Best Man...with Benefits

by Nancy Warren

  “I was planning on staying over. That okay with you?”

  “Oh, it’s more than okay. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to thank you. Well, there’s no way I can ever thank you enough. But I’d like to take you to dinner.” He’d come through for her. No one in her life had ever come through in this way except for Amy. It was thrilling and scary. She didn’t want to rely on anyone. Never had. But he’d been there when she’d needed someone, without being asked. He’d stepped up.

  She could seriously fall for a guy like that.

  He gazed down at her all sexy and rumpled. A ragged square of masking tape was stuck to his T-shirt and she was pretty sure there was a bit of foil sparkling in his hair like a tiny halo. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  A flutter of panic flapped crazily in her chest. “No, no. It’s not a date. It’s a thank-you dinner.”

  “Then I accept.” He pulled her in for a kiss. “And, FYI, if it was a date, I’d still say yes.”

  What did you say to someone who insisted on changing the rules in the middle of the game? She had no idea, so she kissed him back. Seemed the simplest thing to do.

  She tidied the studio, made a mental plan of what she needed to do the following day and then happily left to take a well-deserved break.

  The sun was afternoon heavy. She could smell the dirt of the fields, felt the growing green in the vines and grapes. With so much work accomplished, plus good food and great sex, it was tough not to feel pretty good about life.

  Jackson seemed pretty content, too, for a guy who’d given up a precious weekend to be a chef and stained-glass apprentice.

  “Do we need to get dressed up?” he asked. “Because I didn’t bring anything fancy with me.”

  “No. I know a casual bistro where the food is great. Wear whatever you like.”

  So, he wore the same jeans he’d driven down in with a black polo shirt, and she wore her good jeans and a peasant blouse that made her feel feminine and relaxed. She slipped her feet into sandals and brushed her hair until it shone, then left it loose around her shoulders. She took a little extra time with her makeup and added big hoop earrings.

  When he saw her, his eyes warmed. Even the way he looked at her made her quiver.

  She tried to ignore the inconvenient conviction that was growing in her, the idea that this no-strings-attached, sex-only, never-see-the-light-of-day affair was getting pretty stringy, involving a lot more than sex, and encroaching on daylight hours.

  Was that a problem?

  She suspected it was.

  But she refused to worry about the future when the present was so delicious. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

  He drove and she directed him to a little bistro she liked. The storefront entrance was nothing fancy, and the interior was brick walls decorated with old posters and a bizarre collection of antiques, from a warming pan to an old miner’s pick. The open kitchen and rough wooden tables added to the casual air.

  The waitress greeted her by name and seated them at one of the prime tables by the window. The restaurant was pretty full for a Sunday night, a mixture of tourists and locals. The buzz of conversation reminded her how isolated she’d been for the past couple of weeks.

  They ordered a bottle of local wine that the waitress recommended, which was good enough for Lauren, and decided to share fresh mussels and a salad with wild greens and goat cheese. She chose trout for her main meal while he went with a lamb shank.

  The ordering done, they found themselves sitting across a small table looking at each other. It was the reason they’d never done this before. They were great in bed. They’d never been great in a social situation.

  She twiddled her hair.

  He took refuge in sipping his wine.

  They’d spent all weekend together; how come they didn’t have much to say to each other? Then again, all weekend they’d been focused on work. Their conversation had mainly revolved around him asking her how to do things and her showing him.

  He glanced up and caught her gaze. Smiled in a slightly panicked way.

  Oh, the hell with it. “Is this weird?” she asked him.

  He contemplated the question. “It’s not that I don’t have things to say, more like I don’t know how to talk to you.”

  She sipped her own wine, amazed he so easily grasped the same thing that was bothering her. “Yes!” she cried eagerly. “It’s like we’re so good at dissing each other that I’m scared if I say something that you’ll misunderstand me or bite my head off.”

  He nodded. Seemed to study the problem.

  After a moment, he said, “I have an idea.”

  She thought his idea might be to get back in the car and make a break for it, but it wasn’t. He said, “What if we agree not to say anything rude or unkind to each other. Hold back the snark.”

  “What? Ever?” As if that was possible.

  “No.” He scoffed at the idea. “I mean tonight. For one meal. We won’t spar or argue. If you speak, I will listen and try to return the conversational ball like an adult.”

  “Okay.” She liked where this was going. “And if you say something, even if I think it’s stupid and deserves a put-down, I’ll hold my tongue.”

  “Well, that’s a start.”

  “All right.”

  At that moment, their mussels arrived so they had a brief reprieve as they speared their shellfish and dipped their bread into the luscious broth. “You were right,” he said. “This place is fantastic.”

  She could have remarked that he’d eaten only one mussel and it was too early to call Zagat, but she refrained. Understood that he was approving her choice. “I thought you’d like it,” she said instead.

  After that, it seemed easy and much more natural. Even though she kept reminding herself this was a thank-you dinner and not a date, it was pretty hard to hold on to that notion since they were going to go home to bed together. It seemed as if the line between thank you and romantic had been crossed.

