Her shoes were next. Wiping the heels off with a soft cloth, she lined them up on the fourth shelf of a shoe cabinet and surveyed her footwear collection.
Her eyes swept the bedroom she’d transformed into a dressing room. Two clothing racks hung with smart suits, blouses, and skirts lined two walls. An impressive antique carved mahogany cheval mirror took up a corner. A cumbersome wardrobe was crammed with the assortment of accessories and handbags she used to complete her look.
Removing her simple jewelry, Jen placed the pearl earrings and silver bracelet she’d worn into a crystal dish.
Next, she removed her lingerie and tossed everything in the hamper. Getting her laundry sorted out was one of the many things she had planned for her time off.
Jen surveyed the room once more. Assured everything was neat and tidy, she strolled buck-naked from the room, picked up the grocery bag, and moved it further along the entry hall. The minute she entered the living room and her very quirky shabby chic home came into view, all her tension vanished.
In her bedroom, she removed the pins from her hair then bent over and violently shook her head until nothing remained of the tightly styled chignon she preferred for work. Just like so many other things, she didn’t want people to judge her by her hairstyle, and while something shorter might have been easier, the truth was that she preferred her hair long. So she’d learned how to manage the heavy locks into something she called ‘business severe.’
From an overflowing basket of clean laundry she’d never put away, Jen fished around till she found some comfy undies, a shirt, and some yoga pants.
Her room was a certifiable mess—as usual. She saved her OCD-light behaviors for the office and let her inner slob have free rein at home. Best of both worlds!
Stepping over the towel from this morning’s shower, she swept a stack of magazines off the bench at the foot of her bed, stepped into a pair of sensible white panties, and plopped down. She stretched out her legs in front of her then rotated her ankles to release the pops and cracks a day in heels had caused.
Remembering John’s frustrated scowl when she left the office was only going to make her feel bad, so she pushed the image aside—for now.
Not as easily dismissed was a late afternoon phone call from Ryan. He began by apologizing, but she didn’t know why and then moved into a free-form tirade about his mom and something about the twins being a terror before ending with what she was relatively sure was an invitation for dinner. As in a date. Next Friday.
She informed him she’d be on vacation. As if that somehow explained her turning him down.
He promised to behave.
She got pissy.
In the end, she agreed not to change her number or leave town in the next week, but that was all the ground she gave.
Whatever. She shrugged and pushed everything aside except her plans for the next ten days.
Bra in place, she pulled a top over her head made from some soft, nubby material that was comfy as hell. The stretchy yoga pants slid on with ease.
She stood and hugged herself with both arms.
“Now this is what I call a vacation wardrobe.” She chuckled.
Dragging the groceries across and around her normal clutter, Jen unloaded a week’s worth of nutritionally bankrupt junk food onto the kitchen table and tried to straighten up as she put the stuff away.
She flipped on the sound system in the living room as she went about her vacation pre-gaming and enjoyed her current favorite, a station that played early 90’s music.
Rocking along to “Suicide Blonde,” she expressed her love of all things INXS then danced her way through an embarrassing “Achy Breaky Heart” that would make Billy Ray groan.
With a remote control doing double duty as a microphone, she paraded around her apartment and belted out “Hold On,” her absolute favorite Wilson Phillips ballad.
“I’m on vacay, bitches,” she hollered into the air of her apartment. Punching her fist above her head, Jen grunted, “Yes!”
This was what she needed. A chance to pull back and get her shit in order. She had major projects on the terrace and in her grandmother’s old greenhouse plus a stack of books up to her knees sitting on her TBR list.
She couldn’t think about work or John’s growing co-dependence on her to guide him through the dating maze.
And she couldn’t think about Ryan or his unnerving connection to tantric sex. Doing so wouldn’t lead to anyplace good.
