by Julia London
She gave him a dubious look. “But how are you going to walk me down the aisle if you can’t go past the coffee shop downstairs? I really need this from you, Jack. It’s important to me.”
Jack’s face heated with shame and the anxiety of just thinking about walking down an aisle. He didn’t know how he’d face it, he didn’t know if he could. Still, he managed a smile for his sister. “I don’t know yet, but I will be there, Christie.”
She leaned forward and looked him in the eyes. “Do you promise?”
The bile in his throat rose. “I promise.”
She smiled sadly and pushed a bit of his hair from his face. “Chet and I love you, Jack.”
He smiled dubiously.
“We do. We’re proud of you and your service in the Marines.”
Jack waved her off and stood. There was nothing to be proud of—all he knew was that his time in the Marines had left him a mess. He was very lucky he was a writer and could work from home for a living, or else he’d probably be locked away in some hospital by now.
“Jack, I—”
The apartment call button interrupted her. He walked over to it and punched the button.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Hi, Frank.”
“Sorry about your sister getting upstairs without notice. Tristan is new.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He’d do enough worrying for all of them.
“Miss Baldwin is on her way up.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
Christie waggled her brows at him.
“Stop it,” he said. “And behave yourself. It’s only the dinner girl.” Except it wasn’t only the dinner girl. It was a woman he’d actually talked to. A woman with sparkling blue eyes and a body that made his mouth water, and who carried beta-blocker cupcakes with her. He suddenly wished Christie would go home.
But Christie said, “Sure,” and settled back with the bag of chips as if she were about to watch a show.
Six
The apartment door was open, as usual, and Buster sat at the threshold, his tail wagging so hard that by all laws of physics, he should have taken flight. “Hey, buddy, hey Buster.” She dipped down to scratch his chest. “I’ve got something just for you.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a bone-shaped biscuit. She’d taken a stab at dog treats yesterday, and although she couldn’t be a true judge, Buster nearly took her hand off to get it, then quickly disappeared inside, his prize clenched between his jaws.
“I’m going to say that’s a win,” she said to herself, and stepped inside. “Hello!” she called.
Jack suddenly appeared in the hall before her. He looked… Well, he looked dead-on sexy. He was squeaky clean and had shaved and man, did those jeans fit him well. Come on, was she staring at his package? She wasn’t staring—she was drooling. “Ah…hi!” she blurted, and tried to pretend she was looking for something in her tote to hide her interest. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“Bet not.”
Wait a minute—Jack didn’t say that. A woman said that from somewhere inside his apartment. A woman. Well, that was disappointing. Extremely disappointing. Not that Whitney intended to seduce her client, even if she’d had a couple of very expansive daydreams about this guy. So he wasn’t as reclusive as she’d thought. She’d get over it—she was seventy-five percent certain she would. She plastered a smile on her face.
“Come in,” Jack said.
Whitney hoisted her things and walked into the kitchen. Yep, there was a woman seated at the bar, stuffing potato chips into her mouth. She happened to be one of those women who could stuff with abandon and still look fantastic. She was also very cute, and Whitney had to hate her a little bit. No one should be that cute.
“Hiiiii,” the woman said with an enthusiasm that was hardly necessary.
“Hi,” Whitney said. “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to throw a meal together, then I’ll leave you two alone.” She put her things down on the counter.
“Oh, I’m leaving,” the woman said through a mouth full of potato chips. “I guess Jack isn’t going to introduce us, so I will. I’m his sister, Christie.”
Sister! The heavens opened and pumped bright sunlight into Whitney’s mood. “Oh! Nice to meet you,” she said happily, then privately warned herself to turn it down a notch. “I’m Whitney. The cook.” She removed her little cupcake box from the bag and placed it on the bar.
“Yep,” Christie said. “I’ve heard about you.”
Whitney glanced at Jack, who stood stiffly to one side, looking wound tighter than a clock, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “I hope it’s not my cooking.” She laughed. Again, too happily. Too loudly. Get a grip, Whit.
