by Meghan Quinn
I think I would . . .
But, what if it isn’t Hayden?
What if it’s Jack? The alpha suit that thinks he can get what he wants. I’ve endured a lifetime of Jack Valentine already. Could I risk putting myself out there one more time in the off chance it’s neither Hayden or Beck, but Jack?
I gnaw on the side of my cheek, thinking over my options. Is the possibility of finding my forever worth the heartache of things not working out again?
My little romantic heart is saying yes. What is love without risk? I know I was just swearing off men, but maybe, just maybe this could be it. I’ve admitted to having an intimate connection with each man, it wouldn’t be like I was starting from ground zero, but more like picking up where we left off.
Gaining more and more confidence with each internal thought, I type a message back.
NY152,
A second chance? Hmm . . . could be possible, but first I need to ask you, who are you? The Suit, The Rebel, or The Jock?
Noely
It doesn’t take him long to reply back.
Noely,
Where’s the fun in that? I couldn’t possibly give away my identity just yet. All in good time, beautiful.
Me
NY152,
Are you . . . You’ve Got Mail-ing me?
Noely
Noely,
Indeed I am. Until tomorrow, have a good night, beautiful.
Me
Staring at my phone, feeling slightly breathless and definitely restless, I‘m amazed. Which man is now determined to . . . woo me?
But for the life of me, I can’t pinpoint the who, so instead of trying to solve the puzzle, for the first time, I’m going to go along for the ride.
Chapter Thirty-One
NOELY
Noely,
Confession: I spent an entire weekend watching random documentaries on Netflix. From Blackfish to Twinsters, to The Propaganda Game. But in all honesty, my favorite documentary was easily I Know That Voice. There’s something about voice acting that intrigued me, something I always thought I could possibly be good at. A dream come true would be to have a cameo on The Simpsons or in some Seth McFarlan production. Bonus dream points if the character looks like me.
Me
NY152,
Since I don’t really know who this is, you’ve thrown me for a loop, because between the three men I went out with, I can’t imagine any of them wanting to be a voice actor, let alone it being their dream to have a cameo on an animated show. As I sit here, trying to determine who you might be, not one of you is coming to mind.
Color me confused.
Noely
Noely,
Maybe stop trying to guess who I am. Instead, get to know me on a different level. This is your chance to learn to love my soul rather than the person you’ve perceived me to be.
And for what it’s worth, I think with your voice inflections and charisma, you could rock it as a voice actor.
Me
NY152,
Learn to love your soul, huh? Those are some strong words, dropping the L word so early on in the game, but I’ll take you up on your challenge.
Voice acting would never be my thing. I think I would feel silly trying to act into a microphone, but if I was offered a cameo on Days of Our Lives, now that’s something I would jump on before they could finish offering me the gig. But one requirement I have would be a good drink toss to someone’s face. I’ve always wanted to throw a drink in someone’s face out of pure anger.
Noely
Noely,
I’m currently taking notes to never truly piss you off. Drink up the nose isn’t something I’m fond of. Believe it or not, I’ve had a drink tossed in my direction and with the right angle and liquid, you can do some real nostril damage.
Maybe I can show you one day. I can throw a Bloody Mary up your nose, see if you like it.
Me
NY152,
A Bloody Mary? That’s what you want to toss at me? A chunky, peppery, hot-saucy Bloody Mary? Why on earth is that the drink you would choose when trying to woo me? Believe it or not, I’m not looking for a celery stick to nail me between the eyes.
Noely
Noely,
Be glad I didn’t suggest one of those fruity drinks with an umbrella. The result of that kind of drink toss would probably land you in the hospital with an eye patch dangling in your future. A Bloody Mary is tame compared to pineapple umbrella drink in the face. Trust me, you’re getting off easy.
Me
NY152,
It’s greatly concerning how much you know about drinks to faces. I’m starting to question your vast knowledge on the topic. Do I need to worry? Should I have a Bloody Mary on hand whenever I’m around you, just in case I need to be ready for a good dousing to your face?
