by Cindi Madsen
I suspected the people in Hell would be shivering and asking for jackets first.
Over the past five days, I’d been trying to work in the rooms he wasn’t in, but somehow the only baseboards that needed removed were in this one, and to be honest, I didn’t really know how to do anything else. I had too much pride to ask Jackson, so I had to YouTube each new project I took on, and after fighting with the fireplace in the living room for two long days—another thing the Property Brothers didn’t properly prepare me for, by the way, in spite of being really good at “picturing the possibilities”—I was back to baseboard removal.
I hadn’t seen the cat for a few days—and only after Jackson had left for the day—but the food I’d left in the kitchen was always gone, and I was trying out optimism and telling myself it was her, not mice or raccoons or some other horrible critter. “Jeez, you must be finding the food I’m leaving, because you’re getting kind of fat. No offense,” I added as I scratched between her ears.
The tap of the hammer slowed, and Jackson cast another glance our way. “I think that cat is pregnant.” He pointed at her with his hammer. “She’s really just fat in the stomach area, and the way it bulges out fits that diagnosis.”
“How do you know what a pregnant kitty looks like?”
He folded his arms across the top of the ladder. “When I was a kid, I had a cat that got pregnant. I thought she was just fat, too, but then she had kittens in the corner of the dining room. Mom was not so happy about that.”
I laughed, imagining that did cause quite the stir at Casa De Gamble. “It was your cat?”
“Men can have cats, too, okay?”
I held up my hands, like I was giving up, but I was far from it. “I guess I just thought of you as more of a dog person. I picture you having one that drools and grunts a lot to help make you feel right at home.” Okay, so maybe it was my slightly sexist idea that cats were more of a pet for lonely women. Considering I’d recently decided to claim one as my own, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hold on to that theory, either.
“And most witches own cats, so it makes sense that you have one.”
My smile turned to glass, the better for cutting him with. “Watch what you say, because I’ve got a potion brewing in the basement as we speak.”
Jackson smiled right back, his grin even bigger, since apparently even that was a competition. “Can’t wait to try it out.”
I’d exhausted my insult bank, and I figured we were only a few more away from swinging whatever tools we had within our reach, so I’d be the bigger person and let it drop. For now.
I sat back, my thighs done with being crouched down and in desperate need of a break anyway. My kitty climbed up on my lap, nudging her head against my hand so I’d continue to pet her.
Jackson stepped off the ladder and dug around in his toolbox. He looked my way, and I steeled myself for a dig about me being lazy and sitting down on the job. “You want to know why cats are better than dogs?”
I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t some kind of trap, but I bit anyway. “Why yes, yes I do. Because I know for a fact that certain nameless cats don’t even catch mice, even when they’re right in front of their nose.”
“Cats bury their own shit,” he said. “No walking after them with a baggie and scooping up their poop.”
I looked down at the midnight-black cat. “We better get you a litter box, just in case. Our relationship will go downhill if I start finding poop everywhere.”
The cat meowed as if she was offended that I thought she’d do something so uncivilized.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “You’re the one who got knocked up. No judgment on the extracurricular activities, but we need to talk about safe sex.”
Jackson snorted a laugh. He crossed his arms and casually leaned against the wall opposite me. “Kitty sex-ed? This I gotta hear.”
In spite of it obviously being a joke, heat settled in my cheeks. Not that I’d let that stop me. “You see, kitty, what happens is guys only want one thing—”
Jackson cleared his throat, obnoxiously loudly, and I amended my statement, because I supposed being amiable once in a while wasn’t the worst thing ever.
“I mean, some guys only want one thing. Like, say, tomcats you meet in a back alley who promise you the world, but you know you’ve seen him out with other girls, a different one every night.” I tsked and added a sigh.
“Don’t you think you should give her a name before giving her the birds and bees talk?”
The cat’s purr vibrated through me as I moved to scratch under her chin. Despite the lack of collar and striking out when I’d asked the neighbors about her, she still might be someone else’s cat. Giving her a name meant admitting my attachment, and I had a rule about that.
Way #4: Attachments are the path to the dark side. Attachments lead to falling. Falling leads to crashing. Crashing leads to suffering.
Therefore, resist the allure of the dark side, and avoid attachments at all costs.
That was with men and to keep my heart safe. I hoped that letting a knocked-up kitty in wouldn’t lead to too big of a crash, no matter how our arrangement worked out. I used to constantly ask for a pet growing up, but I’d had to make do with being around my stepfathers’ family pets, and their hearts had already been given away to their owners, so it wasn’t the same.
“I hate to agree with him—like, ever—but he’s right,” I said, addressing my feline friend. “You need a name before we have our chicks over dicks talk.”
Jackson shook his head. “You’re hopeless.”
“Yep, that’s me. A hopeless cynic. I’m the yin to Savannah’s yang. Of course, I’m pretty sure she thought she could bring me over to the dark side, but leopards don’t change their spots. Now, shhh. I’m trying to come up with the perfect name.”
The kitty perked up her head, her whiskers brushing my hand.