“The cooking is fine,” Jack said gruffly as Whitney opened the cupcake box.
Christie gasped so loudly that Whitney started. “What is this?” Christie cried, craning her neck to see the cupcakes.
“Cupcakes. I make them,” Whitney said proudly. She pushed the box closer to Jack’s sister. “They’re a little added bonus from me to my clients.”
Christie picked one up. Whitney had made a batch of yellow Minions from the popular kid movie, Despicable Me. “They are adorable,” Christie said.
“That one’s chocolate. The other is vanilla.”
“Jack!” Christie held one up to him. “I have to have one.”
He looked at the cupcakes.
“You don’t need two,” she announced.
Jack slowly pulled his fists from his pockets and folded his arms tightly across his chest. He seemed annoyed with his sister. “Fine. Take it.”
“What about Chet?”
“Chet?”
“It’s so rude to go home with one cupcake.” She took the other one, and cast a beaming smile at Whitney. “Chet is my fiancé.”
Jack grunted. “I’ve already had to share my cupcakes once this week.”
Christie took that as a yes, made a little squeal of delight and put the cupcakes back in the little box. “Thanks! They’re so cute, Whitney. You should, like, sell them.”
“That’s definitely the plan,” Whitney assured her. “Enjoy!”
“In your house, not mine.” Jack pointed to the door.
“Fine, okay, I’m leaving,” Christie said cheerfully. She stuffed one last potato chip into her mouth and slid the bag across the bar. She swept up her box of cupcakes and gave her brother a playful shove as she walked past him. “Call Mom. Nice to meet you, Whitney!” she sang out as she walked down the hall. A moment later, the door shut behind her and Buster wandered back into the kitchen, melting on the tile floor with all four of his short legs spread out from his body like a rug.
Jack’s cheeks filled with air, which he slowly released. He said sheepishly, “She’s a lot.”
“She’s super cute. And she seems really nice.”
“Yeah.” His gaze did a quick flick over the length of her before he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away.
Why was he so jumpy? She hadn’t started talking yet, so that couldn’t be it. “Ready for some salmon?” she asked cheerfully, mentally dry heaving at the prospect of yet another Wednesday night salmon dish.
“Sure.”
Well, of course, because God forbid the man have any variety. She began to remove the ingredients from the grocery bag while Jack stood there, his gaze fixed on something in the living room. When he glanced at Whitney, he seemed startled that she was looking at him.
“Have you read The Hunt for Red October?” he asked.
A weird question, apropos of nothing. “Nope.”
His shoulders sort of slumped and he shifted his gaze to his living room and the bookshelves there.
“But I saw the movie.”
He jerked his gaze back to her, looking strangely surprised and grateful. How could someone as hot as this guy be so weird? Sexy and weird did not go together in her book, but it was so oddly intriguing. “It’s one of my favorite movies,” she added. That was a bit of a lie. S
he liked it okay.
“Mine too.”
She thought he would say more—like why he brought it up, or what he liked about it, anything—but he didn’t. “I’m more of a rom-com girl,” she said airily. “Do you like romantic comedies?”
“Ah…yeah.” He nodded slowly.
That was when words that surprised her tumbled out of Whitney’s mouth. She couldn’t begin to guess where they’d come from, but they presented themselves all the same. “Maybe we could see a movie some time.”
There was a moment of highly charged silence, during which Jack gaped at her as though she’d just suggested they rob a bank.
Whitney’s face quickly began to flame. “Or not,” she quickly amended. “I’m new to town and I’m trying to make friends. Not that I think you and I are friends, because obviously, you’re my client, and I’m your cook, and we are not friends.” She laughed long and loud at the absurdity of that. And here she went, her mouth a mile beyond her brain. “But, you know, I was just thinking how much I like rom-coms, and then a thought occurred to me, and boom, out it came.”
He still stared at her.
“I’m sorry if I freaked you out. Don’t pay any attention to me. I do stuff like that all the time.”