  By the time the salad came, the wine bottle was half-empty and she felt bold enough to ask him what she’d wanted to ask him since he’d told her his parents were dead. Sure, she could have asked Amy, almost had when she’d shown up for tea, but an odd protectiveness had hit her. She didn’t want to gossip about Jackson and his past behind his back. She wanted Jackson to tell her his story himself.

  Knowing it was probably difficult for him, she started slowly. “I didn’t know you’d lost your parents. I’m so sorry.”

  “You thought I was a pompous rich kid choking on my sterling silver spoon.”

  “I did,” she admitted.

  “Now you know I’m not.”

  “Actually, I don’t know anything but what you’ve told me.”

  He stabbed a piece of goat cheese and some greens onto his fork. A candied pecan rolled onto the table and he picked it up and popped it in his mouth. “That’s not much,” he said, and pushed the forkful of salad into his mouth.

  “No. It’s not. I—I guess I want to hear your story.”

  He chewed. Swallowed. Sent her a half humorous, half serious look. “Kind of veering into dating territory, aren’t you?”

  She was. But she didn’t care. “I think our enemies-with-benefits program went out the window when you showed up with food and helped me all weekend.”

  “Do you wish I hadn’t?” The humor was gone. He was all serious now.

  A funny kind of ache started in her belly. She wanted this to be real and she was frightened of it being real all at the same time. “No. I am really glad you came.”

  “Okay, then. So am I.”

  She ate some salad. Helped herself to more bread. Busied herself so he might feel inclined to speak if he wanted to.

  Finally, he did.

  “My parents were great. I don’t think I had any idea how lucky I was until later. We were—” he shrugged “—happy. I know my folks would have liked more kids. I think that was the only sadness, but they were good people. We lived in Maine.
My dad was a firefighter. Mom was a part-time bookkeeper. We didn’t have a lot of money, but when you’re a kid you don’t know or care about stuff like that.”

  He put down his knife and fork. Gazed into his wine with a frown forming on his face. “It was a stupid, stupid accident. It was snowing badly. I was staying over at a friend’s and they came to get me the next morning.” He swallowed. “Fresh snow over black ice, a sharp bend in the road, a semi coming in the other direction. They never knew what hit them. At least that’s what I tell myself.”

  “Oh, Jackson. I’m so sorry.” And in her head she thought, Poor, poor little boy.

  “Yeah. It pretty much sucked. My grandparents had to take me. I hardly knew them. They were my mom’s folks and I’d barely seen them. They lived here in California. They had their own lives, no idea what to do with a twelve-year-old kid. There was some money from the life insurance. They used it to stick me in boarding school. They probably thought they were doing the best for me, sending me to a good school where I’d be with other boys.”

  “You were newly orphaned and they shipped you off to boarding school?”

  “It was a shit time. Until I met Seth.”

  She wondered how anyone could take a boy who had just lost his parents and send him off to a school where he didn’t know anyone.

  He gazed at her, a faint smile on his lips. “You might not think Seth is the world’s greatest guy, but he was a good friend to me when I didn’t have any. You don’t forget something like that.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “And that’s why most of my friends are rich, entitled guys and I’m poor. I work for everything I get and I’m fine with that. But there’s no giant inheritance coming, no trust fund.”

  “I was so wrong about you.”

  “I’m thinking I was wrong about you, too.”

  Her lips twitched. “That depends what you thought.”

  “Pretty much what you thought about me. That you and Amy were best friends because you went to the same debutante parties and your mothers played tennis at the same club.”

  She chuckled and then she laughed so hard she choked. “What a pair of snobs we are.”

  “Snobs?”

  “Well, reverse snobs. Both dissing the other for being rich when, in fact, we’re both poor.”

  “I thought your stained glass was a hobby.” He paused. “Until this weekend.”

  “Now you know.”

  “What’s your story?”

  “Nothing as tragic as yours. Divorce. My mom bitter and renting the former pool house of rich people. They live next door to Amy. I used to hear Mom and Dad arguing on the phone. She said he didn’t take me often enough.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. He has another family. I almost never see him.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She worked hard. Resented the way her life turned out, I think. Mostly, I hung out at Amy’s. I love my mother and she did the best she could, but honestly, it was Amy’s parents who mostly brought me up. My mother married again and she’s a lot happier now.”

  “But the damage is done.”

  She was pleased that he understood so well and yet his words had been matter-of-fact, not gushing with sympathy. “Yeah.”

  “So, you think we might have been wrong about each other?”

  “Yeah. I think maybe.” She contemplated how very wrong she’d been and how much she was enjoying getting to know the real Jackson. “You did nothing to make me see the truth.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “Neither did you.”

  “True.” She’d enjoyed poking away at his entitlement, believing his good looks were salon and gym induced. Now she knew better. He put running shoes on every morning and he ran. He had a chin-up bar in his apartment and she suspected he did sit-ups and push-ups on the rug while watching TV. As for the salon looks, now that she’d spent time with him, she realized he spent the minimum amount of time on grooming. His looks were a gift from nature. “This changes everything.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” He sounded so sincere that for a second she was shocked, and again that warm, hopeful feeling began to bloom inside her.

