by Jayne Denker
I don't actually, because I find it hard to picture Jack actually working. His family owns a huge number of companies, and I'm aware he's been "gifted" with at least one of them—probably more by now—to run as he sees fit, but he still gives off the air of a responsibility-free frat boy living off the endless stash of family money.
"Of course," he adds, "since I'm in the area, I can't resist sticking around for this month's main event."
"My ribbon cutting for the remodeled community center?" my dad asks hopefully.
"Ah, Mr. Abbott, it is at the top of my list. But I was talking about our boy, here."
Of course. Conn's birthday is coming up. What with all the New Best Friend craziness, I'd nearly forgotten. Nearly.
"I don't want to make a big deal about it."
"And yet we will," Jack intones ominously, putting his arm around Conn's shoulders and squeezing his clavicle until he winces.
Conn's eyes meet mine, and I know we're sharing the same disconcerting premonition of an evening in his near future: Boston or New York, strippers, bottle service, illegal substances, and quite possibly time in a holding cell until Jack name-drops to get them released and all charges dropped. And Conn's got the nerve to criticize Taylor's sketchy friendship qualities. Honestly.
It looks like Jack's plans for Conn's birthday are going to overshadow what I usually do to mark the occasion. Actually any other type of commemoration would kill mine dead. Not that I wouldn't go all out if Conn let me, but he's always too busy working. Plus he never likes to make himself the center of attention. No matter what his schedule though, he always spends a few minutes with me at closing time when I bring him a cupcake with a candle in it. The idea that this year our tradition is going to be preempted by events that will embarrass the hell out of him amuses me greatly.
"Have fun with that," I murmur, entirely unable to hide my ear-to-ear grin.
"Tee time," my father announces, shouldering his clubs. "Let's get going. I had to make an appointment to see my own damn daughter, and I'm not going to waste it."
"Charles!" I gasp, affronted. "You know I'm at your disposal whenever you need me."
"Oh, that sounds impressive, but in reality you're too busy, aren't you?"
"Never too busy for you, Daddy."
"Really? Coming with me to the Up All Night festival?"
"I'll have Hannah clear my schedule. I swear."
"Did the Abbott's Bay real estate business pick up that much?" Jack asks.
"Oh, it's…" Do I really want to talk about Your New Best Friend? Suddenly I'm feeling modest, possibly because Jack has a tendency to mock people's ideas a little too much. He always means to be funny, but funny often veers into cruel before he even recognizes it.
"You haven't heard about her new enterprise?"
Dad proudly tells Jack all about Your New Best Friend as we make our way to the first tee. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jack looking at me, impressed, and I feel my cheeks grow warm for the second time.
"Our Miss Melanie is famous?" he asks eagerly, and I can't tell if he's making fun of me or not.
"Don't get all excited. It's just a local thing."
"Ladies first," he says, gesturing to the tee. "So why the long face?"
I focus my attention on teeing up and make sure I sound casual when I answer. "I pitched a spot on the North Shore News morning show, but they passed."
"Their mistake."
"You're nice." I plant my feet and position my driver. "It's no big deal though."
"Well, of course not. North Shore News is small potatoes. If you're going to be on television, it should be worth your while—something national."
I laugh a little and take a swing. No divots this time. The ball lands a respectable distance away.
When I pass Jack on his way to the tee, he stops me and says quite seriously, "I can make it happen. All it'd take is a phone call."
If that comment came from any other person, I'd never take it seriously. But this is Jack Rossiter. With his connections? I know he could do it. He balances his ball on a tee, glances over, catches me staring, and winks at me.
I'm not sure how to answer. My father is busy scribbling our names on the scorecard—no modern score-tracking apps for him—and seems not to have heard. Conn, however, is watching me, his face inscrutable. He doesn't give me a clue as to how to proceed with his old frat brother.
I decide to laugh it off. "Golf, Mr. Rossiter," I order him lightly. "And don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
By the eighth hole—we're only playing nine today—I'm in second place, Jack's in third, and Conn's last as usual. He has many talents, but golf definitely isn't one of them. I'm sure Jack is usually way better than this, but he's the type to chivalrously let me get ahead. And we all play a game of "let the Wookiee win" when it comes to Dad.