“You didn’t freak me out,” he said evenly. “I just…I wasn’t expecting that—”
“Of course not!” she jumped in, just so he’d know that she knew how inappropriate that was. “People don’t hire cooks and expect to get asked out on a…” Jesus, she almost said date.
“I’m not freaked out,” he reiterated. But he looked as though he were. He couldn’t possibly shove his hands in his pockets any deeper.
“No worries,” she said, although she hated that phrase, because no one should judge another person’s worry meter. Anyway, she was the one who should be worrying. First, she’d thought this guy was either physically deformed or a drug addict, and then was wildly attracted to him. Second, he could scarcely look at her, and still, she was asking him out.
Maybe something was wrong with her.
Whitney took the ingredients and turned around, pretending to begin meal preparation and wishing her face would stop flaming.
“The thing is, I have this really pressing deadline,” he said.
Oh God, was he going to start an apology tour for turning her down? She had to nip this in the bud before she melted into a puddle of mortification and drowned Buster where he lay. “Deadline! What’s your deadline?” She turned around and smiled. “What’s it for?”
His gaze was on her mouth. “It’s a special report for Military Times,” he said. “That’s an independent news organization that covers all aspects of the military. I write for them. I’m doing an article about some problems with a veteran’s mental health services clinic.”
The room at the end of the hall was beginning to make more sense. “Interesting!” she said. He was still looking at her mouth, and she felt the warmth in her face slide down her spine. “You hear about it all the time, soldiers coming back traumatized—”
“It’s salmon tonight, right?” he suddenly interjected.
A socially awkward writer. Somehow, that made sense to her. Weren’t they supposed to be mercurial and a little off anyway? Wasn’t that the way creativity worked? But still, this felt a little different than creativity at work. She stopped what she was doing and looked at Jack Carter. “Are you okay?”
He physically reacted to her question. His body recoiled, almost as if she’d shoved him. “What? Me? Yeah, I’m okay. Sure, I’m okay.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Why?”
“I don’t know…you seem kind of nervous.”
“Nervous,” he repeated, and drew a deep breath. Buster suddenly hopped up and trotted around the kitchen island. Jack dipped down to pet him. When he finally stood, he did not put his hands in his pockets. He walked to the bar and braced his hands against it. He stared at her, as if he were trying to say something. And at last, he said, “I have a confession. I’m not good at small talk.”
That was it! She should have guessed that. She smiled. “Well, me either, obviously.”
He looked confused. “You talk a lot,” he said carefully.
Whitney laughed. “Yeah, but I talk a lot about nothing. I have this awful habit of filling up silence, and it doesn’t matter with what. My dad tells me all the time, ‘not everything needs to be talked about, Whitney,” she said, mimicking her father’s voice.
Jack didn’t have a response. He just studied her face.
“Like now.” She gestured between them. “There’s a lot of silence happening here.”
“Some people could use a little more talking and a little less silence,” he said.
Was he talking about himself? And was it natural for a man to have pillowy lips like that? “Allow me to do the talking then,” she said. “I will start by telling you that I took the liberty of bringing a caper sauce.”
“Okay,” he agreed.
“I had this very salmon dish one night, and I had a caper sauce that I bought at Pike’s Place because the guy told me it would transform any meat into a work of art, and do you know, he was right? And I thought, I know a guy who eats the same thing every Monday and Tuesday, every Wednesday and Thursday, and every Friday and Saturday. And I thought maybe this guy would like a little variety.”
“He doesn’t,” Jack said.
She gaped at him. “How can you not want variety?” She began to chop the zucchini. “Will you just try it? I swear to you, it was fantastic.”
“Why do you care if I have variety?”
“Why? Because it’s weird that you eat the same thing week after week. It’s a true lack of diversity, and no one wants to be the guy who lacks that.”
His gaze seemed to deepen, locking on her eyes, and Whitney felt that sliver of heat in her spine begin to boil.
