by Remy Rose
I reach into the cookie packet, take one out and bite into it. “M & M. Thanks.”
“Maddie.” Jordan grabs the phone off my desk and shakes it at me.
I take it from her, huffing in mock exasperation. But I’m not exasperated with her; I’m grateful, because she makes sense. I can tell myself I’m doing this so I can hear him say no, which will give me strength to put him in the past and move forward.
I will ignore the fourth of July sparkler-feeling in my chest at the chance that he might actually say yes.
Jordan’s smiling at me. She’s seen the change in my face, gives me a double-thumbs up and blows me a kiss on her way out.
Deep breaths. Scroll through my contacts. Find him. Tap the number.
It’s ringing. Of course it’s ringing, because I called him, but God, it’s ringing, and in just seconds, I might even be talking to—
“Hey, Callaway. What’s up?”
Even though I’m sitting down, the sound of Jack’s voice again after twenty-five days turns my knees to jelly. More deep breaths so I don’t slide out of my office chair and have Angie find me in a puddle under my desk, although he sounds so casual—like it’s no big deal that I’m calling.
“Madeline? You there?”
I clear my throat. “Yes! Sorry—was just...eating a cookie.” Moron! Could I sound any more idiotic? “How are you?”
“I’m good. And you?”
Desperately, hopelessly missing you, Jack. “I’m fine, thanks. Is this a good time? Are you working?”
“I’m driving. On my way to see my father.”
“Oh...is he all right?
“He’s fine.” A chuckle. “Back to his old bastard self.”
“I guess that’s good, then.” I switch the phone to my other ear, pick up a pen, tap it on my desktop. My hands feel damp and cold. Deep breath. “Well...I was calling to ask you something. For a favor.”
“All right. Ask away.”
Just do it, Madeline. Like ripping off a bandaid. “My company goes to this charity gala every year. It’s a fundraiser for pediatric cancer—a big one. Most of the area businesses go. There’s dinner, and dancing. Anyway, I was wondering...if you’d go with me.”
“When is it?”
“Next weekend. Friday night. I know it’s short notice, so if you have other plans, I totally understand. Or even if you don’t have plans...I mean, that’s absolutely fine if you can’t.” I’m babbling now, filling up the air space between us with stupid words because I’m so afraid he’ll say no.
There’s a layer of quiet amusement in his voice that makes me curl my toes. “I don’t have other plans, Callaway.”
I realize I was holding my breath, waiting for his answer, because I make this little sound that’s like a balloon when you let out just a tiny bit of air. “Really?”
“Yes, really. That sounds like fun.”
“Okay. That’s great, thank you. It’s formal—black tie. I hope that’s all right?”
“I’ll have to dust off my tux, but that’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get in touch with you mid-week about it, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
“And Jack...um, just so you’ll know...” I don’t know how to say this except for to just come right out and say it. “I’m not expecting anything other than your company. This is just...platonic.” The word tastes metallic on my tongue.
Another soft chuckle. “I’m not worried, Callaway. Talk soon.”
I end the call and sit there, trying to process what just happened as a thrill skates up my spine. Platonic, I remind myself firmly. Two acquaintances going to a charity event. One person doing another person a favor. That’s all.
Platonic.
Okay. With that settled, I turn my attention back to the market analysis. Two and a half baths...check. Two-car garage...check. Full basement...check. Pressure-treated deck...check.
Deck.
Big Deck...charity gala...next Friday. Check.
Eight days. Eight days until I see Jack again.
This is a countdown I’m going to like.
Chapter 29 ~ Jack
September 10
So today brings another unexpected phone call. My father called early yesterday morning while I was at the gym to ask me (uh, correction: order me) to meet with him today. His voicemail was to the point: Jack. I need to see you tomorrow. 1:00 at the office. He’s famous for that—expecting people to just rearrange their schedules on virtually no notice to accommodate his needs. Never mind that I’m one hundred and forty-five miles away and have my own job, my own life. Mere trivial details—none of this matters to him, so here I am on 295 south, on my way to see him, pissed off at myself for following his orders. I was able to clear my afternoon since all I had was a couple of rooms to paint in Dedham. I did refuse to meet at the office, though—I’m still not ready to go back there yet.
Contrast my father’s demanding tone with the phone call I just got from Callaway, who was just goddamned sweet, honestly, wanting to ask me to the charity thing but making it clear I had a way out if I wanted.
Like I’d want a way out of seeing her.
Seeing her name on my phone screen made my heart flop around like a caught fish on a dock. I had to wait a few seconds before answering to try and clamp down on how stoked I was feeling so it didn’t make its way into my voice. Just listening to her—that little intake of breath right before she said “really?” made my dick harden.
Funny how I was pelvis pals with a hot girl last weekend and couldn’t get anything started, but Callaway can have an effect on me over the phone.
And I’m going to be seeing her next week.
Man, I’m in deep, deep shit.
There’s that restlessness again, rising inside of me like a flock of sparrows taking flight. I have to keep my wits about me before I meet with my father. I’ll think of something grounding. Like Ed King.
