by Amy DeLuca
Judging from her tone and overt praise of Jack, Bonnie had the distinct impression Mrs. Potts was attempting to add “matchmaker” to her already comprehensive job description.
“Mrs. Potts, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can promise you, I’m the last person Jack is interested in. He can’t stand me. He sees me as nothing more than a nuisance.”
Mrs. Potts said something, but her reply was muffled, as if she’d turned her head and her mouth had moved away from the phone. It sounded sort of like, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“What did you say? I couldn’t understand you.”
“Oh nothing, dear. It’s just… Jack could have had you thrown out after the office incident. Instead, he opted to go the complete opposite direction. He had you locked in. With him. I just think it’s interesting.”
Before Bonnie could reply, she said, “Oh my, your father’s getting impatient. He says the show is all cued up and ready to go and is threatening to start it without me. We’re watching the TV version of Jack’s Onyx Throne series. It’s quite salacious. Now I know why Jack didn’t want me watching it. But he’s there, and I’m here, and I’m a grown woman. He doesn’t have to know.”
Bonnie had seen the show herself, and for the first time ever, she was kind of glad her father’s eyesight had failed. The cable network had added a plethora of “extra” content in an effort to be provocative. It cracked her up to think of the two old people sitting side by side on the sofa giggling over the dirty bits.
“Okay, well, you two have fun.” She chuckled. “Tell Dad I love him.”
“I will, dear. You try to have some fun, too. I know Jack can be a pill at times, but you are in one of the most beautiful seaside towns in the country at the perfect time of year, and you’re living in what amounts to a castle at the beach. You might as well enjoy it.”
Bonnie hung up and headed upstairs to her room to bathe and dress for dinner. No, to the guest room. It seemed very important to make that distinction for some reason.
As she soaked in the tub, which was not quite as fabulous as the one in Jack’s room, but close, she reflected on what Mrs. Potts had said. She was right. These were extraordinary circumstances, and since Bonnie had to be here anyway, there was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy her little “vacation” from ordinary life.
Well, there was one big, bad-tempered, wide-shouldered, six-foot-two reason, but so far, he was making himself scarce. Maybe the next three weeks wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Bonnie made up her mind to follow Mrs. Potts’ advice and enjoy the time she had left there. She’d spend it working remotely, writing her new book, and above all else, not letting Mr. Sulk in the Shadows ruin her mojo.
She’d start by using some of the ridiculously overpriced shampoo and conditioner he’d apparently ordered and left on the lip of the tub. When in Rome, right?
And then she’d put on one of those even more ridiculously overpriced dresses hanging in her closet. She might even cut off the price tags.
Be my guest indeed.
Fifteen
Craving
Pushing back from his desk, Jack stretched and glanced up at the window, surprised to see darkness had fallen.
He must have been writing for a while. It was a good sign that he’d lost track of time. It meant he was in the zone. This book was actually getting written.
Something had awakened his creative energies. Or rather someone. He wasn’t sure why, but the house felt… energized with Bonnie here. So did he. Jack snorted quietly to himself.
Leave it to me to pick a sneak-thief as my muse.
To be fair, he hadn’t chosen her. She’d been sent to him. But either way, the effect was the same. He was writing again. The ideas were flowing. He was going with it.
And he was starving. Reaching for the intercom button on the wall near his desk, Jack buzzed the kitchen. There was no answer. He pushed it again. Nothing.
Hmmm. The thing must be malfunctioning.
He’d have to ask Mrs. Potts to call a repairman—oh right. She was in New York. Well, Harrison could take care of it.
And that brought Jack’s thoughts around to Bonnie again. Where was she right now? What was she doing?
He’d done his best to avoid her all week, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t acutely aware of her presence. How could he not be with the way she left her things around the house? A hair tie here. A lip balm there. A tiny pair of shoes by the back door. It felt like she was… everywhere.
She’d even interrupted his regular routine of walking on the beach mid-morning because that was when she’d decided to take her daily walks with Harrison along as a chaperone.
Three more weeks. You can put up with anything for three weeks.
Jack hoped she wasn’t in the dining room at the moment. No doubt Monsieur Laplume had cooked up something tasty for supper, and Jack was ready for a double helping.
The door of the guest suite where Bonnie was staying was closed when he passed it. She might have turned in for the night, or maybe she really was downstairs having dinner. His heart leapt at the thought of running into her.
Stupid heart. It was all thrown off by having a woman nearby again after so long going without.
Thankfully his brain was a bit wiser. If she was in the dining room, he’d simply grab a plate and eat at the old scarred kitchen table. He liked it better in there anyway.
When he reached the dining room, it was empty and dark. No place had been set for him. Jack looked down at his watch—maybe it wasn’t dinnertime after all? But no, it was six-thirty. Where was everyone?
He headed down the corridor toward the kitchen. As he drew closer to the swinging door, the sound of bright laughter reached his ears. It was followed by the cacophony of several voices speaking at once mixed with more laughter.
Were his staff members holding a party? Had he forgotten someone’s birthday?