“I can safely say that no one has ever cared about my lack of diversity before.”
“You need someone to care. Will you try it?”
His gaze moved to her hair, then to her ear. “What if I don’t like it? What if this demand that I try a caper sauce infringes on my delicate taste buds and ruins my salmon? What then?”
Creepy Jack Carter was loosening up a little, and she intended to pat herself on the back for it. “If it ruins your delicate taste buds, I will order you a pizza. Because I know full well that if you don’t like it, you will probably put up a bigger wall than the one around you now, and never come out of your room again.” She arched a brow.
“You think I have a wall up?” he asked curiously.
“Huge.” She held her hand up as high as she could. She waited for him to deny it, but he didn’t. He actually smiled at her.
“If I have to build a big, beautiful wall around me because of your caper sauce, you’re paying for it,” he said.
Whitney laughed. She opened the jar. “By the way, have you thought about ordering from the vegetarian menu? We have some great selections.”
“Oh my God, what have I done?” Jack slid onto a barstool, his hands clasped before him, the hint of the smile still there.
And he was gorgeous. He was the cover of GQ, a romantic lead, and all the things that made her heart do loop-de-loops. She didn’t know how, but Whitney was pretty sure that she might have possibly, potentially, befriended this super-handsome, super-strange and interesting man.
Seven
Jack sees a woman in a burqa walking in the midst of three little kids who have big hazel eyes and bright smiles. He knows them—they come this way every day on their way to the market. He gives them candy. He makes a show of giving it to them, holding out his fists, making them guess which hand has the candy, then divvying it up between them. They walk down the street, smiling.
A car horn sounds. There are always car horns here, but this one is different—long and urgent. Jack suddenly remembers a bomb is about to explode. He remembers because he has been here before, in this very place. He shouts at the woman to get her
to turn around, but she doesn’t hear him. He tries to move, to run after her, but his legs won’t work. The bomb detonates and everything is black and his leg is on fire. When he looks down, he is covered with the hazel eyes of those three little kids.
Jack sat up with a shout, beating at his torso and his legs, trying to get the children’s eyes off him. The air had been snatched from his lungs and he couldn’t draw his breath. He frantically slapped at the covers, eyes everywhere, but it wasn’t until Buster put his paws on the edge of the bed, his tail wagging, and touched Jack’s arm with his wet nose that Jack remembered where he was.
He let out the breath he’d been holding and rubbed his face. Then he leaned over for Buster, dragging him onto the bed with him. Buster licked his face, turned around twice, then settled in beside Jack, his body, warm and solid, pressed against Jack’s ribs.
Jack lay there in the dark. His heart raced painfully, rivulets of sweat sliding from his forehead and neck into his hairline. It was useless to try to stop seeing the scene from that day—he knew from experience that the images flooding his thoughts would not go away without help.
He feared he’d never be able to cope with it. That suicide bomber, the first one to strike the market that day, had blown the US Marines-armored Humvee to pieces. A second suicide bomber had detonated four minutes later at the other end of the open market. Jack was nowhere near the Humvee, and yet he was still knocked across the street, slamming into the corrugated siding of a small bodega as some piece of metal embedded itself in his leg. The force had caused him to pass out for a moment or two, and when he came to, he saw nothing but carnage around him.
Forty people lost their lives with the first blast, including the mother and her three children, with the candy still in their hands. Another twelve souls were lost in the second blast, including two US Marines.
In all that chaos, minutes had gone by before Jack heard his radio. He remembered how hard it was to pick himself up, to gather his wits. He remembered searching blindly around for his assault rifle and finding it nearby. When he had it in his hands, he used it to stand on one leg—and he looked at all the unfamiliar faces swirling around him. And suddenly, everyone was a bomber. Men, women, and children fleeing the scene, or rushing in to help, were bombers. He sighted his gun on person after person, suspecting everyone, his arm shaking. He frantically debated whether he should pull the trigger, or whether he was letting them all get away.