I line up my putt on the green, feeling all eyes on me. Normally this doesn't faze me, but as I stand over my ball, getting a secure grip on my putter, I make the mistake of looking up to find Jack watching attentively. It's a little unnerving, which is silly. What's sillier is how my insides surge in response to the sight of Conn watching Jack like a hawk. A suspicious hawk.
No, not suspicious. Jack must have been talking, and Conn was simply paying attention. That's all. That reasoning is enough to help me refocus on the game, and I sink my putt in one stroke.
Jack's up, so I take his place next to Conn at the edge of the green.
"Nice shot," Conn says grimly.
I can tell he's censoring himself. "But…?"
"Just a little…"
"Go on."
"Ah, nothing."
Jack looks up at me and grins while he clears away some detritus, likely imaginary, between his ball and the cup. I smile back as I say out of the side of my mouth to Conn, "No, go on, please."
"A little…you know…hippy."
"Excuse me?"
Jack misses the putt.
"Sorry! Mulligan?" I call and then glare at Conn. "Hippy?" I hiss.
"Not like that." He's not the least bit penitent. "I'm not calling you fat."
"You'd better not be."
"You did have a little extra swing going on there though."
"Oh really."
"It could affect your game."
"I sank the putt."
Two thoughts are careening around in my head right now. First, Conn was watching my hips. Which were not, in fact, swinging. Were they? Of course not. I know how to stay still and putt. Second, the last thing in the world Conn should be doing is critiquing anyone's golf game, least of all mine.
…Conn was watching my hips.
Had Conn been glaring at Jack for checking me out?
…Conn was watching my hips.
I'm not sure how that makes me feel, to be honest, but I'm extremely glad I don't have to spend much more time as part of this golf foursome, because now all I can think about is how my hips are moving, and suddenly every step feels awkward. Jack pulls ahead of me with a birdie on the ninth hole. It bothers me less than it usually does because I'm preoccupied with what happened on the eighth hole. My dad wins, as usual, and Conn loses, as usual. I don't even bother mocking Conn's score. It's no fun, since he doesn't care about his golf game.
The men see me off at the clubhouse where they'll retire to the restaurant—or more realistically, the bar—for another couple of hours. I, on the other hand, have another New Best Friend appointment, so I take my leave of them at the valet stand. I give my dad a quick kiss, hug Jack and promise to see him again before he leaves town, and then stand in front of Conn, contemplating my goodbye for him. I opt for a featherlight swipe at his cheek.
"Don't call me hippy again."
"I didn't. I said your moves were hippy."
"There's a difference? Don't answer. I don't want to know. Stop talking about it."
"You brought it up."
"It was good to see you out in the fresh air today. You should do more of that before you tu
rn into Gollum, clutching a bagel in the middle of the restaurant and hissing 'my precious.'"
"Ah, you wouldn't mind seeing me in a loincloth."
I can't argue that point, so I just give him an affectionate shove before turning to the parking attendant as the men walk away. A few minutes later, as my car is being brought around, someone grabs my elbow.
"What are you doing later?"
The warm breath on my ear startles me. Its intimacy makes my stomach leap, despite who's doing the whispering. "What are you up to, Jack?"
"I want to hear more about this new business of yours."
"Oh, you find my little enterprise that fascinating?"
"Maybe I do." At my skeptical look he wheedles with his winning smile, "Come on. I can't spend my entire time in Abbott's Bay looking at Garvey's ugly mug."
He still hasn't let go of my arm. I'm keenly aware of that. But I'm not sure how to reply.
"Come on, Miss Melanie," he says again. "You, me, the beach—it'll be relaxing. Humor me?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Melanie Abbott. I always knew you'd turn out smokin'."
"Say one more thing like that, Rossiter, and I'm burying you in the sand and leaving you for dead."
"And feisty as always. I like it."
"Stop. You're turning into a walking cliché."