Noely
Noely,
I would like to say leave the Bloody Mary at home, but then again, who am I to deny someone’s request of a conceal and carry Bloody Mary? I’ll be honest, load that purse up, you never know when you need to douse someone’s nostrils with a vodka-soaked nutritional breakfast. I just hope I’m not on the receiving end of your tomato cocktail.
Me
***
“Ughhhh, this one is too heavy. Aunt Noely, please help me.”
Turning toward Chloe, I eye the pumpkin she’s trying to pick up. “Sweetie, first of all, that’s a fake pumpkin. Second of all, it’s nailed into the concrete, so you can’t have that one.”
“But you said any pumpkin.”
“I did, but I meant any real pumpkin.”
Chloe eyes the nailed-down pumpkin then puts her hand on her hip. “Semantics!” she yells, flinging her arms in the air and storming off toward the array of already-picked pumpkins next to a grandstand where an old folk singer is strumming his guitar, singing a country-esque tune into a microphone. What I’m confused about is how a five-year-old knows how to use the word semantics.
“Got to love that ocean breeze,” Alex says next to me, taking a deep breath. A pumpkin patch on the beach doesn’t really scream fall, but that’s Malibu for you.
“Your daughter just tried to take the fake pumpkin over there that belongs to the giant Cinderella carriage.”
Alex takes in the pumpkin and brings his cup of hot apple cider to his mouth. Mind you, it’s eighty degrees out with a light breeze. “Glad she’s thinking big. And you should have encouraged her. I would have loved to tire her out a little more, trying to unhinge that pumpkin from the cement.”
“You’re pathetic.” I look around. “Where’s Lauren?”
Alex nods to the side. “Playing giant chess with that old man over there. She’s in the zone and asked not to be bothered.”
Why am I not surprised? Propping my feet on the bench of the picnic table I’m sitting on, I rest my arms on my legs and take in the families milling about the beach, picking at pumpkins, playing yard games, building sand castles—so weird—and enjoying a nice hot cup of apple cider.
Don’t you love Malibu in the fall?
I chuckle to myself; there is no difference from summer Malibu to fall Malibu except for the abundance of pumpkin-spice-flavored everything.
Which reminds me . . .
“I’m going to get a pumpkin-spice muffin. Do you want anything?”
“Oh, grab half a dozen, we can all partake in a little fall delight,” Alex chimes like a douche.
Patting my brother on the shoulder, I start to walk away and say, “Maybe lay off on waxing your balls for a bit; you’re starting to sound like a lady.”
“Bare balls are just as enjoyable as a bare vagina.”
Why do I even bother? I take off before he can go into detail about his . . . bare balls.
Making my way toward the food truck, I dig my sandal-covered feet through the sand, past Lauren who seems to be trash-talking an old man, and right in line where I consider my muffin options. Should I go with six pumpkin-spice, or a variety—
“Why hello t
here, Noely.”
My eyes squeeze shut and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I keep running into this man, why the universe insists upon him continuing to show up in my life. I’d never seen him before our first date.
Coincidental? Or are the dating gods drunk and having way too much inebriated fun?
Turning around, trying to be polite, I say, “Jack, good to see you.”
When I look into his eyes, they are full of humor, and what seems like adoration. Odd.
But what is even more odd is, this is the first time I’m seeing Jack Valentine in anything but a suit. Instead of his classic three-piece set with accompanied Windsor knot, he’s sporting a pair of dark wash jeans, and a very simple white polo that clings sexily to his built and broad chest. I’ve touched that chest. That gorgeous, muscled . . . STOP. He’s wearing sandals, SANDALS, and his beard almost looks scraggly, like he decided to not trim the sides this morning, giving him an infinite amount of sex appeal.
Damn men and they’re irresistible facial hair.
Smiling, those beautiful dark eyes sparkling with mirth, he nods at the truck and asks, “Whatcha getting?”