One delivered pizza—pepperoni with extra cheese—later, she was stuffed and far enough into her chill zone to set up camp on the sofa with her favorite blanket, the TV remote, a bottle of incredibly cheap red wine from Trader Joe’s, and the secret stash of M & M’s she kept in a Ziploc bag under a bunch of junk in the side table drawer.
Life was good.
She dozed off around one in the morning during a marathon binge watch of Friends.
Ryan caught sight of his and John’s reflection in a window as they stood side by side in the same pose—chins lowered and arms crossed. They were annoying the shit out of a work crew as they took a walk-through of the storefront and had stopped to survey a design plan propped up by a makeshift easel.
“Half the gear we offer won’t translate well in a showroom, so we’re doing a lounge area with table video where customers can browse the big-ticket stuff. The Lloyd branded kayaks are backordered, and the full camp package, the family of four model, is setting sales records.”
John grunted to let him know he had heard what he said.
“What’s this?” he asked with a finger pointed at the layout.
Ryan leaned in and checked before responding. “Uh, that’s something new. Added a kid zone.”
“Really?” John remarked with an air of interest.
“Yeah,” Ryan assured his brother. Chuckling, he drawled, “Chelsea Matthews made an impression on me! Butterfly nets, telescopes, fossil dig equipment. Kids are curious about everything. We can have a blast with a special section just for the young.”
“And young at heart. I’d add that to the marketing. Not everyone can go spelunking or climb a mountain.”
“Good point,” he murmured. On his phone, he entered a quick note to talk to the design team about access for the disabled and products for seniors that could carry the Lloyd seal.
“Chelsea’s really something.”
His brother’s observation made Ryan’s brow arch. He fed his long hair behind both ears and fixed John with a sober look.
“I like that you like this woman and her kid, bro. Not exactly eloquent but you know what I mean.”
John smirked. “I have no goddamn idea what I’m doing. All I know is that I can’t wait to get to work every morning just to see Samantha and talk to her. She’s all I think about.”
“This thing is serious, then. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” John grumbled. “Is that how it works? Does thinking about someone all the time mean it’s serious? Shit, Ryan. Feels damn serious to me, but I’m not the only one in this thing. Samantha is hard to read. And you know I’m not good with shit like that to begin with.”
Does thinking about someone all the time mean it’s serious? Ryan was asking himself the very same question about Jen. He’d gone from snark-fueled fuckery for the hell of it to being more than a little obsessed with anything concerning the uptight woman.
“And Mom. Jeez. She’s making it worse.”
“Brought it on your own damn self,” Ryan muttered. “You shouldn’t have told her anything. Now we’re both under the microscope, you dipshit.”
“Sorry. I told you I’m not good at this.”
John stared at him before quietly asking the million-dollar question about the King Kong-sized monkey in the room.
“So what’s up with you and my assistant?”
Ryan pursed his lips and snarled. “How the hell do you put up with that picture-perfect bullshit she has going on? Do you know she lines up her pens?”
“I’ve
never had the occasion to poke around her office, and frankly, Ryan, so the fuck what?”
“John,” he muttered. “Her junk drawer is just … unnatural. Nobody can possibly be that organized or so neat all the damn time.”
“And this bothers you, why? Because you’re trying to see if she fits?”
“Whoa, dude. That’s deep. Especially for you.”
His brother gave new life to the Lloyd smirk. “Despite common misunderstanding, I do not in fact have Asperger’s. It’s not a fucking crime to be shy.”
“You aren’t shy when it comes to the business,” Ryan reminded him. “And don’t pay attention to that garbage. You’re a late bloomer is all,” he said with a good-natured chuckle and a slap on his brother’s back.
“Uh, yeah. Nice dodge. You didn’t answer my question about Jen.”
Fuck.
What was he supposed to say? I’m thinking about fuck loving her into a coma twenty-four seven? Or maybe he should admit to the thousand and two erotic thoughts he entertained about her mouth.
Oh, yeah. All that was bound to go down smooth with John.
Not.
