-cut.”
I nodded, thinking about what he said versus what Madeline had said.
“If you’ll excuse me, we’re going to clear out of here.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He moved past me. “You might not want to leave her alone tonight,” he suggested. “She’ll need some time to process this and we wouldn’t want her doing anything rash once the shock has worn off.”
I understood what he was saying. “Yes, good idea. We won’t.”
I waited a little longer in the kitchen, then drifted down a corridor to a set of French doors that were slightly ajar. I could see into the room beyond and it looked like an office. Maybe it had been Tom’s. Curiosity had me pushing open the door the rest of the way.
It was like any other office with a computer on the desk and three monitors attached. Papers were scattered and I moved closer, glancing over them.
Notes, it seemed, and a list of program errors in the software he must’ve been working on. Half of them had been checked off.
“There you are.”
I jumped at Jackson’s voice and spun around. “You startled me.” My heart was racing.
“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He looked at me with that strange expression again. “Might be a little impetuous for you to wander the house, but you probably didn’t think of that.”
Oh shit. I’d done something rude and hadn’t even realized. I pushed my glasses up my nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
