by Julia London
That was it for her. He felt perfect inside her, and she found herself floating away on a surprisingly frothy concoction of hard-bodied man, burning desire, and earthy pleasure. She moved on him as if she’d taken lessons, moving them both toward a release that she felt pretty sure might blow out the windows. Somewhere in the middle of that most excellent ride, Jack put his arm around her waist and rolled with her, putting her on her side, and taking over the work. They glided along on that surf of pure pleasure until Whitney couldn’t bear it another moment and was rocked into the oblivion of physical release. She pitched forward into the sensation, pressing into his body and gave in completely to his strokes, to his kisses, to the rolling waves of pleasure that washed over her. A moment later, Jack gave in to the pull of release, too, thrusting into her one last time with a garbled moan.
Her heart pounded so hard with elation that she could hardly hear herself breathe. She rolled onto her back, still trying to catch her breath, still stunned by the amazing sensation of it all. Jack rolled onto his back, too. He was breathing just as hard as she was, his eyes closed. She sat up, kissed his chest, then crawled off the bed.
“Wait.” He reached for her. “Where are you going?”
She picked up his shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head, breathing in the spicy, oaky scent. “To turn on the oven.”
He came up on his elbow. “You’re still going to cook?”
“Yep. It’s my job, and I’m starving. Aren’t you hungry? Fun fact—I am always hungry after a little toss in the hay. Like, ravenous. I don’t know what that is.” She pushed her hair from her face. She smiled at him, and her smile felt full of affection. Whether it was for great sex, or whether Weird Al here was growing on her, Whitney didn’t precisely know.
His expression in return was not something she completely understood. He looked a little fearful, a tiny bit awestruck, and something else. He looked, she thought, a little grateful. If anyone should be grateful, it was her. She felt like the sexiest badass woman in all of Seattle right now. She wasn’t sure, but she bet her hair was perfectly mussed and her lipstick was still on her mouth, and that she looked completely adorable in his shirt. That’s how good she felt.
Eleven
That Friday afternoon romp turned into Saturday morning—Jack and Whitney had spent the evening curled up together on the couch and in his bed. Jack was very effectively reminded why he’d liked sex so much Before Afghanistan.
He was in a very good mood owing to that most excellent sex when she said she had to meet her realtor midday Saturday. He was in awe that they—he—had talked so much. Astoundingly, she’d broken through an invisible dam in him—he’d said more in two days than he had in the last two years. And that included his bi-weekly torturous sessions with Dr. Pratt.
What had seemed impossible to him a few weeks ago was now truth—he trusted Whitney, trusted someone new in his life. It had been so long since Jack had been able to trust anything. He’d told her about growing up in Eagle’s Ridge, about his best friends, and the things they used to do. How he’d gone into the Marines after college, wanting a greater purpose, wanting to serve in some way.
Whitney, in turn, told him about her “life of privilege,” as she called it. She confessed she’d never had to work for anything, that everything had been handed to her. That this foray into a bakery was the first thing she’d done from start to finish on her own.
“That’s not entirely true,” he’d said. “You worked for a law degree.”
“But only because I felt pressure to do it, not because I wanted to achieve something. I mean, I wanted to finish law school, but I knew from the beginning it wasn’t what I wanted to do. That’s why this is so important.” She gestured to the apple pie she’d made for them. “This is the first time in my life that an idea and a goal are all mine. If I make it or if I don’t, it’s all on me. It’s a really big deal to me.”
“I get that,” he’d said. He understood how hard it was to set goals and make them. Hell, he could scarcely go to the Coffee Corner with her that morning, but he’d done it, and he considered that an achievement.
He admired Whitney for not taking the easier way and the waiting job. He liked that she was focused on what sort of life she could make for herself, instead of letting life just happen to her. He could well imagine that a smart, beautiful woman like her would have had no trouble following a path to guaranteed success if she’d gone on to take the bar. She would have gone to work in her father’s law firm, married well—probably the sort of guy who was a pillar of the community—and would have born the required number of children. She would never have had to worry about a thing. But Whitney had obviously seen her life differently, and she seemed ready to fall on the sword to make it happen.
They also talked about movies and books, about sports—she was a fellow football fan—and dream vacations, in which beaches and mountains figured prominently for both of them. They talked about the current state of the world, of how such danger and beauty could co-exist. Much to Jack’s surprise, they even talked about politics. These days, that didn’t seem to be an easy conversation for anyone, but Jack and Whitney appeared to be on the same side on the issues.
Whitney’s presence was a much-needed light in his life. The invisible weight of failure had been lifted; the curtains and windows had been opened and a ray of hope had filtered into his narrow world. He’d forgotten the tremendous healing power of the human touch, or how liberating it was to have someone to whom he could voice his thoughts. He was still filled with anxiety—not everything had changed—and yet, he could feel something opening up in him. The bricks were loosening and a few of them had fallen away. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks.