“I don’t think there is an answer. She assumes an awful lot about me and …”
“You assume a lot too. Those cracks about her pens and junk drawer. What is the problem, man? Jenna Carlton is what mom would call a smart cookie. For all you know, she could be putting on an act. Nothing to see here.”
He led John far from the workmen and leaned against a wall with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets.
“What are you saying? She’s sandbagging everyone? That doesn’t sound like her.”
The tell was in how fast his brother’s eyes dropped away and the kidlike way he toed a pile of construction debris on the floor. What the hell was going on?
“Um, no. I’m just pointing out that business is a man’s world and maybe Jen has figured out the best way for her to navigate the corporate jungle.”
Okay. He wasn’t stupid and could tell when reading between the lines was necessary. John was suddenly way more in touch with his fellow humans than Ryan was used to.
Because of Jen?
Or Samantha?
Probably both.
“You know,” John said as he smoothed his tie for no reason. “It wouldn’t hurt to be nicer to her. Women like that nice shit.”
Nah, it was too funny not to, so Ryan exploded with laughter. “Oh, my god! Are you giving me chick advice? John! Do you realize how fucking great this is?”
John puffed out his chest, instantly reminding Ryan of their dad and the way he liked to play the clueless nerd with the heart of gold. In some weird way, the fit was natural.
“I’m just saying you need a different approach with Jen. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
Ryan slapped his brother’s back and gave him a hearty dude hug.
“I worried coming back to the city would be a shitty move,” he confessed. “But I gotta tell you, man. So far? Best decision I’ve made in a long time.”
“I’m glad, Ryan. Traipsing around the world is your job ... I know that. But I’ve missed you.”
“Likewise, brother. I know you have to get back to the office, but I need to ask. Have you invited Samantha to mom’s dinner get-together?”
John groaned and made a pained face. “No. And I’m totally gonna eat it on this one ’cause Jen made a dinner reservation for Friday night too.”
“What the hell for?”
He rolled a shoulder. “It was her way of keeping me focused while she’s gone. I guess she thought a week was enough time to find my balls, man up, and ask for a real date.”
“Oh,” Ryan muttered. “I see. And then Mom ups the ante with a command performance. Can I help?”
The pithy sneer his brother gave made Ryan jolt.
“Help? Dude! Save yourself first! Have you asked Jen to this little soiree?”
Yeah ... and then there was that.
“I might have mentioned it before she went off radar.”
“Did she agree?”
The astonishment in his brother’s voice didn’t offer much confidence. Ryan shrugged.
“Yeah, uh ... that remains to be seen.”
“And how do you plan to contact her, Sherlock? She won’t answer her phone or check her email.”
He scoffed. “I’m going to knock on her door, of course.”
John started. “You know where she lives?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you remember? After the museum, you took off, and we shared a car ride.” What in the fucking hell was going on in John’s mind? “What am I missing?”
“Nothing, nothing,” John said although he was acting like someone on a covert mission. “I should go. Give me a call later and maybe we can grab dinner.”
“What’s Samantha up to tonight?”
“If that’s your way of asking for an update, here it is. School nights are all about Chelsea. We message after the kid goes to bed. I send a car to drive her to work in the morning. She resists, and I persist per Jen’s guidance. She had lunch with me yesterday, and we sort of discussed doing something this weekend with Chelsea. Not having much luck taking it to the next level where it’s just her and me. So the easiest answer to your inquiry is that I’m a ball-less wonder and can’t seem to find my way home.”
They shook hands. “Well put, Mr. Lloyd.”
John chuckled. “What do the kids say? Fuck my life? Yeah. That.”
Ryan waved him off with a short laugh. John was changing, and he really was glad. Acknowledging that their dad’s death and John being suddenly thrust into the CEO’s seat had effectively shut his brother’s whole life down, he did the math and grunted. It only took eighteen years.
It worked for Ryan because he believed that at the end of the day—it was never too late.