“Black Widow. That’s what I’m going to call you.” I considered the happy purr confirmation she was pleased with her new moniker.
“I thought you were afraid of spiders,” Jackson said.
I blinked up at him, adding a confused expression. “She’s a cat, silly.”
He shook his head again and ran a hand through his hair, which, of course, fell back in its perfectly messy place.
I leaned back on my palms. “You might as well save yourself a lot of trouble and give up ever trying to figure me out. I don’t even get me sometimes.”
A strange look overcame his features, serious with an edge of determination. Then he pushed off the wall and paced toward me. Sitting way down on the floor, cat in my lap, suddenly seemed like a disadvantage.
“If you’re about ready to pack it up,” he said, his voice deep and measured, “I’ll go tackle the non-feline spiders in the attic. I bought a couple of bug bombs to set off. We’re talking nuclear arachnid annihilation.”
Oh, that wasn’t so bad. Actually, it’s awesome. Nothing I needed an advantage for.
I gently scooted Black Widow off my lap and dubiously took the hand Jackson extended. Instead of letting go when he pulled me to my feet, he tugged me closer, my body bumping his. “By the way, I can be just as stubborn as you, and it might take me a while, but I’ll figure you out yet, Ivy Clarke.” His steady gaze bored into mine. “Count on it.”
With that he brushed past me, picked up the bag he’d brought in, and walked upstairs.
While I just stood there, dealing with surges of heat and the inability to swallow, wondering what the hell had just happened.
And why, even though I knew better, I wanted it to happen again.
Chapter Eight
Friday nights at Azure were usually on the busy, hard-to-catch-my-breath side. The blue-hued lights added a calming touch that I rarely felt while working, although during the slow times, I often got caught up watching the water run down the glass-encased wall behind the bar.
I delivered an order of crab fritters—we had the best in the city, hands
down—and moved to the other end of the bar for a quick breather.
Considering Savannah was going to bring her 12 Steps to Mr. Right workshop attendees here for their first field trip, where they’d learn how to spot red flags in person, it’d only get busier.
At least being busy meant lots of tips, because my side project was only getting more expensive by the day.
Thinking of the renovation led to thinking of Jackson, and I couldn’t stop replaying his last sentence to me and trying to decipher exactly what he meant by it. I’ll figure you out yet, Ivy Clarke. Count on it.
Why on earth would he want to figure me out?
I didn’t even want to dive too deep into figuring me out. Somehow I also kept forgetting he was dating another woman, one with a lot less issues who didn’t need decoding, no doubt. He said it was really new, so maybe that means they’re not serious.
Not that I care either way.
Hopefully one day I would be able to sell that lie to myself, because it’d make working with him so much easier.
“Hey,” a deep male voice said, breaking through thoughts best forgotten. Unlike the dozen or so heys I’d been on the other end of tonight, this one was friendly and familiar and a welcome reprieve to being hit on by guys who thought I was obligated to flirt back to get a tip.
I braced my palms on the bar in front of my cousin Linc and asked what he wanted to drink. As I placed a beer in front of him, I asked, “Is it weird to be on the other side of the bar?” Up until a month ago, he’d worked here part time, but with his sports reporting job taking off, he didn’t have time to pour drinks anymore.
“Yeah. I kind of want to jump over and mix up some cocktails,” he joked.
“If it gets busy enough once Savannah comes in, I might beg you for help.”
Linc glanced at the time. “I haven’t seen her all week—I’ve been in Baltimore—so I figured I’d come watch her work. Also figured I’d give some of the guys tips on what not to do when a large group of ladies arrives.”
I clicked my tongue at him. “Skewing Savannah’s hands-on lessons to make guys look better than they are? If she finds out, she’ll have your head.”
“I’m only helping out the ones I know are good guys, the way she helps her attendees. I’m teaching them to live up to their full, possible-Mr.-Right potential.”
“So now you’re a dating coach, too?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Because the aforementioned off-with-your-head threat from your fiancée.”
A slow smile spread across his face as he drifted off to some happy place in his head. “I have my ways of talking her out of being angry with me.”
Of that, I had no doubt. Since we’d hit a lull and no one was waving their hand for a drink, I decided I could spend a minute or two camped out here at the far corner. Linc was a couple of months away from becoming an official part of the Gamble family, but he’d practically been inducted already.
“Did you happen to go to last Sunday’s Gamble Family Dinner?” Every Sunday, Savannah and Jackson were required to be at a big, extended-family dinner, come hell or high water. I’d gone a few times, but I always felt a bit out of place.
Linc’s eyebrows ticked together. “Yeah. I was asked about our plans for having kids after we get married no less than five times.”
I dragged my finger through the ring of condensation Linc’s beer bottle left behind when he lifted it to take a swig. “Did Jackson bring that girl he took to your engagement party?”
Linc slowly lowered his drink. “She was there. Why are you asking me instead of Savannah?”
“Because she’ll read more into it, and it’ll turn into the Spanish Inquisition, all rapid-fire questions about my intentions. I was just curious.”
He studied me, one eyebrow arching. “Savannah once told me you and Jackson have a thing but that you don’t really know what it is.”