I'm used to Jack's flirtatiousness, and I never take anything he says seriously, but I am enjoying having a good-looking man stare appreciatively as I take off my beach cover-up. I'm in my best vintage-style, halter-top two-piece in a shade of turquoise that sets off my blonde hair nicely. I settle onto my blanket and tilt my face up to the sun.
"I'm wounded," he whines.
"Doubtful."
"All right. I know the way to your heart—tell me all the details about this new racket of yours. You really hang out with people for a price? And they fall for it?"
Indignant, I turn to him and lift my sunglasses so I can look him squarely in the eye. "What do you mean, 'fall for' it? I take this very seriously."
"I'm sure you do. But you've got to admit, it sounds a little ridiculous."
"I help a lot of people."
"Like…?"
Jack's smirking at me as only Jack can. He doesn't want genuine examples of how I've improved people's lives. So instead of talking about acts of kindness, I regale him with tales of Mrs. McCluskey's yippy, bladder-control-impaired dogs. And Petey Fagle. And Reginald the Ferret. Once he's gotten his "ridiculous" fix, I segue into more serious clients, like Amy Aarons and her empty-nest syndrome. I think her transition in life is poignant but hopeful, and I've been proud to help nudge her into her new phase. But Jack laughs at that too, and now I'm annoyed.
"What's so funny?" I demand.
"This woman is still watching kids' movies so she can relive their childhood without them around? And she wants you to join her? That is so pathetically sad."
I shrug. I don't think he's ever going to understand. So many people can be helped in so many different ways. Much of the time, I've found, it all boils down to simply being there for a client—sometimes as a sounding board when they need to talk or merely sitting with them when they don't.
A little farther up the beach, past Jack, a young, dark-haired girl in a white one-piece waves in my direction. It takes me a second to focus. Then I recognize her: it's Zoë from Memorial Day weekend. Her mother's on a lounge chair behind her in a seriously age-inappropriate bikini. She speaks to Zoë—sharply, it seems, because the girl immediately pulls herself back into her shell. Apparently her daughter was a little too emotive for her taste. I wave back enthusiastically, and Zoë brightens.
"More clients?" Jack asks, tipping up his sunglasses and squinting in their direction.
I nod and reposition myself on my stomach, resting my cheek on my forearm. "Good ones."
"What's their story? Did you hook Mom up with a billionaire? Give the girl comportment classes? She looks a little on the awkward side."
I'm not giving him the satisfaction of ripping on them. Especially not Zoë. I don't want to amuse Jack anymore—not at my clients' expense. I shrug again, trying to act noncommittal.
"So what's the attraction in all this, Miss Melanie? Why do it?"
"I like to help people."
"Okay, Mother Theresa."
"And the money doesn't hurt," I add, because it's something he can relate to.
"Like you need it."
"No, but it could go to a good cause." I hesitate then say, "The birthday boy, for example." Jack is the best resource I have to get to the bottom of Conn's financial issues. Why not work it till I get Garvey's secrets?
Jack barks a laugh. "What are you talking about?"
Hm. It's possible Conn hasn't told his best friend about his money issues. Connacht Garvey is nothing if not a ridiculously proud person after all.
I need to know, so I go for broke. "You have to swear not to tell him I talked to you about this."
"Mm, you want me to keep a secret? That's going to cost you."
"Oh, for God's sake." I sigh, impatient. "What do you want?"
He rolls onto his side, facing me and. Propping his head on the heel of his hand, actually leers at me over the top of his sunglasses. "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something."
"Don't be gross."
"Don't be a tease, Miss Melanie. I'd reveal all of Conn's dark deeds for a little alone time with you."
"Will you focus, please? I need some answers." He waves at me to go ahead, so I clumsily blurt out, "Has Conn said anything to you about his…financial status?"
Jack doesn't answer right away. I'd swear he knows something. But he remains cagey, turning away from me again, looking out at the ocean, and asking casually, "In what way?"
"What way? Come on. Is he broke or not? He's got me worried, selling his house and his boat like he needs cash. So I've decided he's getting all the profits from Your New Best Friend. All I have to do is figure out how to convince him to take the money."