The other significant thing to happen over the weekend was that just after lunch on Saturday, when Whitney had gone out to look at some potential properties, Jack had called Sharon from the clinic. She’d answered on the first ring. From her tone, she sounded like a middle-aged, harried nurse and, even though she was speaking from home, she spoke furtively. She quickly acknowledged that the clinic had two sets of appointment books.
Terrence had told him as much, but Jack had needed to hear it from her.
Sharon explained that the clinic had one set of appointment books that they kept on the computer, the schedule that made it seem as if Peter had been booked for a follow-up and hadn’t showed for it.
“Why?” Jack had asked.
“There’s not enough staff to handle all the people who need to come in,” she said. “But if we turn them away, we don’t get paid. So… they make it look like they came in, and then, we get paid.”
“What happens to the money they collect? Did they try to hire more staff?”
“Nope,” she’d said, sounding annoyed by it. “I don’t know what they do with it. Anyway, that’s why we have the manual schedule, and that’s the true one. It’s the one that shows how long some of these vets are having to wait to get help.”
If what she was saying could be corroborated, Jack knew it was an explosive story. This sort of thing had supposedly been cleaned up with the new administration. “Sharon…I need a copy of that schedule.”
“No,” she’d said immediately. “If I get caught, I’ll be fired,” she’d whispered. “I’m a single mom, and I can’t lose that job.”
“I get it. I swear to you that I will never reveal my source. I’d go to jail first. I swear to you,” he’d said, pressing his hand against his heart as if she could see him.
“You can swear all you want, but it’s not the same thing for you. You have nothing to lose.”
“That’s not true,” he’d said hoarsely as that cottony feeling in the back of his throat had returned, along with the thickness in his tongue, and he’d tried to swallow again. “I actually have a lot to lose.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Peter died—”
“I know, and it was horrible,” she’d said shortly. “But that’s not you.”
/> “But it is.” He swallowed. “That’s the thing, Sharon—it could very well be me.”
His admission had been met with silence. He feared she thought he was feeding her a line to get what he wanted and get her fired.
“I have some of the, ah…” He’d tried to utter the words, tried to swallow against the cotton in his throat. “Same issues,” he’d said in a rush.
Sharon had been silent, and Jack had panicked. He’d told her the truth and suddenly she wasn’t speaking. For all he knew, she was making a note of his number, was going to trace it back to his apartment and report him to the—
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay, okay. It will take me a few days. I’ll call you when I have it.”
Jack’s heart was still racing, but he could swallow again. “Thank you, Sharon. For Peter, for me—thank you.”
“I’ll call you,” she’d finally said, and had hung up.
* * *
Whitney returned Saturday night, and that evening turned into Sunday morning, when Whitney and Jack stayed in bed and made love while it rained torrents outside. Midday, she said she had to bake.
“Then come back tonight,” he’d said, surprisingly reluctant to let her go.
She’d peered closely at him, her gaze locked on his. “Am I imagining things? Or do you like me?”
He’d smiled. “You’re okay,” he’d said with a playful, noncommittal shrug.
“You like me like me,” she’d said, poking him in the chest.
“Okay,” he’d agreed, throwing his hands up. “I like you, like you.”
Whitney had cast her radiant smile around him and Buster, and leaned in to kiss him. “Then I’ll come back tonight.” And then she’d practically skipped out of his apartment…because she liked him, too.
Christie called shortly after Whitney left. “What are you doing?” she’d asked.
“Hanging out.” He made the mistake of chuckling when he said it. Christie homed in on that and dragged the truth out of him.
“The dinner girl,” she said, her voice full of amazement. “She’s pretty. And her cupcakes are to die for.”
“Tell me,” Jack agreed.
“No. You tell me,” Christie insisted.
Jack told her that he had a friend. He didn’t know what else to call it, other than amazing.
His “friend” returned that evening with a grocery bag. “Dinner Magic has nothing on me,” she announced. Then hesitated. “Okay, maybe they do. But I can grill a chicken breast as well as anyone.” She made a salad, roasted potatoes, and opened a bottle of wine she’d bought. She served the meal on his dining room table after stacking files and papers he stored there in an empty chair. It had been awhile since Jack had had a true sit-down meal.
While they dined, Whitney fretted about the properties she’d seen, as none of them were perfect.
“What happened with Pioneer Square?” he asked, recalling her bit of monologue when they met for the first time.
“Pioneer Square,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “is insanely expensive. And so small! I could have maybe squeezed in three bistro tables. But, Louisa and I are going out again later this week because she says she has found the perfect place…but between you and me, she says that every time.” She punctuated that with a fork. “But she says this one is it. She says it’s a little pricey, but checks all the boxes.” She suddenly gasped. “You should come with me!”
The suggestion hit Jack square in the gut. He tried to smile, but his fear changed the vibe instantly. He then tried to laugh it off. “You don’t want me hanging around—”
“Yes, I do! You know all about Seattle.”
“Not really.”