  When they got home that night, the mood continued. They made love and it was different from ever before. It wasn’t a lighthearted romp promising physical release and nothing more. This was so much deeper and more real. She felt that she was making love with every part of her, letting him see and have all of her.

  It was the most exhilarating experience of her life. Possibly the most frightening.

  She felt, every time their gazes connected, that he was feeling the same way, that he was opening to her in a way that was as difficult for him as it was for her. They’d both always been so careful, she was certain, not to open themselves up to hurt. No wonder they’d sparred and tormented each other. It was so much easier than facing the fact that they were more alike than different.

  Maybe she had recognized their kinship on some deep level and it had frightened her. For, in Jackson, she knew she’d found someone who could really see and understand her.

  To open herself like this, to let him in, a woman would have to be very careful or she could find herself... Oh, no. She wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Not with Jackson.

  Not in love with Jackson.

  But he touched her and her body responded. He kissed her and her world seemed right. He entered her body and she felt as though she was a part of him and he was a part of her.

  He was deep inside her. They were locked together, moving as though they could climb right into each other’s skin. When the deep tremors began to rock her, she felt the trembling spread everywhere, so intense was the pleasure.

  And then she was coming, and he was coming and the moment was so exquisite she almost couldn’t breathe.

  She kissed him, putting everything she felt but wasn’t able to say into that kiss. When they turned to sleep, his hand cupped her breast, close to her heart.

  18

  MONDAY MORNING DAWNED, ridiculously bright and sunny, even by California standards. When she padded out of the bedroom to the kitchen in search of coffee, she found another of the J notes. This was as sentimental and keepsake-worthy as the last. It said, “Last night was incredible. I’ll call you. J.” Yep, that was a letter to tie in blue ribbon and keep forever. Still, she touched her fingertip to the J and pictured him driving back to town through the dawn.

  She missed him already, she thought, as she put fresh coffee on to brew.

  And that was the trouble with love. You got caught up in emotions that didn’t used to trouble you. Like missing a man when he wasn’t around, thinking about him when you should focus on work, wondering if he was thinking about you. Oh, just stop it!

  She didn’t throw away his note, though. She left it on the counter, where she could see it. And she made certain her phone was charged as she carried it with her to her studio.

  It was wonderful to walk in and see the progress they’d made over the weekend. On impulse, she called Sylvia and offered to bring the next set of windows by the next day. Sylvia expressed delight at her progress. And, since Sylvia was with Daniel and not Jackson, Lauren was able to chat with the architect with perfect friendliness.

  They agreed to meet at the house Tuesday afternoon. Lauren put down her fresh mug of coffee and pulled out her portable music player. She ran through possibilities and went back to Gershwin. So what if it reminded her of Jackson? As the first notes of “Summertime” filled her studio, she reflected that she was a woman who had blundered into love with a man, without ever intending to. Gershwin understood that kind of blunder.

  Then she got to work, letting the glow she had acquired from her dinner and that amazing lovemaking last night float her along. It wasn’t distracting, this warm feeling; it was good. She’d always been so afraid of love, fearing she’d end up dependent, bitter, maybe both. Now she saw that she wasn’t her mother. Love with the right man was both liberating and creative. Her work had never
felt so inspired. She made tiny changes as she was working, seeing new possibilities in everything.

  The phone rang and she dropped her cutters. Damn. She grabbed her cell and discovered it was a marketing call. Cursing, she put it down and got back to work.

  No one else called. Not once.

  In the whole day.

  He’d said he’d call. Every time she found herself in the kitchen, there was the note, telling her in black and white that he was going to call.

  He didn’t.

  Finally, she crumpled the note and pitched it in the trash.

  * * *

  JACKSON PICKED UP the phone. Put it down again. He was starting to act pathetic. He’d shown up, unannounced, walked into Lauren’s house and taken over. Okay, he really felt he’d done her a favor, but had he come across too strong?

  Something magic had happened over the weekend. He couldn’t stop thinking about how great Lauren was and how right it felt being with her. But she was skittish. He’d seen something that looked very much like fear in her eyes when they’d grown closer over the weekend.

  There were moments when he’d wanted to tell her how he felt. While they’d been making love, he’d almost blurted out the fateful words he could never take back. But she wasn’t ready. He could see that she wasn’t.

  As he’d driven back this morning, he’d had time to think and he’d realized that what the woman needed was a little space. He couldn’t push her or rush her, or she might panic and run.

  At least, that’s what he thought she’d do, since it was what he did himself if a woman tried to get too close to him too fast.

  He’d be cool. Give her a day or two. Then he’d call. Keep it casual. See if she wanted to get together. Maybe he’d drive up later in the week.

  He wanted to ask her if she’d go with him to Seth and Amy’s housewarming and that was a big step. He knew what he was asking. For her to show up with him in public, in front of the very people who were most important in their lives. That would be a statement.

  Oh, they’d take some heat, showing up holding hands like the lovers they were after all the sniping and sparring they’d done, having convinced all of their friends and especially each other that they hated each other.