Drip.
The single icy drop on the small of my back should have been a clue. And the shadow that's suddenly blotting out the sun. But it's Conn's distinctive baritone amusedly asking, "What's this, now?" that finally gets me to realize the last person I want to hear me asking about his money issues is standing over me.
I roll over and go up on my elbows just in time to get dripped on twice more, once on my stomach, once at the top of my cleavage. "Where did you come from?" I squeak, feeling the cold droplet slide down between my breasts.
Conn raises an eyebrow. It is a stupid question, considering he's wearing a red swimsuit and is soaked from head to foot, sporting a layer of wet sand from his calves to his toes. I should change the conversation, but honestly, now that I'm looking up at him, I can't even make a sound, let alone form words. I've seen Conn in a swimsuit plenty of times before, of course, what with the whole living on the ocean thing, but he's spent so much time holed up in his restaurant lately I've forgotten what's hiding under his jeans and work shirts. Yes, I'm staring. At his matted curls, darkened from the water, at his ledge of a brow as he squints in the sun, at his strong jaw dusted with whiskers.
When my eyes drop to his muscled shoulders and broad expanse of chest and my gaze follows the smattering of chest hairs down between his pecs, over his belly, into his navel…and out again…and notice his shorts have been dragged down on one side, just enough to reveal his hip bone, I can't even remember my own name.
Conn doesn't even notice me derping all over the place, and for that I'm immensely grateful. But then he makes it worse. He slings his towel around his neck and drops down next to me.
"Shove over, Abbott."
There's not much of anywhere to shove over to. I'm paralyzed anyway, so I remain immobile in the middle of my towel, hoping my mouth isn't hanging open, while Conn settles on the scrap remaining, his chest against my arm, one prodigious thigh grazing my ass. I should move away. Shove over, like he said. Run for the hills before I do something s
tupid.
Like, oh, I don't know…lean against him. Which is what I absolutely do—to cool my own suddenly blistering skin against his, icy from the Atlantic, to feel that hardness up close like I'm hardly ever allowed.
I relax against Conn and practically melt. God, he feels good. Too good. I know I've been denied male contact for a while now, and I'm probably overreacting because of it. Then again, I've spent an hour next to tanned, lean, waxed, six-pack Jack, the best-looking guy on our crescent of a beach—quite possibly the entire North Shore—and never felt a flutter.
This however…this…this…can't continue. I have to move—now. But if I do, it might imply Conn repulses me, which couldn't be further from the truth. Or that I've been enjoying myself a little too much, which would be worse. If I don't move, it's going to get awkward. My only option is to overdo it.
"Yeah, baby. You know what I like," I purr, nestling into Conn's chest with an exaggerated wriggle of my shoulders. "How about little a backrub, since you're there anyway?" I expect Conn to either comply or knock me over jokingly, but he does neither. He doesn't move an inch, in fact.
He only seems to come to life when Jack says pointedly, "I sure could go for a beer right now."
"Well, make like a commoner and get 'em from the fridge."
"Ah, I'd rather have my manservant do it."
"You left Jeeves back at your mansion, so it's you or nobody."
I look up at the underside of Conn's chin while he watches Jack jog back to the house. "Is he staying with you?"
"No. At the inn." Conn's voice vibrates against my back, and I have to work hard to stifle a hungry groan.
"How…" I clear my throat and try again. "How did he get a room in the middle of summer?" When locals say "the inn," they're referring to the venerable Bay Inn up on the bluffs outside of town, close to the lighthouse. It's always booked solid from early May through mid-September.
"He's Jack Rossiter," he says with a shrug, as if that explanation is sufficient. And it is. Some people lead a charmed life. Obscene amounts of money help generate the magic, of course. I wouldn't put it past Jack to slip the owners enough to make them "accidentally" cancel someone else's reservation and give the room to him. "Hey," Conn rumbles, but doesn't follow it up with anything. I look up again. A few strands of my hair are caught in his short beard. "Watch yourself with him, okay?"