by Gemma James
“Another gutsy move. I can see why the two of you are friends. So what about you?” I say, lifting a brow. “Got any dreams you’re chasing?”
“I’m boring. My last job was in an office.”
Boring, my ass. Everything about her intrigues me. There’s an air of mystery shrouding her, and maybe that’s why I’m so entranced.
“I wouldn’t call you boring,” I say with meaning.
She dips her head but still can’t hide the pink tinting her cheeks. Relaxing her free hand against the armrest a little, she says, “At one point, I wanted to be a writer.”
“Yeah? Did you ever explore that?”
“A little. I wrote a few short stories in high school.”
“So what made you go into business instead?”
“My mom, I guess. She hated how much I had my nose stuck in a book. Pretty much shot that dream down the drain from the get-go. She wanted me to be more like Brit. Model material, basically.” She pauses, shaking her head. “That’s my sister. Sorry, I guess I’m rambling.”
“Ramble away. I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”
“Very true,” she says with a laugh. “I guess by the time I hit college, I went for practicality instead. Either way, my mom wasn’t happy with my decision.”
I can relate to the complexities of family all too well. I wouldn’t be married and running a corporation right now if it hadn’t been for the pressure my father put on me for as long as I can remember.
“What do you do for a living?” she asks a few moments later. “Wait, let me guess.” She narrows her eyes, studying me. “I’m picturing you in a business suit, sitting in one of those swanky high-rise buildings. Am I close?”
“You’re not far off. I run a company, and I also have a background in architecture.”
Surprise tugs her brows toward her hairline. “Wow. I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever met an architect before. What kind of buildings do you design?”
“Hotels. But I’m not part of the design team anymore.” Not since taking on the responsibility of CEO, that is. “I work on blueprints.” Clinging to the anonymity between Jules and me, I squeeze her hand in a dick-like move, hoping to distract her from further questioning. “Feeling better now?”
She nods, but her attention veers to our laced hands again. Reluctantly, I untangle our fingers and put some space between us. But it’s too late. Her warm eyes tell me what she doesn’t say.
It isn’t only turbulence that has her strung. Sexual tension buzzes between us, growing with each mile through the air, with every minute we sit close together talking.
Touching.
I think about the possibility that Monica isn’t the only one at fault here. When was the last time we had sex? Definitely before she bought that new comforter I’d spotted in the photo—the one she’d fornicated on top of with some other man.
And the last time we made love? Even longer. There’s a difference, and I can’t remember the last time we connected with genuine intimacy. Work keeps me busy. Expansion has been great for the company, but maybe not so much for my marriage, since we’ve shared a bed but little else for the last few months.
For the first time since laying eyes on that photo, I ask myself a difficult question.
Did I push her into it?
I give myself a mental kick. I’m not the one who put a lock on our sex life. I don’t know why she’s been so cold and distant lately, but it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. Our marriage has been in trouble for a while, and I’ve been too busy—too careless—to take serious notice.
Until that damn photo blasted my phone. Sharp pain pierces my chest at the thought. This isn’t what I imagined when I married her.
“Now I think I’m the one who needs to ask if you are okay.” Jules’ voice pulls me from the dark place I’d tumbled into.
Perceptive, indeed.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaving it at that.
She shifts in her seat and faces me, propping herself against the arm of her chair. “What’s your favorite thing about Seattle?”
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling pent-up tension. “I’m not sure I could narrow it down to just one thing.”
“Top three then.”
“It’s lively. People are always on the move, and you can get around downtown without a car.”
“What else?”
“Coffee. Need I say more?”
“I don’t drink coffee. I’m more of a tea person.”
“Jules, this is very distressing news. Seattle is crying right now.”
“Hey, don’t blame the rain on me,” she says with a laugh, and I can’t help but smile. “Okay, tell me one last favorite thing.”
“I’d have to go with nature. When the sun does shine, there’s no better place. The Cascades are less than an hour away.”
An adorable furrow seizes the space between her brows. “I can’t picture you camping and hiking and doing all of that outdoorsy stuff.”
“Don’t judge a man by his clothes.”
She lowers her eyes, and I feel the heat of her gaze at my throat, where I’d left the top two buttons of my collar undone. Then her attention drifts to my slacks.
“It’s hard to imagine you in jeans.”
I’m hard, period. Christ, I hope she doesn’t notice.
“So,” I say, swallowing past the thick lump of desire clogging my throat. “Think you’ll stick around and find some favorites of your own?”
“I hope so,” she says, her voice softening. “I can’t go back home.”
I want to ask why. There is so much about this woman I want to know. What she does for a living. What she does for fun. What kind of music she listens to.
The sounds she makes when she comes.
Jesus.
Clearing my throat, I lean forward and nod toward the window. “Looks like we’re getting close.” A glittering blanket of lights breaks through the dark, and for a long while, Jules gazes through the glass, seemingly relaxed. But when the pilot announces descent into Seattle, she stiffens beside me. Holding her hand seems natural by now, and yet the spark of awareness that shoots through me as I lace our fingers together isn’t. I ignore the buzz zapping along my skin and focus on trying to keep her calm.