“We don’t have a thing. We’re working together to remodel a house now, but that’s it.” I straightened. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Well, since you’re ‘just curious,’ she was there, but I could tell Jackson didn’t expect her to be. Pretty sure the invite came from his mom. Or Velma. Most likely both of them, actually. She’s a family friend, and I know they’re hoping it’ll work out between them.”
I wanted to point out that she didn’t even seem to be his type, but what did I know about his type? That was further down this path than I wanted to go anyway. I was just psyching myself out about his comment, and he and I had spent a lot of time together, and it wasn’t news that he was superhot. Also, I hadn’t spent any time with another guy in a while, and clearly it was playing tricks on my brain.
That’s it. I need to find a one-night stand guy, stat. After Savannah and her attendees have sorted them all out, it’ll be that much easier. They’ll take the long-term dating options, and I’ll take my pick of the ones who run from commitment.
I once joked to Savannah that all I wanted was a smart asshole. A guy who I could have intellectual conversations with but who’d be as anxious to get back to his life after we hooked up as I was. I’d lamented the fact that they were hard to find, and she promised that he was out there, the same way she promised people their versions of Mr. Right.
A guy at the end of the bar snapped his fingers—evidently he had a death wish—and while I should probably get back to work, his rude gesture meant I was going to take my sweet time. I checked the customers at the other end of the bar and slowly made my way back to Mr. Impatient Snappy-Pants.
When the guy huffed and said, “Took you long enough,” I gave him the shark-like smile that most people instinctually feared. A swirl of satisfaction went through me as his expression turned from impatient to trepidation.
“Did your mama not teach you any manners? You don’t snap your fingers at people like they’re dogs, and unless you’d like your drink shoved where the sun don’t shine, you’ll say please and thank you. To be safe, you better add a ‘ma’am.’” I snapped my fingers, drawing his attention back to my face when he tried to duck his head like a scolded puppy. “Do you understand?”
He hemmed and hawed a little and then grumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Great. And the etiquette lesson means I’ll be expecting an extra hefty tip.”
I filled the reformed gentleman’s order, and when I noticed Linc stand up, I said, “Hey, that blond guy in the back? He’s a really good guy. While you’re doling out your heads-up to the nice dudes, give him one, too.”
Linc saluted, and I felt a pinch of guilt for joining in on his plan. After everything that had happened between her and my cousin, Savannah was trying to be more open with her Mr. Right definition, but she could still be a stickler for her steps and red flags. Not that I blamed her—my methods for avoiding heartbreak had kept me safe, and I clung to them as well. But Adam was one of those smart guys I’d had great conversations with, who’d also texted me way too many times. He was sweet. Problem was, I’d eat a guy like that alive.
Not many guys could keep up with me or knew how to handle me in general. Part of it was the vibe I worked to put out there. Or, I guess, more what I didn’t put out there.
Yep, I’d conceal don’t feel, because Elsa was a girl after my own heart and she had the right idea. She knew how to keep people away.
I could use a big ice beast some nights at the bar. Since I didn’t have the ability to literally create ice, I went another, similar route.
Way #5: Go ice princess.
Close yourself off emotionally. No one can hurt your feelings when you don’t leave them out there all exposed and vulnerable. Don’t volunteer too many details and don’t ask for too many.
All my ways fed into each other. Closing yourself off emotionally involved control and avoiding attachments, but it was more than that. It was keeping the personal subjects to a minimum. When it came to theory or culture, that was where I liked to go deep.
There was nothing w
rong with a little going deep, like, say, asking for what you wanted in the bedroom—just putting that out there—but pillow talk and cuddling after? Nope.
Letting him know that you’re worried about your mother? Your future? Crying in his arms?
Nope, nope—and, you guessed it—nope.
I tried not to think about how badly I’d screwed up Way Number Five when it came to Jackson, because it was in the past. I couldn’t change how much he already knew about my screwed-up relationship with my mother or that, in his arms, I’d actually seen what the cuddling fuss was about. The important thing was that eventually, I threw up my walls and Elsa’d the shit out of the situation.
In hindsight, possibly I’d gone too far, but I’d felt that sweet ache forming in my chest. The mixture of yearning and vulnerability that, left unattended, had the possibility of turning into a pit that sucked happiness out of your life and left you a broken shell.
I’d forgotten how hard it was to erase the good memories so you could focus on the inevitable pain down the road. The longer you let it go on, and the more intensely you cared, the worse the pain, too.
It was the right call. I needed to stop dwelling on Jackson and the curiosity about who he was dating. To keep up my walls, stick to a strictly business relationship, and be the best ice princess I could be.
I don’t know why I’m even thinking about this anyway. We can barely stand to be in the same room.
Was it weird that I’d had the tiniest bit of fun keeping up with our antagonistic banter all week, even though it also made me want to pull my hair out? That probably didn’t speak well to my mental state, but there was something invigorating about a daily challenge.
I delivered a drink and then turned to see Savannah and Linc’s reunion after a week apart. He scooped her into his arms, and she kissed him with reckless abandon. A couple of her attendees made catcalls, and I smiled.