Jen marched with an empty mug, her footsteps on the hardwoods in the high Wellie boots sounding like a seal slapping along as she headed from the terrace into the black and white tile kitchen.
“Need more coffee,” she griped. Someone needed to invent the coffee hose. Some sort of nozzle thingy she could hook to the coffeemaker and haul around the apartment with her. Save her the trouble of the constant back and forth.
She started a fresh pot of her latest Trader Joe’s obsession—medium roast blend from Kenya—and washed the dishes in the sink while she waited. The rest of her place might qualify as a bombsite, but that didn’t mean her kitchen and bathrooms weren’t hospital clean. She had to draw the line someplace.
Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she turned around and leaned against the counter. The first thing her eyes fell on was her phone connected to a charger and shoved out of the way on the counter.
Every single damn day, she struggled against the growing impulse to check in. Her problem was deciding who she’d check in with.
She could pretend her only thought was of John, but she’d be lying so badly her nose was sure to grow several inches.
It was that scruffy beast Ryan Lloyd and his simmering sexuality that had her thong in a knot.
“Simmering sexuality,” she murmured aloud. “Oh, my god. What’s happening to me?”
The enticing aroma of the roasted blend filled the small kitchen. It was easy to admit with a hallelujah-style chorus that she had a thing for coffee. Hot, iced, leftover, reheated, flavored, frozen—it was all good. In fact, if picked apart, it was clear from appearances that after college, her only substantial relationship had been with old Joe.
Good ol’ Joe. He didn’t care which wardrobe she grabbed from or whether her hair was up or down. Coffee was a uniter, not a divider—men, women, heck, even dogs loved coffee.
Dogs? How did she know dogs liked coffee?
Jen chuckled.
Because she’d seen it on Instagram—her other guilty pleasure.
Speaking of which, she poured a liberal stream of the piping hot brew into her gigantic mug and eyed her cell phone. The digital card for her camera was jammed with the
pictures she’d been snapping of her new project, and that was great, but if she wanted to get something up on her Instagram, she’d either need to upload the pics to her computer and go from there, or…
She lifted the mug and took a feeble sip so as not to scorch her lips or tongue. Ah, that first mouthful of fresh brew!
The stupid cell phone continued to taunt her.
Another sip, this one bigger, warmed her as it slid down her throat.
Shit.
Jen put the mug down with a thud and snatched the damn phone off the charger. She dismissed the warning scold from her mind. She could turn it on, access the camera, shoot a few pics, and get them up on Instagram—all without checking her email or texts. Or she could trample all over her written-in-stone requirement that separated work and her personal life. The choice was all hers.
Did she want to know?
Know what? her conscience muttered. Whether the cute boy with the quirky outlook on life had sent her a note.
She sniggered. It wasn’t just about John anymore. Yeah, she was fully invested in adding another heart to her cupid tally board, but the tree hugger with the mesmerizing blue eyes who invaded her thoughts and dreams was what led Jen to consider breaking the rules.
Bending from the waist, she shook her messy hair then gathered it into a tangled tail as she straightened. The coffee combined with the morning’s exertions had made her overheat. Twisting the tail into a tight knot, she tucked in the wispy strands and got back to business.
Tucking in her grimy t-shirt seemed like overkill, so she brushed it off, slid the phone into her pocket, grabbed the mug, and slap, slap, slapped her way from the kitchen and back outside.
The second Jen stepped through the wide, glass-paned French doors onto the L-shaped terrace, she remembered why she loved this place. It was the reason she’d survived living in the city.
The Carltons were a family of pioneers, explorers, entrepreneurs, and daredevils. All were colorful characters.
During the early 1900’s, her great-grandparents made the jump from farm to city and opened a general store. This apartment had been used by them and their descendants ever since. The unusual corner apartment on the top of a three-story Beaux Arts-style building included a wide, private terrace on two sides of the building large enough to accommodate a rooftop greenhouse and an extensive garden.
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