Close to You

by Kara Isaac

  “Like how?” Jackson actually looked interested.

  Allie thought for a second. No point telling him about the major characters like Glorfindel who had been cut completely from the movies; they wouldn’t mean anything to him. “Like Aragorn. The movies make him look weak, both when it comes to Arwen and his role. In the screenplay he loves her but makes no real effort to secure their future. It was all on her to give up her immortality. He is full of fears and self-doubt, and unwilling to embrace the destiny. He doesn’t take up his forefathers’ sword until nearly the middle of the third movie, when Elrond brings the reforged blade to Dunharrow.”

  “And in the books?”

  How to sum it up succinctly? “Arwen’s father’s terms were that she could only wed the man who had become king of both Gondor and Arnor, and this was a driving force for him. Tolkien writes Aragorn as a man of singular destiny for which he is prepared by Elrond and toward which he labors throughout his life. He bears the sword wherever he goes, even when it’s in shards. He’s not afraid to fight for what he wants—Arwen.”

  Which was what every girl wanted. Part of what had had her tumbling head over heels for Derek was his unwavering pursuit of her. And look what that had brought her. Allie picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of prosciutto.

  Jackson seemed to sense her change in mood and didn’t pursue it any further. Dipping a breadstick into some sort of pesto, he leaned back in his seat and took a bite. “Mmmm, this is good.”

  Reaching out, he went to dip the stick back in. Before she even thought about it, her hand flew out and slapped it away. The breadstick flew from his hand like a miniature baton, landing on the carpet about six feet away.

  “Hey!”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to double-dip?”

  “What?” He looked at her like she’d started talking Elvish.

  “That”—she pointed at the breadstick—“went into your mouth. You don’t go dipping it again in something other people have to eat. It’s uncouth.”

  Oh dear. That was, word for word, exactly what her mother had said more times than she could remember. She even sounded like her. The compulsion to go and pick the breadstick up from its lonely spot on the carpet followed—the legacy of being raised by a woman who once rang the police to find out where she could buy the plastic booties worn at crime scenes.

  A slow smile crossed his face. “You’re telling me you’ve spent your entire life denied the pleasure of having more than one helping of salsa on a tortilla chip?”

  When he said it like that, it sounded pathetic. But he had never met Veronica.

  “You think it’s funny, but you’re talking to the daughter of a woman who once slapped the prime minister’s hand at a cocktail party when he went to double-dip.”

  His mouth dropped. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “So are you telling me in— What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Veronica.”

  “That in Veronica’s world”—he pulled out a new breadstick, dipped the end in the pesto, and waved it at her—“after I’ve bitten off this end, that’s it? I have to suffer the boredom of a plain breadstick for as long as this breadstick shall live?”

  “Yes.” It came out uptight and prim.

  Actually, now that she thought about it, he could flip it around and use the other end. Bit late to work that out now when she’d already slapped the guy.

  “Allison Shire.” He was doing a terrible job of smothering his grin. “I dare you to live a little. Indulge in a breadstick that has pesto on every bite. Double-dip. Triple-dip, even. I, as the only other person sharing this dish, give you permission.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “If you don’t, then I’m going to eat all the rest of them like this.” He bit off the pesto end and chucked the rest of the breadstick over his shoulder. Picked up another one, dipped it, and did the same.

  She had to curl her hands around the bottom of her chair to stop herself from getting up and scuttling around, picking them up from the floor. “Do what you like.” She reached out and took a sip of water. “I don’t have anything to prove to you.” The words came out defensive.

  He stopped suddenly, breadstick number four halfway to his mouth. “No, you don’t. I’d imagine you’re the one person who doesn’t have anything to prove to anyone.”

  From the look in his eyes, they weren’t talking about something stupid like baked goods or double-dipping anymore. She opened her mouth to come back with something flippant, something to get them back on safe, neutral ground. But somehow her brain forgot to instruct her mouth because what came out was “Except I ruined my life trying to prove my mother wrong.”

  Her whole body felt like she had shoved her finger into an electrical socket. What on earth had possessed her to admit that? To him of all people. What was wrong with her?

  Her mind went into a meltdown, trying to work out what she was going to say to his logical follow-up questions. Why? How? When? What happened?

  “I’ve ruined a whole lot of peoples’ lives trying to prove my entire town wrong.” As Jackson’s words hit the air, his whole body froze, and she got the sense he had the same hysterical questions running through his mind.

  She could breathe again, struck by the realization this was probably one of the most honest conversations she’d had since the day Julia showed up at her lecture and made her life a public sideshow.

  “What happened?” Her fingers twisted around themselves, performing an intricate dance on the tablecloth. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You don’t—”

  “My company collapsed.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Quite spectacularly, after my girlfriend stole my most closely guarded intellectual property and gave it to my biggest competitor.” Bitterness steeped his tone. “I developed a logistics supply chain program that will revolutionize retail. The IP was what everything was built around, what was going to take us big. I was the only one who knew how everything fit together. And Nicole, it turned out. After she turned over my files, instead of propelling our Wall Street listing the company had to fold, taking with it some of my investors’ retirement funds and college savings for their kids.”