Jack pushed open the door. There, gathered around the table, was his entire household staff. And Bonnie. Some were sitting, some standing. All were laughing and smiling. At her.
Bonnie was in the middle of some story that had everyone in stitches. At first no one noticed his entrance, and he felt a bit like the proverbial fly on the wall. A very annoyed, very jealous fly.
For one thing, they all seemed to be enjoying a delicious meal, family style, while he stood there famished. For another, there hadn’t been this much fun and happiness under his roof since… well, he couldn’t remember how long it had been, but it had been a while.
Jack watched as one of the maids, Phoebe, covered Bonnie’s hand with her own for a second while responding to her, and the gardener, Calvin, patted her on the back as if she were his favorite daughter. Jack had never seen Monsieur Laplume look so happy in all the time he’d been employing him.
They love her. All of them.
This was remarkable. And disturbing. The woman had not only attempted to steal his pages, she’d hijacked his staff. When had this mass love affair developed? She’d only been there a week, for Pete’s sake.
Irritated, Jack cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward.
All heads turned in his direction, and the ones employed by him snapped to attention. Phoebe jumped up from her chair.
“Mr. Bestia. Good evening, sir.”
Jack glowered at the whole unfaithful lot of them. “I assume this raucous gathering means everyone has completed their duties for the day?”
“Oh, I uh, still need to…” Phoebe stammered then looked down at Bonnie and said, “Good night, miss. I’ll see you tomorrow,” before scooting out the other kitchen door.
Simone scurried into the pantry, and Calvin excused himself, muttering something about needing to put away his lawn equipment for the night.
Harrison hurried around the table and approached Jack. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
He rolled his lips inward, trying not to smile at his butler’s rattled demeanor. In spite of Jack’s i
rritation, it tickled him. Harrison was acting like a husband who’d been caught with the other woman.
“I’m hungry,” Jack growled, laying the scorn on thickly. “I buzzed the kitchen—twice. There was no answer. I think the intercom system might need to be checked.”
Though now that he’d ascertained the decibel level in the kitchen, he suspected the system was working just fine. His call had simply been drowned out by laughter and conversation.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll have it checked first thing tomorrow,” Harrison said. “Will that be all, sir?”
Jack gave him a terse nod, and the butler fled the room.
Monsieur Laplume, who’d busied himself in the kitchen as soon as Jack entered, said, “Your dinner will be ready tout suite, sir.” He barked the kitchen maid’s name. “Simone.”
She popped her head out of the pantry. “Chef?”
“Set the table in the dining room for Monsieur Bestia.”
“Yes, chef,” she said and hustled to the cabinet where the dinner plates were kept.
Addressing them both, Jack said, “Don’t bother. It’s fine. I’ll eat in here.”
Of course, now that he’d scared everyone else away, only Bonnie was left at the table. He expected her to get up and vacate the room as well, but she didn’t. She looked calm, comfortable, and… amazing.
Her face was glowing from residual laughter, and she was wearing one of the dresses he’d ordered for her. She wore it well. Very well. The deep pink color complimented her complexion, which looked radiant in the candlelight from the table.
Jack approached the table slowly, walking as if there might be landmines under the black and white floor tiles.
Bonnie’s gaze didn’t stray from him. “I hope we weren’t too loud. Did we disturb your work?”
Jack shook his head, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “No. I came down because I needed a break. I’ve been going non-stop for hours.”
“You were writing earlier than usual today,” she said.
“What do you mean? How do you know that?”
Simone brought his plate, setting it in front of him and the silverware beside it. He thanked her, and she melted away again.
“My room is on the same side of the house as your office,” Bonnie explained. “When I look out my window at night, I can see the light from your window in the tower shining down onto the beach. It makes a little golden square on the sand.”
She took a sip from her teacup. “You usually work very late.”
Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about her keeping up with his schedule. It seemed a bit personal. It also felt like someone cared. His belly swooped with a dizzying roller-coaster wave of awareness.
“I’ll be working late again,” he told her. “Going to get right back to it after I eat. Although, I’m not sure why I’m bothering. There’s no way I can meet the deadline. And I still don’t have an ending. If I don’t turn it in on time, there’s no point to all this mad writing.”
Bonnie sipped from her cup again, watching Jack over the rim before setting it down. “Maybe you can still make it. I read that you wrote your first book, Tides of Time, in a week, and it was brilliant. Maybe your best. It’s still my favorite book.”
A warm feeling infused his insides, and it wasn’t an effect of the hot food he’d just swallowed.
Tides of Time had always been his favorite, too. Maybe because it was his first, maybe because no one else seemed to love it, so he had to. It had been a commercial flop but would always hold a special place in his heart.
The fact that Bonnie loved it, too, better than all the Onyx books the rest of the world had decided to give its approval to… well, Jack couldn’t lie… it moved him.
