by Julia London
Jack took her by the hand, pulled her around to the couch and sat her down. “Cheer up.” He pulled off one of her boots and began to rub her foot. “You found the perfect place, remember? You’ll be up and running in no time.”
“I know, I know. But the perfect place costs a small fortune.” She sighed, leaned her head against the couch and closed her eyes as he worked on her foot. “Jack, that’s, like, orgasmic.”
He chuckled and continued working on her foot for a few minutes. When he moved to the next one, she pulled the mailer out of her bag. “Here’s your package,” she said. “I don’t know how I feel about your friend. She flat-out rejected my offer of a Cookie Monster cupcake.”
“She did?”
“Actually, she never answered. She just looked at the cupcake like it was poison and I was a lunatic. She was even miffed that I had a rolling cooler. What’s up with her?”
“Ah, well,” Jack said, his focus on her foot, “she’s a source. Sources can be suspicious. I promised I wouldn’t say anything about her.”
“Not even to me?” Whitney teased him, nudging him with her foot.
“Even to you,” he said. “She’d get in a lot of trouble if anyone knew she was talking to me.”
“Well, now you have my undivided attention. This sounds like espionage. You’re not a spy, are you?” She suddenly laughed. “Are you a spy, Jack? Please tell me you’re a spy.”
“Not a spy.” Jack let go of her foot. He moved to sit beside her on the couch and put his arm around her shoulders. “I told you one of the articles I’m working on is about a VA clinic. It gets money from the VA to help vets.”
“So why the espionage?” she asked curiously.
He considered the question a moment. “I had a friend—Peter was his name—and he had some major issues after his tour in Afghanistan. He had trouble getting into the Victory clinic at first, but he finally did. They put him on some meds. Well, the meds weren’t working, and they were making him feel worse. So, Peter tried to go back, but he couldn’t get an appointment. That’s really strange, because once the clinic knew he was having psychotic side effects, they should have gotten him in straightaway. But Peter was waitlisted, and before they got him in, he died.”
“Oh my God,” Whitney said. “What happened?”
“He killed himself,” Jack said.
She gasped. “No!”
“Afraid so,” he said. “But the clinic denied he was waitlisted and said he missed his appointments. I’ve been nosing around about that, and I got Sharon, who works at the clinic, to admit there are two schedules. They have a schedule they show the VA in order to receive their money, and they have the real one. The waitlist. Sharon didn’t want to do it, but she made a copy of the real one, and that’s what’s in the package.”
“Oh,” Whitney said.
“Hopefully whatever she sent will help me open this story up.”
Whitney was silent a few moments, thinking about that. “Did you make the arrangements to go to Eagle’s Ridge?”
“I did.” He’d been so relaxed, but he suddenly sat up, bracing his arms on his knees.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m renting a car.” He rubbed his hands on his knees. “Going early Sunday, back in the evening.”
He kept rubbing his hands on his knees, which Whitney took as a sign he was very torn up about Lainey’s death. Two friends lost—how hard that must have been for Jack.
“Do you want me to keep Buster?” she asked.
He turned his head to look at her. “Where…at your place?”
“Sure, why not? Buster could use a change of scenery, couldn’t you, Buster?” she asked. Hearing his name, Buster appeared to stick his nose under her hand. He looked at her so adoringly that Whitney’s heart melted a little.
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I could use a little company.”
“That’s…that’s really nice of you.” His gaze filled with an expression of affection that surprised Whitney. No one had looked at her like that in a very long time—with appreciation. It made her feel warm and sparkly inside, and she reached for his hand, squeezed his fingers. “Let’s go somewhere,” she said. “Get a drink, have some dinner, take our mind off everything.”
“I would love to do that.” He said it so earnestly that Whitney was about to stand up, shove the ingredients of his meal kit into the fridge, and grab her bag.
“But I can’t.” He winced. “I’ve got too much to do to get ready.”
Whitney’s doubts and emotions crashed into each other. She tried to formulate a response, perhaps one that pointed out how he was only going to Eagle’s Ridge for a day, and there couldn’t be that much to do to “get ready.” Or maybe even point out how he never left his apartment, and when he did, he couldn’t wait to get back to it.
“And I had planned to cook tonight and serve you,” he added, and suddenly smiled, casting his arms around him at all the flowers. “I made it as romantic as I could.”
Whitney looked at the flowers and the candles. He had gone to some trouble. “I see what you did there,” she said lightly. But she still felt a little funky about it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, because he was making a romantic gesture. But once again, something seemed off.
He seemed to sense her hesitation because he suddenly grabbed her up in his arms and kissed her, his hand cupping her jaw, his lips nipping at hers. “Thank you for understanding,” he murmured.
Whitney didn’t understand him at all. She couldn’t help wonder, as she kissed him back and felt herself turning to warm, gooey molasses, whether she had landed in a relationship that felt so damn right but was practically all wrong for her.
Was that even possible?
Was she overthinking it?
She tried to shake that feeling off as she sat at the bar to watch Jack make dinner, drinking the wine he poured her and eating the olives he’d ordered, while giggling at how inept he was in the kitchen. Gradually, her misgivings began to melt away. How could she possibly think anything was wrong when she was being wined and dined by a guy as hot and sexy as Jack?