  “I’m sorry.” The boat dipped into a swell, pushing her back against her chair.

  “Me too.” He picked up his water glass, then put it back down. Pushed it around in front of him. “It was six months ago and I can still hear the sobs of one father asking me how he was supposed to tell his son he wasn’t going to be going to his dream college after all.” A tornado of vulnerability, misery, and regret stormed across his face at the admission.

  He stared at something over her shoulder. “If I can’t convince Louis to invest in my new business and find a way to pay them back, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to live with myself. I’m supposed to be passing some kind of character test and somehow I’ve ended up starring in some kind of match­making scheme in Tolkien land. What am I supposed to do with that? No offense.” He looked trapped. Exactly how she felt. “I mean—”

  “The phone call. Yesterday.” Allie’s soft words interrupted his litany of regrets, compelled by a force stronger than her own fear.

  Was she really going to go there? She sucked in a deep breath. Ignored that her insides were performing moves like they were auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance. She could solve this for Jackson right now. Tell him the truth. He’d tell Louis and whatever he was up to trying to matchmake the two of them would be over. Allie tried to find the words to explain her sort-of marriage. “It was m—” Suddenly her stomach let out the kind of roll usually reserved for roller coasters at Six Flags and her hands flew up to her mouth as she cut herself off mid-sentence. Then she was up and running. Heading to the rubbish bin.

  A retch and then a . . . Oh dear. A shuddering heave, her entire body arching over as sh
e puked all over the roses. And her own feet.

  So much for Kwells.

  * * *

  The last time Jackson had rubbed a girl’s back while she puked violently had been . . . never.

  Not once. Not his sister. Not a cousin. Not a single girlfriend. And he had the type of fearless stomach that survived eating street food in India, so his own personal experience was of zero help.

  So he dug deep and tried to remember what his mom had done the couple of times Beth had the stomach flu. He came up with vague memories of back rubbing and soothing noises.

  Here he was, on a boat in the middle of the harbor, awkwardly rubbing Allie’s back while she emptied her stomach for what had to be the fifth time. He’d quit with the soothing noises after he decided they weren’t so much calming but sounded more like some kind of animal in pain.

  The only good news in the whole scenario was that there had been enough of a break between the first and second round for him to grab another trash can, since the first one was already full of the flowers and candles.

  Jackson looked up to find the waiter hovering at his elbow. “Is there anything I can get for her, sir?”

  Allie pulled her head out of the trashcan and just managed to croak out, “Dry ground,” before shoving it back in.

  Jackson looked at the young guy. “How long?”

  “We’ve turned around already, so another five, ten minutes, maybe?”

  “Okay. Can you arrange a cab? I need to get her back to the hotel as fast as possible. Oh, and do me a favor and put all that stuff in a bag or something?” He nodded to Allie’s sick-coated shoes on the floor, her purse, his jacket and tie. From the state she was in, he was betting he would be carrying her off the boat.

  The guy still hovered.

  “What?”

  “Um, the chef wanted me to check it wasn’t anything she ate.”

  Allie shook her head and mumbled something that echoed around the tin can that he translated as she got very seasick.

  What was she even doing on a boat if it made her that sick?

  He looked at her, practically folded in half, clutching her vomit receptacle like it was the last lifejacket on a sinking ship. This was definitely not the moment to be asking that question.

  He squatted in front of her. “Allie.” He kept his quads poised, ready to move if they hit another swell. She’d already almost toppled off her seat once, and had been saved only by him grabbing the back of her dress and hauling her back up.

  There was no response. “Allison!”

  Her head lifted, glazed eyes appearing over the gray rim.

  “We’re going to dock soon. Do you think you can walk?”

  She looked at him like his words were coming at her from the far end of a very long tunnel. After a few seconds, she gave the world’s smallest nod.

  “Are you sure?”

  A few more seconds and an even smaller head shake. For the first time, he noticed most of the ends of the front half of her hair had been caught in the puking avalanche. Poor girl. The decision to release it from her updo had definitely not paid off.

  A change in the vibration of the engines and then the feel of the boat nudging up against something. Finally.

  The waiter appeared with a bulging plastic bag and an empty trash can. “There’s a cab waiting for you on the wharf.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Taking the clean bin, he pried the half-filled one from Allie’s grasp and replaced it with the new one.

  He handed the used one to the guy, who looked less than thrilled. Not that he could blame him. The thing stunk. Bad.

  “Allie, we’re here. Time to get off now. Can you stand up?” He half stood and looped his arm around her back, tucking his fingers around her rib cage.

  Making a valiant effort, she struggled to her feet, the material of her full skirt rustling. To her credit, she did still know what mattered and kept a very firm hold on the bin.