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” he said gruffly. “But I don’t think it’s possible. I was able to write Tides so fast because I could see the whole story right from the start. It was all there, you know, just laid out and waiting for me to bring it to life. I wrote that outline in one night, like I did with the outline for Anthem in Obsidian. That’s why having to toss that outline was so devastating. I knew from the first book how the series should end. I knew exactly how to wrap up all the storylines for the different characters, and I spent an entire series setting up those payoffs.”
Her face reflected deep concern. “Why not use your original story plan? No one’s going to care once they get the book in their hands. They’re just going to love reading it. I know you don’t want to let Claudia ‘win’ or whatever by admitting the leaked outline was real, but you can’t let pride stand in the way of finishing the book.”
Jack’s voice was adamant. “It’s not a matter of pride.”
He searched for the words to make her understand. “Growing up I always loved reading. I loved the adventure of it, the entertainment. I loved how it could take me away from my problems and all the cares and concerns of this world. But what I loved most was the big reveals, being surprised, the twists and turns I never saw coming. I can’t cheat my readers out of that experience by giving them a story without those things. If I wrote it according to that outline, they’d already know what happens. They’d be missing out on something important.”
“They’ll miss out on something more important if your book never comes out at all.”
Jack wasn’t sure why they were even discussing the subject. In fact, he was surprised they were talking at all. The last words they’d exchanged a week ago hadn’t been exactly friendly, and it hadn’t escaped his attention that she’d refused to wear the clothing he’d ordered for her.
Until tonight, that was. His eyes drifted over the soft drape of the silky, feminine fabric around her shoulders and neckline, and his pulse accelerated.
“What you’re saying is reasonable,” he admitted, forcing his gaze back up to her face. “But I just can’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been writing every day, which is an improvement, but I still have no idea how to wrap it all up. You might as well re-write your article as a Requiem for a Failed Writer and the Book That Never Was. It’ll be a fitting eulogy for my career.”
Bonnie’s expression was thoughtful as her gaze bounced around the kitchen. Finally it returned to Jack. “I’ve started writing again—not just articles—a new book.”
“You have? That’s great.” He was thankful for a change of subject and still struggling to believe they were having a civil conversation.
Bonnie nodded. “It feels good. I think it was rereading some of the classics in your library—it really is a remarkable collection.”
“I know, I know. I should read the books I own.”
She laughed softly, apparently entertained by his self-flagellation. “I think writing long-hand is helping, too. It’s like… it feels like I’m writing just for me, like it’s not for work, you know? It’s not even in a format anyone else could understand—my handwriting is atrocious. It’s very freeing.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Writing used to be nothing but fun for Jack, too. That was before he’d had to deal with the pressure to meet reader expectations book after book, to surpass his sales from the previous release and stay at the top of the charts and in the front of the bookstores.
Bonnie gave him a speculative glance. “Maybe you should try it. There’s a whole stack of empty notebooks in the desk. It might spark some new ideas.”
Something about the idea of a newbie writer giving him writing advice amused Jack. It was sweet. Bonnie was obviously sincere in her desire to help him.
He smiled. “Maybe I will.”
A memory popped into his head. His father—a much younger, sober version of him—sitting at the wobbly desk in their small living room, writing with the fancy fountain pen he and Hunter had been forbidden to touch. It was one of the few good memories Jack had of living with the man.
“My father used to write longhand every night in this thick leather journal,” he told Bonnie. “He swore it helped him think. Said it was his own version of therapy. That was before… you know
. He quit journaling after her death.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “He got his therapy from Jack Daniels after that.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “To lose your mother and then have your father change so much, that had to be terrifying. Did your dad ever get any help for his drinking?”
“No. He refuses to go to rehab. He’s still a drunk, only not quite as mean. Well, maybe he is, but he just doesn’t have either of us around anymore to take out his anger on.”
“You never see him?”
“Not often. Hunter and I each check in on him periodically, just to, you know, make sure he’s got groceries, that the utility bills are paid. I hired a service to go in and clean every couple of weeks. The house got to be a real pig sty when we were still young—until Hunter and I started cleaning it up ourselves. I’ll say this—it gave us both plenty of motivation to get the heck out of there and become independent as soon as possible. Maybe we should thank him for the years of neglect and blacked-out rages.”
Bonnie’s hand slid across the tabletop and covered Jack’s with its soft warmth. The unexpected gesture was comforting, maternal, and it spawned a strange push-pull sensation in his mid-section. A ferocious longing battled with an aversion so strong he pulled his hand away and pushed back from the table, standing abruptly.
“I should get back to work.”
“You didn’t finish your dinner,” she protested, getting to her feet as well. “Stay and finish. I’ll go.”
“I’m not that hungry after all,” Jack lied.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jack. I just… I feel for you, for what you went through. I did a story a couple years ago about adult children of alcoholics and the residual effects. There are some good support groups—Al-Anon and ACA…”
For some reason her gentle tone and the look of pity on her face rubbed him the wrong way. All his earlier amusement vanished.
They weren’t friends. She didn’t know him—not really. Jack didn’t care how many damaged children of alcoholics she’d met, she had no idea what he had gone through—what Hunter had gone through. And he didn’t want her to know.