Whatcha? Did The Suit, Mr. Fancy Pants, just say “whatcha getting?” What happened to being prim and proper?
“Muffins,” I almost shout, trying to check my voice level to a normal pitch. Looking around, I ask, “What are you doing here? Don’t you think a single man at a family pumpkin patch full of children looks weird?”
Chuckling, looking lighter than ever, he says, “I’m here with my sister and her two munchkins. What about you? Single lady in a pumpkin patch doesn’t scream normal either.”
“My brother and sister-in-law invited me. Their five-year-old is kind of obsessed with me,” I joke.
“I don’t blame her.” Jack’s lips turn into one of his gorgeous smirks.
Feeling uneasy, I skid my foot on the ground. “Well, I guess I’ll get back to my muffins.” Turning around, I face the line that’s five people deep in front of me. Out of all the times for the line to be super slow and long, it has to be now, with Jack’s eyes burning a hole in my back.
Standing still, eyes fixated on everything BUT the man behind me, I bite on the side of my lip, skin prickling with awareness. Could this be anymore awkward?
“You know, you can talk to me,” Jack whispers, his head inches from mine. My spine straightens from his proximity, and my shoulders tense.
“I’m okay waiting in silence,” I answer without turning toward him.
Stepping up next to me, Jack says, “Still mad?” I should have known I couldn’t get away with that question.
My nostrils flare and I allow him to bait me. Facing him, I say, “Not mad, just not interested. You had your chance, Jack.”
“Who says I want another chance? I only want to be friends.”
He wants to be friends? Is he trying to get on my good graces? Could he be NY152? Thinking over my conversations with NY152, I decide to test him. If I’m going to have to stand in line with him, then I can make the most of it at least.
“Why do you want to be friends?” I ask skeptically.
He shrugs, hands in pockets, his triceps flexing with each movement he makes. “I like you, Noely. You make me smile and are easy to talk to. I can see my chance at being with you has slipped past me, but maybe we could be friends.”
Is he for real right now? I feel like I don’t even recognize this man, this subdued, sweet, and very casual man. He’s a far cry from the domineering alpha in a dark suit. I’m caught off guard to be honest.
Mulling it over, I decide not to answer him. “What’s your favorite brunch drink?”
Confused, brow pinched together, Jack asks, “What?”
“Let’s say you’re out to brunch with your fancy folk, you know, the other suits in your life—”
“Businessmen don’t do brunch.”
Exasperated, I say, “Fine, you’re on a date—”
“Is it with you?”
“What?” I shake my head. “No, stop interrupting me.”
“Well, if the date is with you, that changes things. I’d want to impress you so my brunch choices wouldn’t be the same.”
Hand on hip, I answer, “You’re frustrating, you know that?” He shrugs and gives me a boyish smile. “You are not on a date with me. How about with your sister? That should be easy to answer.” He nods for me to continue, thank God. “Okay, so you’re sitting down for brunch with your sister and you think, hey, wouldn’t it be great if we got drinks? She agrees, so you pick your favorite breakfast drink . . . alcoholic breakfast drink. What do you choose?”
Looking more confused than ever, he asks, “What does this have to do with anything? Is this an initiation question you ask anyone who wants to be friends with you?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
“Umm . . .” He pauses, still looking at me as if I’m crazy. Come on, just say it, just say Bloody Mary. If he says Bloody Mary, I know it’s him, I’ll know he’s NY152. “I guess it’s never too early for a tequila sunrise.”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I fold my arms over my chest and turn away from him.
“Was that not the right answer? Does this mean we’re not friends now? Was the right answer mimosa since that’s what you drink on the show? Okay, I change my answer to mimosa.”
“You can’t change your answer; you’ve already put it out there.” Frustrated and confused by the change in Jack, his more easygoing attitude, I say, “Can we just get our muffins and part ways? I don’t—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Jack is hauling me out of line—I was three people away from the front, damn it—and taking me behind a storage unit.