“We’ll be on the ground again in no time,” I assure her.
She lets out a nervous huff. “I could’ve used you on my flight to Denver earlier.”
“Was the turbulence bad?”
“Not as bad as tonight.”
Silence settles over us for several minutes as the aircraft decreases in altitude. We bank left, and she squeezes my hand. I surpassed maintaining personal space long ago. As I return the tight grip of her fingers, I lean into her, hyper aware of the warmth radiating from her skin, and watch the lights of the city from over her shoulder. That glittering ground comes closer with each second that goes by. I think she might be holding her breath.
“Jules, breathe.” My words drift across her cheek, and I’m certain she’s shivering. Gripping my hand to the point of pain, she lets out a shaky exhale as the wheels touch the runway with a jolt. As soon as we’re safely on the ground, and the plane begins to taxi, she releases my hand before giving me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry if I crushed your fingers.”
“I’m not complaining.”
We lock eyes for several heated moments, in which time seems to freeze. It isn’t until the seat belt light dings off that the spell is broken. As passengers start to move, I unbuckle and grab my computer bag, then stand to fetch my carry-on. Adrenaline is coursing through me, and I’m not sure if it’s from the woman I just spent the last three hours with, or from the impending argument I’m expecting with Monica.
“Do you have luggage up here?” I ask Jules as I pull my bag from the overhead bin.
Gripping a large purse between her dainty hands, she shakes her head. “I checked my suitcase.”
She seems so small and scared sitting in that seat. I w
asn’t lying when I called her gutsy, and I’m finding her more alluring for it. Because it takes guts to be brave and vulnerable at the same time, and she does both with such openness that it makes my heart clench. Stepping back in the aisle to give her room, I gesture for her to go first.
“Thank you,” she murmurs with an endearing shyness as she slides over and stands.
Hell, she’s tiny. Her soft hair spills down her back, almost reaching her ass.
Her ass…
Don’t even go there.
We shuffle along until we reach the exit, and I follow her across the jet bridge, the wheels of my carry-on drowning out the mad pace of my heartbeat. She’s done something to me.
Made me lose my head.
As her hips sway in an understated way—a way that screams she has no clue how sexy she is, or how her petite frame is a damn weapon—I wonder how I’m going to part from this girl who draws me in and tumbles me in the eye of her storm.
All too soon, we step into the airport. As we come to a stop near baggage claim, she darts a shy glance my way. “Do you have luggage you need to get?”
“No. I travel light whenever I can.”
Her eyes seem to dim, and I’m positive the polite curve of her lips is laced with sadness. “Well…I need to grab my luggage.” A beat passes, heavy with things left unspoken. “Thanks for keeping me from freaking out up there.”
“You’re welcome.”
She takes a tiny step backward, toward the baggage claim area. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” I force out, wanting to say more.
Like don’t go yet.
For a few stolen seconds, I imagine us getting coffee, or in her case tea, and talking the night away in a quiet corner of one of the airport cafes. And I pretend I’m not married, and Jules…
She didn’t just break the heart of someone who probably doesn’t deserve her.
I can’t see her cheating, but I’m pretty sure she did, and she’s torn to pieces over it. Regret is thick and rancid, and it’s wafting off her in fumes. It fucking reeks because it means she still wants him. She’s so shattered by what went down that she flew halfway across the country to escape it.
If Monica displays a tenth of that kind of regret, maybe I can find it in my heart to forgive her. That’s a big maybe. Regardless, I have no business feeling this way about someone I just met.
She shuffles her feet. “I should go.”
“Yeah.”
But neither of us move.
I tell myself to turn and head for the exit. To put an end to this crazy night. Instead, my feet eat up the few feet between us until we’re standing close enough to touch. “You asked me if I believe in fate.”
“Do you?” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Until tonight, I didn’t.”
“But you do now?”
“I think so.” Curling my fingers around the nape of her neck, I lean down and brush my lips across her cheek. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jules.” I pull away, and her eyes are huge and bright with an unmistakable sheen. Before those orbs pull me under, I turn on my heel and walk away without looking back.
5. Three Simple Rules
Jules
We’re a couple miles up the highway before Lesley’s maniac driving pulls me from my sexy stranger induced stupor. My cheek still radiates heat from the spot where he kissed me. I remember how his hand felt at the nape of my neck, and how the rugged scent of him made my head swim. I grow warm between the thighs just thinking about it.
“How was your flight?” Les asks, her voice instantly landing me back in reality.
“It was okay.”
And terrifying and exhilarating—an experience I wish I could do over again, just to see him one more time.
“You sound exhausted,” she says, swerving around a slower moving vehicle.
I grip my seat as she zips up Interstate 5 in her VW Bug. She’s gotta be doing twenty over. Traffic isn’t too heavy, but the scattered cars sharing the five-lane highway are moving along at a steady pace. Lesley races around them like she’s a professional driver on a closed course.