“Sure you do! You know more than me. Please?” she pleaded prettily. “We haven’t been out of your apartment—”
“I know.” He abruptly stood and walked into the kitchen. Breathe in, breathe out. Think of puppies. “It’s just that I have this deadline—”
“Jack…I could really use your opinion. I need a grounded view.”
He needed to think. He completed a circuit of the kitchen and walked back to the table and sat down. He pressed one fisted hand to his knee in a weak attempt to keep his breathing normal. “She’s your friend. She’ll give you a grounded view.”
“She is my friend, but she also has a vested interest in getting me to agree to something,” she said. “You don’t, and you’re my friend, too.”
Friends. He liked the sound of that. “We’re friends, huh?” He reached for her hand across the table, twining his fingers with hers, his anxiety subdued for the moment.
“We’re friends and lovers,” she said dramatically, and leaned across to him. “At least that’s what I’m broadcasting to anyone who will listen. So far, that would be my sister and Louisa.”
“And how do your friend and sister take the news of a lover?” He stroked her arm.
“With great interest,” she said. “Louisa was mad she didn’t know earlier. My sister was impressed at first, but when I told her that it had started Friday, she was no longer impressed. She said one weekend is not sufficient time for one to proclaim one has a lover.”
“No?” He pulled Whitney toward him. Miraculously, his breathing had evened out. Funny how the chance of sex could do that to him. He should employ it more often. “What is the appropriate amount of time before you can declare you have taken a lover?”
She kissed him. “I don’t know. What do you think? A week? Two weeks? Maybe it’s based on the number of times you make love. How does three times sound?”
“It sounds, Miss Baldwin, as though you have taken a lover.” He kissed her back.
The rest of the meal was forgotten. They ended up on the couch, a tangle of arms and legs and lips while the lights of Seattle glittered at them. And then they sat in their underwear and ate directly from the pie tin.
But Whitney left him later that night. “I have to be up early tomorrow,” she said when he complained about it. “I have an appointment with a tea room and a new Dinner Magic client. But I’ll be back tomorrow with your meal delivery. And can I just say, I am so happy you ordered more things off the menu, Jack Carter.”
“You ordered them, remember?”
“I know, but you didn’t give me any grief. I have hope for you yet.”
Jack had hope for him, too.
She dipped down to kiss Buster good-bye, too, and walked backward down the hall, wiggling her fingers at him, then turning to race to the elevator when it opened. She stuck her head out. “You’re going with me to see this property Thursday, right? It’s just around the corner from here.” She waved, and the elevator door closed.
* * *
Jack was smiling when he sat down for his Skype appointment with Dr. Pratt on Monday.
“Oh!” she said, with a look of surprise when she tuned in. “You look happy, Jack.”
“I am,” he said. “I had a great weekend.” He gave her a quick, G-rated rundown of the weekend’s events.
Dr. Pratt smiled. “So you trust her.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. He did trust her, and that was amazing to him.
“Well then! When are you going to take your girlfriend on a date?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said.
“Let’s say she is.”
“Let’s not.”
“She won’t be content cooking for you every day, you realize that, don’t you? Women like to be treated like a princess from time to time. She’s going to want to go out, and I think you should start to plan on how you will manage that. Where you might take her that feels safe.”
Jack’s heart leapt a little. He focused on a thread in the fraying hem of his jeans. “Actually, I think she’s cool with things as they are. She knows I’m under a deadline.” He tugged on the string. Maybe he ought to order a new pair.
“Are you going to tell her?” Dr. Pratt asked.
Jack tugged harder at the string. “Tell her what?”
“Jack.”
Dr. Pratt had cocked her head to one side. “Why do you think you don’t want to tell her about your affliction?”
“Because it is an affliction,” he said sharply, and then immediately shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know. Yeah, I do—I’m ashamed.”
“Something awful happened to you, Jack. There is no shame in that. Your body and your mind are still processing that terrible thing, still coping—”
“It sounds stupid,” he said curtly. It sounded weak. It sounded as if he couldn’t handle himself, as though he wasn’t a strong man, and the thing was, there was a time he could have handled himself and half of Seattle if he’d had to.
“I don’t see it as stupid, and I think to say it is demeans everyone who struggles with a mental health disability. What I see is a legitimate physical and neurological response to trauma. And I would suggest that a remark like you just made adds to the stigmatization—”
“Doc,” he said pleadingly. “I’m having a good time right now. I don’t want to ruin it.”
She smiled sadly, as though he were a disappointing child. “I would like for you to seriously consider why you believe that telling this woman the truth would ruin anything. Is she heartless?”
He snorted. “No.”
“Do you think she has the capacity to understand that everyone comes to relationships with personal issues?”
“Yes,” he said, “but this is different.”
“Is it? I’m sure she has her own insecurities. And if she would judge you for what happened to you, then I wonder why she would be someone you wanted in your life.”
It was a legitimate question, and his answer would be no, he wouldn’t want her in his life. He needed someone who understood the beast that kept his throat in its jaws. But he did not want to take the chance that she wouldn’t understand.
“Have you been to the coffee shop?” Dr. Pratt asked.