After dinner, they played a silly board game that had them both collapsing into giggles. Whitney refused to dwell on the fact that he’d said he had too much to do to go out, and yet, had the time to play a game. And that night, when they made love, she didn’t think about anything other than how wonderful it felt to be with him, to feel him inside her. She thought only of how magical and perfect it all was and had all the fairy-tale feels a girl was supposed to have when she was falling in love.
God, was she falling in love with him?
Maybe. It sort of felt that way.
In spite of the weird vibe she got from him at times, and the questions she had about what was really going on in that beautiful head of his, something about Jack just clicked with her.
* * *
The next morning, Whitney kissed Jack good-bye for the weekend. They’d mutually decided she’d come back Monday with Buster when she brought his Dinner Magic meal kit.
She and Buster trundled home to her little studio apartment, taking time to walk through a park and by a pet store, where Buster was quite excited to have a look at the kittens in a crate high above him. She bought him a toy and some treats to chew on while she worked.
Later that night, when Whitney crawled into her bed—just two mattresses stacked one on top of the other—Buster decided he liked that option better than the floor and climbed up next to her. The next morning, the loud snoring of a dog curled up beside her awakened her.
She and Buster read the morning paper, walked down to get a coffee and some eggs, then returned to her studio. She busied herself with chores, and Buster followed her around the two hundred and fifty square feet she was allotted.
Midday, she decided she wanted to make a rhubarb pie and decorate it with an array of edible flowers. But as she made a list of ingredients she would need, she realized that her deep-dish pie tin
was at Jack’s. “Great,” she muttered and glanced at her charge. “We need a walk, don’t we, pup? We’ll go get some fresh rhubarb from Pike’s Place, then run by Jack’s and get the pie tin.”
Buster wagged his tail with enthusiasm.
It was a beautiful day, with a gorgeous blue sky overhead. The only thing that would have made their midday Sunday jaunt more exciting was if Jack had been with them. Whitney could imagine them going to Pike’s Place, then strolling through the park, then getting some ice cream. A picture-perfect Sunday afternoon, just like the movies had taught her to want.
In the lobby of Jack’s apartment building, Frank was sitting behind the desk.
“You work weekends, too?” Whitney asked.
“Nah.” He rubbed an eye. “The new kid called in sick. I just got here.”
“I’m going to run up and get a pie tin,” she said.
“Sure,” Frank said. “I’ll call and let him know you’re on the way.”
“Don’t bother, he’s not there.” She held out his apartment keys and jangled them in front of Frank.
“We’re making progress,” Frank said approvingly, and waggled his brows at her.
“We are,” she agreed, and with a laugh, she and Buster headed for the bank of elevators.
At the door of Jack’s apartment, Whitney stuck the key in the lock and turned. But it was unlocked. “He forgot to lock it,” she muttered. She opened the door, and Buster suddenly broke from her side, racing down the hall with the leash trailing behind him, then turning in to the hall that led to the bedrooms.
“He’s not here!” she called after the dog. She put down her bag and shut the door, then walked down the hall after the dog. But as she neared the last room at the end of the hall, something unpleasant curled in her belly. She had the creepy feeling that someone was in there. “Buster!” she hissed, and slowly, carefully, inched toward the door.
Someone was in there, all right. It was Jack, sitting in the corner of his room, his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked ashen, and her first instinct was that he was sick. “Oh my God, Jack.” She ran across the room to him, falling to her knees beside him and pushing Buster out of the way. “What happened? Are you okay?” She put her hand to his forehead. It was damp and warm.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice gravelly. He tried to push her hand away, but he misjudged where she was. He was sweating profusely, his shirt soaked through, and his breathing seemed ragged.
“I’m calling 911.” She moved to stand.
“No!” he said sharply, and caught her arm, this time with surprising strength. “Don’t call anyone,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
Alarmed, Whitney jerked her arm free. “No, you’re not. You’re sweating, and your breathing is shallow, and you look like hell.”
“Just...just give me a minute.” He pulled Buster onto his lap, cradling the dog.
Whitney sank back on her heels, trying to make sense of it. “What is happening right now?” she asked him. “What is going on?”
“Nothing.” He buried his face in Buster’s neck.
“It’s not nothing, Jack. It is definitely something. You’re supposed to be at a funeral and you look like you’re dying or—Jesus, is it drugs?”
“Drugs!” he said, sounding annoyed. “Of course, it’s not drugs.” He pushed Buster off his lap and came to his feet, using the wall as leverage. He moved past her and stumbled into the bathroom. He opened a medicine cabinet so roughly that several amber pill bottles tumbled out.
Whitney had goose bumps, felt as if she were seeing someone else in Jack’s skin. “What is all that? You’re not okay—”
“Just let it go, Whitney!” he shouted.
Whitney was so taken aback by his tone and the murderously angry look on his face that she took a step backward. “Okay.” She held up both hands. And then she walked out of his room quickly, propelled by a lethal mix of anger and fear. She felt stupid; she felt used. She grabbed up her bag, had a thought, and raced into the kitchen to get her pie tin. When she had it in hand, she whirled toward the door, but Jack stood there, blocking her way, and her heart climbed to her throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I need to go.”