“Any chance we can get there in one piece?” I ask, only halfway ribbing her.
“Have you lost faith in my driving?” She quirks an indignant brow at me, but amusement plays on her dark-painted lips. Pink streaks her black locks. Her style has always been on the punkish side, and she’s embraced it here in Seattle.
“I think I’m still on edge from the flight.”
“Thought you said the flight was alright.”
“There was some turbulence.”
And a lot of hand-holding, not to mention an almost-kiss that was panty-melting. God, what would it have felt like to have those lips on mine? I’ll never see my sexy stranger again, so there’s no chance of ever finding out.
“Okay, I’ll be good and slow down,” she says, conceding with an exaggerated sigh. “But only because I know how much you hated every minute of that flight.” As Lesley eases up on the accelerator, she shoots me a questioning look. “So…you gonna tell me what happened back in Shit Town?”
She hates Whiskey Flats. She hates Chris even more.
“Promise no ragging on Chris?”
A shrug of her shoulder is all the promise I’m getting. “What happened, Jules?”
For the next ten minutes, I tell her why I fled Oklahoma. Keeping her eyes on the road, she chews over every word as the windshield wipers swish back and forth on the glass.
“I can’t believe that motherfucker walked out on you like that.”
“Can you blame him? I slept with another man.”
“Yes, Jules. I can blame him. In fact, I think he had it coming. He neglected you. He fucking messed with your head every chance he got. The jerk made you feel like a nag for wanting what any girl wants from her man.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” I say, wringing my hands. “Maybe we just weren’t meant to be.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that. Finally.” Swiping her dark bangs back from her face, she shoots me a pointed look. “Because a real man puts his woman first. Chris didn’t. He cared more about drinking and goofing off with his buddies. He never fucking grew up, Jules.”
“Still, that’s no excuse for what I did.”
“Okay, so you made a mistake. It’s not the end of the world. But knowing you the way I do, you think it is, and you’ll punish yourself over it forever. Trust me, Chris isn’t worth it.” Lesley is accelerating again, her irritation with my ex dumping lead into her foot.
“Les, you’re speeding.”
“I always speed.”
“Well, I’d rather you not do it while you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m…outraged on your behalf.”
I bite back a snort. How ironic, considering I’m the one in the wrong. But Lesley won’t ever see things the way I do. After all, she’s the one who caught Chris kissing another girl at a party once when he was shit-faced. He’d groveled the next morning, and I’d forgiven him. Truth is, I’d been too scared to stand on my own without him, so I’d convinced myself it was only a bump in the road.
But Lesley is stronger than me, and she would call it game over if anyone ever treated her like that.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says after the silence stretches too long. “Chris is a dumbass. And Perry’s a sleaze. Why him? I’m just curious.”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. But my gut is burning with shame. “The worst part is, I don’t even remember it.”
She reduces speed before taking an exit and heading down a tree-lined street. “You don’t remember fucking your boss?”
“I don’t remember, Les. Nothing. It’s a complete blank.”
“How much did you drink that night?”
“Too much, apparently.”
Lesley makes a right turn then pulls into a driveway overrun with three other parked vehicles. She comes to a stop behind a pickup, nearly
kissing the bumper. “I’ve never even seen you drunk, let alone blackout wasted.”
The night is eerily quiet after she shuts off the ignition, and her words seem to echo in the dark between us. Soft rain pitter-patters on the roof of the car, but not even that drowns out the roar in my ears. The fact that I don’t remember unsettles me more than I want to think about.
“Chris and I had a huge argument.” I don’t mention how it was over money, or how his drinking escalated the past few months. He’s never carried his weight since we moved in together, and that’s just one more reason Lesley hates him. “We both said some really hurtful things, and after he took off…”
“You decided to bury your heartache in a glass?”
“Yeah.” Looking back, I can see it clearly now. We’d been heading for an epic breakup for a while. A permanent one.
I just hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to myself.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you’ll get past this, Jules. Just give it some time.” Lesley moves to open the driver’s side door, and I take her cue and do the same.
Seattle is cooler than Oklahoma. And wet. Rain beats down on us as she pulls my suitcase from the trunk of her cherry red Bug. I inhale the chilly breeze, closing my eyes to the rugged smell of trees and rain and earth. It makes me think of my sexy stranger and how he likes the outdoors. I wonder if he hikes in the rain.
“You would have to pick now to run away from home. Last week, the weather was killer.”
“I don’t mind the rain.”
“Then you’ll fit right in.” She heads up the walkway to a home that looks big enough to house four members of an up-and-coming band, though the paint is faded and peeling in spots. We reach the porch, and Lesley pushes the door open. I take the handle of my suitcase from her after we enter the foyer.
Though the outside of the house is on the rundown side, the interior is tidy. A group of guys are lounging in the living room, taking up the worn sofas and comfy chairs as they fiddle with their instruments. I can imagine Les up on a stage with them, pounding on a set of drums.