“Hey, they’re not going to give me my spot in line back.” I look behind me right before he closes me off to the public.
“I’ll get you muffins after this, I just . . .” He blows out a frustrated breath as he runs his hand down his face. “I just need to get something off my chest, okay?”
“Demanding. There’s the Jack Valentine I know.”
Not taking my goading, he says, “I was burned by a girlfriend in the past. My fiancée actually.” I straighten up once Jack’s face blanches. “When I told you I was scared the other day, I meant it. I’m very protective of my personal life and my family because it was once dragged through the mud by my ex, selling out to my competitors, giving them personal information and key business decisions that hurt not only me, but also my family. We’ve recovered but I was scarred by that.” He grips the back of his neck and I watch his bicep bulge against the tight sleeve of his polo. “When you said my name on TV, I freaked out. Am I proud of what I did? No, not in the slightest. I truly regret what I did, because every time I run into you, I see the beautifully intelligent and dynamic woman I foolishly let slip from my grasp.” My breathing hitches in my chest, and my mouth goes dry. “I know maybe in a different world, another chapter, we could have shared the kind of relationship I’m striving for, but I’m not blind to see I’ve burned my bridge where you’re concerned.”
“Th-then what are you looking for?” I ask, feeling breathless, a little unsure, and regretful for what could have been.
Smiling sadly, Jack grips my hand in his and plays with my fingers. “I guess I want to try to build that bridge with friendship. I know that’s asking a lot, but I want us to be civil when we see each other. Even though you pissed off is hot, I would rather have a conversation with you than watch your fine ass stomp away in frustration.”
This man can’t be real. He’s so up and down, so hot and cold, and now he wants to be friends. Legit friends. Is that something I can do?
The man before me is gorgeous. Knowing how attracted to him I am, I don’t think I can be friends. But from the desperate look in his eyes, the pleading coming from the chocolate pools, I find myself nodding.
“We can be friends.”
And then it happens. That devastating smile comes to life, causing my heart to
skip a beat.
“Yeah?” I nod while swallowing hard. “Sounds good.” Looking over my shoulder, he nods and says, “Line is almost gone, I’ll get us some muffins.”
With a tip of my chin, he takes off, just like that, as if we’re in elementary school, confirming friendship and then taking off. I don’t know, but for some reason I expected more, like rules, or what to anticipate when it comes to being his friend, but instead, I’m left wondering what the hell this is all about.
When I finally gather my thoughts together, Jack is walking toward me, two bakery boxes in hand. “Here, I got you six pumpkin-spice muffins and a variety for the other six. Try the cheesecake, it’s my favorite.” With a wink, he hands me the box and says, “See you around, friend.”
Uhh . . . what the hell?
Chapter Thirty-Two
NOELY
“It’s totally Jack.” Dylan tips a bag of Fritos into her mouth and talks while chewing. “It’s obvious.” She rolls her eyes. “He wants to be your friend? Yeah, right. He’s totally Joe Fox-ing you right now. Remember in You’ve Got Mail when Joe Fox decides to turn a new leaf after he breaks up with that horrid woman? Where he has a serious talk with his dad, and realizes he wants to be happy and the only one who can do that is Kathleen Kelly?” Dylan points at me and then licks her fingers. “You’re soooooo Kathleen Kelly, and he’s trying to make things right again. Hello, Captain Obvious.”
The thought has crossed my mind, but when I mentioned breakfast drinks there was not even the slightest hint of recognition. He’s either a really good actor, or he’s not NY152.
“I don’t know, Dylan. Yes, Jack’s actions are rather weird and suspicious, but I’m not convinced he’s NY152.”
“Oh come on, who do you think it is? Beck? He’s too busy humping girls on heavy machinery to spend his time wooing you over a dating app. Hayden, well . . . hell, I kind of wish it was him, but I have an inkling it isn’t.”