  Tugging her arm across his back, he tried to take a couple of steps, but he was pulling deadweight. Oh, this was hopeless. It would take them until tomorrow to get off this blasted boat.

  “I’m picking you up. Don’t fight me. Seriously.” Nothing.

  With a swoop, he swung his free arm under the backs of her knees and lifted her into his arms, the bin balancing perfectly in the L shape made by her legs and torso.

  “Can you take that down to the cab for us?” He nodded at the plastic bag. “Having only one good eye and all, I need to concentrate on getting her off without dropping her in the water.”

  Given the last few days, he wouldn’t be surprised if he did. And in her current condition, the poor girl would probably sink like a rock.

  The guy nodded. “I’ll get the door.” Striding across the room, he held open the door to the deck.

  Jackson hoped he didn’t think he was getting a tip, because he had no money. And they were about to catch a cab with a driver who’d expect to be paid. Didn’t think that one through, Jackson, did you? Fingers crossed Allie had some money in her purse. If not, he hoped his uncle was back at the hotel to foot the bill. It would only be fair, given that this whole debacle was his fault.

  He adjusted his hold and Allie mumbled as he resettled her, trying desperately not to notice how perfectly she fit or how good she felt curled up against his chest.

  He tilted his head down. “What was that?”

  “You smell good.” She nestled further into his chest, too out of it to notice his heart had just stopped.

  Fifteen

  LITTLE GREMLINS WERE TAKING SLEDGEHAMMERS to the inside of Allie’s skull. Her mouth was as dry as Arizona in August. And her whole body about as hot.

  “Allie.” The word echoed around in her head, like someone was trying to communicate with her from another planet. “Allie, you need to wake up.”

  Wake up, which would require opening her eyes. Way too hard. She hadn’t had a migraine this bad since she was fifteen and her father had decided to take the family sailing around the Bay of Islands. She’d spent the entire time feeding the fishes.

  Ocean. Boat. Sailing. Sick. Little snippets of recall started rising to the surface of her consciousness, stringing themselves together.

  Stranded. Roses. Jackson.

  Her eyes flew open. No. That couldn’t be right.

  “Welcome back.”

  Except the man himself was standing in her hotel room, looking down at her.

  She screamed. The volume took even her by surprise. He jumped, stumbled back into the ottoman, and went over, legs flailing in the air like those of a dying fly.

  Shooting upright, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and froze as she saw bright green splotched with stains.

  Why was she still wearing her cocktail dress? And what on earth had happened to it?

  A tsunami opened in her mind. The rest of the group sneaking off the boat. Eating dinner with Jackson. Talking. “The phone call yesterday. It was—” The next memory she had was of her running to be sick. Very, very sick.

  She groaned.

  “You okay?” He was back on his feet but keeping a safe distance. Looking very refreshed in jeans, a T-shirt, and some trendy casual shoes.

  She scrunched up her face, tempted to close her eyes to try and hide from the mortification overtaking every sense. “How bad was it?”

  He kind of opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Allie buried her head in her hands, then peeked out between her fingers. “That bad, huh?” It must have been downright horrific for him not to be taking the opportunity to give her grief about it.

  Jackson shifted on his feet. “Let’s just say I didn’t know it was physically possible for one small human to expel that much in such a short time.”

  “How did we get back here?”

  “We caught a cab. Sorry, I had to use the mo
ney in your purse. I didn’t have any.”

  She only half heard him, accosted by a hazy memory of snuggling into someone’s arms. Mumbling something. Mumbling what?

  “Did you have to carry me?”

  He nodded. “You were pretty out of it.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I haven’t been on a boat in years. I had hoped maybe if I took something it wouldn’t be too bad.” She ran a hand through her hair. It snagged on something at the end. She held a lock up in front of her face, and the smell of sick wafted under her nose. She’d thrown up on her own hair? In front of him? It was almost more than she could bear.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He unfurled a slow smile at her. The kind that put a slow burn in her stomach. “You asked me to stay.”

  “What?” She hadn’t. Oh please, please let that not be what she had mumbled. She wasn’t that girl. She was so not that girl. She took a quick inventory of her person. Vomit coated. Yes. Disgusting. Very. All clothing present and accounted for? Yes, yes, and yes.

  Whatever mortifying things she might have said in her stupor, she could live with. At least she hadn’t done anything that was going to haunt her forever. She was already overloaded with baggage in that department.

  “Just joking.” He grinned his “gotcha” grin.

  Her ramrod posture wilted, a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding rushing out. “I . . .” If this had been night one, she would’ve known there was no way she would’ve ever said such a thing. No matter what her state. But something had changed in the last few days that scared her and made her feel like whenever Jackson was around, gravity had changed.

  Something in his face shifted. “Sorry. That was in bad taste.” Leaning over, he tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger and looked straight in her eyes, causing her breath to suddenly come out staccato. “Just so we’re clear. I know you’re not that girl. And I am many things, but I am not that guy.”

  Thank goodness. She could breathe a bit easier. “So what happened?”