I’ve been checking in on him more often lately. I know he’s keyed up with the impending move. The original sale fell through because the buyer wasn’t able to get financing, but another offer came in shortly after it went back on the market. The new closing is set for mid-October. Ed was scheduled to move into the retirement home since he had most of his stuff packed up, but he’s pushed that back. Something tells me he’s a little relieved he gets to spend more time in that house.
I’m coming up on Exit 10, Falmouth. The old man and I are meeting at a Cuban restaurant for lunch, but I’ve left my appetite back in Otis. My stomach feels like it’s folded in on itself, anticipating seeing him again. I tell myself to suck it up, that it’s just a quick meeting and I’ll be back on the road soon, driving away from him.
The hostess greets me with a smile. My father’s apparently already here; he left a message that I would be joining him. I flinch a little at this, because he’s going to act like I’m late, even though it’s 1:00 on the dot.
He’s looking down at his phone as I approach the table. He’s looking good, and I have to admit I’m a little glad about that. Good, healthy color to his cheeks, and his face seems surprisingly smooth and relaxed when we make eye contact. I thank the hostess and reach out to shake my father’s hand.
“Dad. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. I’ve been exercising, and delegating more. Following some of the doctor’s orders.”
Got to smile at that one. Typical John Decker.
“I ordered us empanadas for appetizers, and sweet tea. Nothing alcoholic, because I’m going back to work, and you’re driving.”
“That’s fine.” I open the menu, waiting for him to tell me what was so urgent that I had to meet him. I don’t have to wait long.
“You’re probably wondering why I called.” My father picks up his glass of ice water, sips, sets it down. His eyes are flickering with anticipation. “The heart attack caused me to reevaluate things. I suppose that’s true of most people in similar situations.”
“I would guess so, yes.”
“I’ve gotten old, Jack. Crept on me while I wasn’t looking. I’ve had a hell of a business career—as you know, it’s been my life—but I want to spend some time with my feet in the sand and the sun on my face. I’m done with these New England winters, so I’m looking at buying a condo in Florida—Clearwater Beach.” He pauses. “I’m planning to retire next year. Possibly announce it at the Christmas party.”
I try not to look surprised, because I know this is what most people of my father’s age do. It’s just that my father is not most people. I guess I always thought he’d be working till the day he died—that his secretary would find him face-down on his desk, a yellow legal notepad nearby with scrawlings of figures, ideas, plans.
An image of my father in Bermudas, a Hawaiian shirt and a floppy straw hat flashes across my brain. Jesus.
“My heart attack affected your brother as well.”
I tense up a little at this reference to James.
“It shook him up,” my father continues, looking at me intently. “Made him think about family, and how you’re the only brother he’s got.”
Funny, this didn’t seem to cross his mind when he was fucking my fiancée…
“He’s been thinking a lot over these past several weeks. He ended his relationship with Brianne, and he told me that the idea about how to expand the company was yours, not his.”
Well. As surprising as my father’s retirement announcement was, this definitely tops it.
“I owe you an apology, Jack. I remember you had tried to talk to me about that, and I brushed it off thinking it was a case of sibling rivalry that I didn’t want to deal with. I apologize for not listening. James is very sorry as well. He’s planning to reach out to you again, try to explain. Not justify, just explain. He doesn’t expect you to forgive him, but he’s offered to resign as president at year’s end.”
Our waitress shows up with our teas and appetizer and takes our orders. Ropa Vieja for my father and Pollo Al Caldero for me, with a side of what the fuck. I don’t know how to react to all of this.
“I told him I’d be meeting with you. I hope to name my replacement by early spring. I’d like you to come back with the company. Short term, I need someone to run the new store in Concord. It’s scheduled to open at the first of the year. You’ve been out of the business world for a while—I thought it would be wise for you to get your feet wet before you jump back into upper management.”
“Upper management?”
“I want you to take over for me, Jack. I want you to be my replacement.”
Jesus.
I start to open my mouth but my father raises his hand to cut me off. You don’t question John Decker.
“Think about it, Jack. I don’t need an answer right now. I realize this has come as a surprise. But I see it as a win-win for both of us. I would get the peace of mind knowing the company would be in good hands, and you’d have a secure future.”
My father settles back against his chair, looking serene and confident as he pops an empanada into his mouth, chewing vigorously as I try to make sense of what the fuck has happened today.
Asked on a date by someone I need to put behind me.
Asked to come back to a company which I thought I had put behind me.
I said yes to the first offer and haven’t responded to the second.
And now I’m wondering if I should have said no to both.
Chapter 30 ~ Madeline
September 18
Fifteen minutes. This is all that stands between Jack and me, because he just texted that he’s on his way to pick me up. Earlier in the week, I had wanted to give him an out, so I drafted and deleted eleven text messages. I was going for light and friendly with a generous sprinkling of absolutely no pressure, and I finally decided on Hey Jack! LMK if we’re still on for Friday – no worries if not!
Heart pounding, I’d waited for his reply and received one within minutes: Of course we’re still on. Looking forward to seeing you. The relief that had washed over me then left me feeling weak and grateful, and I’d chided myself for being so damned needy and not keeping this in perspective. I sent another text telling him I’d meet him there, and he responded that he’d be picking me up in his truck if I was okay with non-glam transportation.