“Don’t—”
“I have to get out of here!” She pushed past him.
Jack grabbed her arm again. “Please let me explain—”
“Let go of me!” she shrieked, and Jack instantly dropped his hand.
Whitney didn’t want to listen to him—all her doubts, all the times she’d felt something was off, was part of a nauseating mix of fear and betrayal and white-hot anger. How could she have been so stupid?
“Whitney!” he called after her, his voice full of torment.
Whitney paused at the door. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened the door, and slowly turned back to him. He stood in the hallway, drenched with sweat, a terrified expression. “Look, Jack,” she said. “I really like you. I do. But I don’t know what’s going on with you, and it scares me. This is just too weird for me.”
“I know.” He reached a hand toward her, as if trying to hold her in place as he took an uneasy step forward. “Believe me, I know how weird it is.”
“If you know, then why don’t you…” She made a frantic motion with her hand. “Do something!”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re not trying hard enough,” she said, and bolted through the door. If he called her, she didn’t hear him. She didn’t care whether he did. She’d gotten too emotionally invested, and the warning signs had been there all along.
She reached the elevator and punched the down button hard enough to hurt her finger. The door instantly slid open. Whitney stepped back without looking at the person stepping off the elevator. Her mind was too far from here, racing toward all the things she wanted to hate herself for in this moment.
“Hey! Whitney, it’s me, Christie.”
Whitney jerked her gaze up to Jack’s sister. She was smiling.
“How are you? Oh hey, your cupcakes were dope,” she said. “I can’t believe you don’t have shops all over downtown—”
“Thanks.” Whitney tried to step around Christie before the elevator doors closed. Unfortunately, she couldn’t reach them in time, and no hammering on the button was going to bring the car back.
Christie glanced down the hall, to Jack’s open door, then to Whitney. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Did something happen?”
“No. Sort of.” Whitney tried to avoid Christie’s gaze, but Christie kept moving and putting herself in front of Whitney.
“Sort of like what?”
“I’m sorry,” Whitney said. “I don’t want to rag on your brother, I don’t. But he’s got some issues.”
“He sure does,” Christie readily agreed. “Did he tell you?”
She had Whitney’s undivided attention. “Tell me what?”
Christie’s face darkened. She took Whitney’s hand. “Come on,” she said sternly. “He’s going to tell you, or I’m going to kick his stupid ass.”
Fifteen
Jack was still in the same spot he was when Whitney walked out, still reeling from the realization that when she left, she took the best thing to have happened to him since Afghanistan. He didn’t feel the ravage of anxiety—he felt numb. Everything else that had happened today was a distant dream.
He’d screwed up.
Jack wasn’t surprised to see Christie when the door opened—after all, he’d called her from the airport where he’d gone to get the rental car—but he was surprised she was tugging Whitney behind her. Christie was furious, too, judging by the way she glared at him, her jaw clenched and her eyes blazing. She stood just over the threshold, oblivious that Buster danced around her, wanting attention.
“Tell her,” she ordered him.
Jack swallowed against the cotton balls in his throat.
“So help me God, Jack,
if you don’t tell her, I will. You can’t keep people in the dark.”
“I know.” His voice sounded hoarse, weak, and as indefensible as he felt. An idiot, that’s what he was—a fucking freak. He had honestly allowed himself to believe he was making headway, but he wasn’t, not really. He was still the same guy he’d been since the day the bomber blew those kids sky-high.
“She means something to you,” Christie said, looking near to tears. “Is this what you want to do?”
“Do I?” Whitney’s gaze was on Jack, her brows knit in a frown of frustration and seriousness and hurt.
Damn it all to hell, Jack had hurt her.
“Tell her,” Christie said.
“Tell me what?” Whitney demanded.
Jack tried. God, he tried, but the cotton balls were in his mouth, and his tongue felt thick.
“Okay.” Christie nodded as if she were gearing up to step into a prizefight. She kept her gaze steady on Jack. “Just so you know, Whitney, my brother called me from the airport this morning in the midst of a full-on panic attack.”
Whitney stared at Christie. “What?”
“Yep, it’s true,” Christie said. “Jack gets them all the time because he has Post Traumatic—”
“Okay.” Jack threw up a hand. He swallowed hard again. He was mortified to see he was trembling. Rivulets of sweat slid down his back.
“Okay what? Okay, you’re going to tell her?” Christie pressed him, because God knew if there was one person in this world that would push back at him with force, it was his sister. “Then for God’s sake, tell her already!” She suddenly let go of Whitney’s wrist and walked past Jack, into his living room, and collapsed onto the couch as if she’d just climbed eighteen flights of stairs.
Whitney stared at him, her eyes widened with bewilderment and hurt.
He’d done that. He’d made her doubt herself, and him, and the two of them. She must believe the worst about him. He could only blame himself, and the worst of it was that it felt too late now, because she had seen him at his most vulnerable. No woman wanted a man like him. If she left him, she left him—he couldn’t change it now.