I am more than okay with non-glam transportation.
Eleven minutes. I’m in the kitchen, looking down at Murphy who has finished his dinner and is contentedly washing his face with his paw. I pick up his food dish, put it in the pantry and then hurry upstairs to put on my dress. I did my hair and makeup an hour ago and have been wearing my L. L. Bean robe since I knew I’d be a bundle of nervous energy and didn’t want to sweat through my gown (current number of deodorant applications: five). With my penchant for clothing stains, I figured I’d give myself every advantage.
I enter my walk-in closet and slip the dress off the hanger. It’s a Badgley Mischka that I found online—more than I usually spend, but when I tried it on, it fit perfectly and made me feel sexy and elegant. I really needed to feel that, especially since I was going to the gala date-less when I ordered it. And now...the person I would most want to see me in this dress will see me in it.
My iPhone chimes from the bureau. Oh, God—what if it’s Jack, texting to tell me he’s changed his mind? Sweating again, I go to pick up my phone and am simultaneously relieved and pissed. It’s not Jack, but Paul. Hi. Thinking about you and wanted you to know.
Jesus. The only thing keeping me sane about this unwanted text is the fact that it’s been a while since he’s contacted me, so maybe his persistence is fading. I can only hope. I clench and unclench my fists, delete Paul’s text without responding and trash any thoughts of my ex-husband. I have much nicer things to focus on.
Eight minutes. I’m in in my bathroom—the bathroom that Jack built. Over the past few weeks, I’d come in here to just stand and look, brushing my gaze over his workmanship, my eyes lingering on the shower and my thoughts lingering on what we did in there. Wallowing a little too much in the past, but right now, I have to be grateful for the present, which for a few hours will include Jack Decker.
I’d told Mum about the gala—mentioned that I was going with “just a friend,” and my tone caused her to tactfully refrain from asking me any of the questions I know she was dying to ask. She always loved being there for my semis and formals and proms, so I take a selfie and send it to her. Seconds later, I get a text back with BEAUTIFUL – Daddy agrees xoxo and three red hearts. I smile. Guess you never outgrow parental approval.
I lean in to study my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Hair down, loosely-curled...eyes look decently enhanced but not overdone with a little taupe shadow and mascara. I add a little lip liner and melon-colored gloss and then take a last look in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The dress is chiffon and mermaid-silhouette style, off the shoulder with a sweetheart neckline. There’s some cleavage, which I’m quite sure Jack will notice. And it’s coral, like the bikini I was wearing when he took that picture of me.
Of course, all of this is irrelevant since this is purely a platonic date, right?
I am choosing not to answer that. It’s my own question, so I can totally ignore it and put on my sterling silver, coral cuff bracelet and matching earrings, slip my feet into my silver, pointy-toe pumps, and this Cinderella is ready for the ball.
All I need is my prince.
And right on cue...the doorbell.
My heart is doing back handsprings as I hurry down the stairs, gathering my dress up a little so I won’t trip. Murphy is at the kitchen door, tail up and rubbing his nose against the door frame as if he knows who’s there. I try to force the corners of my lips down in an attempt to keep from looking like the Cheshire cat, but when I open the door, I can’t keep from smiling as a rush of what can only be described as joy pours through me.
I am so not prepared for Jack Decker in a tuxedo. My. God. He is heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Everything about him is crisp, sharp, sexy, from his white
shirt and black bow tie to his shiny black shoes. He looks red carpet-ready, smooth and confident...I half-expect to see paparazzi jump out from my shrubbery to snap photos. Even his usually-unruly hair looks in place, which makes me smile even more to think he used a hair product in it.
The only reason I don’t feel embarrassed about smiling like a crazy person is because Jack is smiling, too. It’s as though we haven’t seen each other in years instead of weeks. It feels like there’s a current running between us—electric, almost palpable. There is a lightness in his eyes that I can almost feel skipping across me as he does a visual body scan. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows once, twice. Just having him in my house again, not to mention looking like the hottest celebrity Hollywood could ever imagine, makes me want to rush into his arms, stand on tiptoe and kiss him until I can’t catch my breath. I feel my self-control slipping out of my silver pointy-toe pumps when he takes two steps forward and gathers me against him in a tight hug.
I squeeze my eyes shut as unexpected tears threaten to trickle out. He feels so good, smells so incredibly delicious that I throw caution to the wind, wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his lapel. I feel his lips on the top of my head, and I don’t think I’m imagining the sigh he makes as he breathes in the scent of my hair.
He steps back—much too soon—and looks down at me, still smiling. Murphy rubs against Jack’s legs, purring, and Jack bends down to pet him.
“I have a lint roller,” are the first words out of my mouth, which is probably the safest thing I can think to say at this moment.
Straightening, he grins at me. “Looks like someone missed me.”
I’m blushing furiously, but I’m determined to remain cool on the outside. “Yes, my cat seems really glad to see you.”
He puts his index finger to his mouth, licks it and makes a scored point sign in the air. We both laugh, and I’m trying very, very hard to ignore that I just saw his tongue.
“So, Callaway. You look great. It’s nice to see you again.”