Knowing Jack
Rachel Curtis
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Curtis. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
Content editing by Kristin Anders, The Romantic Editor.
Contents
Prelude
One
Two
Interlude
Three
Four
Interlude
Five
Six
Interlude
Seven
Eight
Interlude
Nine
Ten
Interlude
Eleven
Twelve
Postlude
Knowing Jack
I am not a slut, although I’ve been called one often enough. Yeah, I spent three months screwing one of my college professors, but I was crazy about the guy. Then he broke up with me.
I am not a bitch, although people like to say I am. I kept our relationship secret. I’m not responsible for telling the university administrators about it, but a lot of students still blame me for getting their favorite professor fired.
I am not a drama queen, although everyone thinks I am now. When I got a few nasty messages, I just deleted them. When I got the threat, I assumed it was someone being stupid. I still think that’s all it was. My parents worry, though, so they hired me a bodyguard. Now Jack follows me around, intimidating everyone who approaches me and looking obnoxiously hot.
This is what I am. I’m Chloe. I’m a twenty-year-old art history major. Kind of shy, although I pretend not to be. Stubborn enough to stay here for my senior year, even though everyone hates me.
And I’m stuck with Jack.
He calls me “Princess,” but I’m not a princess either.
Prelude
Jack
When you’ve done what I’ve done, the only thing left is stasis.
There’s no going back. There’s no going forward. There’s only standing still, holding on tightly to whatever you can reach.
The truth of what you’ve done digs into your soul, always reminding you of how much you can hurt, how much you can hurt other people, how—if you don’t walk carefully the path laid out for you and control every detail of your universe—it all might fall to pieces again.
That’s what guilt does. It paralyzes you until it’s the only part of you that matters.
Yeah, there are ways to drown it, or numb it, or make you forget for just a moment what’s always lurking in the back of your mind. But only a moron would believe any of those superficial fixes will last.
It’s been years for me. Years of living with this one thing I can never escape. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t mean it. It doesn’t matter that no one can pinpoint the one little thing I did wrong. It doesn’t matter that it was the last thing in the world I ever wanted to happen. It happened anyway. It’s my fault. There’s no hiding from that truth.
When you’re trained from kindergarten, from the cradle, to always protect, to always be strong, to control your surroundings, to let nothing slip by you, then it breaks the core of who you are when you fail.
My dad has never forgiven me. Not for failing the job but for failing him, for not being the man I’m supposed to be. He raised me to be the perfect warrior, soldier, protector. To follow every rule. To never let anything slip out of my grip.
I’ll never be the man he wants, something I realized seven years ago. I’m still playing the part, though, as much as I can—just another result of the stasis.
I’d say fuck it all and walk away from it all if it weren’t for my mom.
Cutting all ties with my dad and the life I know would break her heart. I’m twenty-six. I’ve been on my own for many years, but I’m still not willing to do that.
So I just do what I do—since there’s nothing else—and wait for something to finally happen that breaks the stasis.
What happens is her.
She’s wrong in so many ways I can’t even begin to count them. She’s way too young. Way too privileged. Way too used to the good things in life when all I have, when all I am is the bottom of the barrel.
But, the minute I see her, everything changes.
I’m not looking forward to this assignment. My dad’s security company gets a lot of high profile business, and sometimes I’ll get the best cases. But he’s pissed at me because I didn’t do my last job the way he wanted. (I did it well. Just not his way.) And the way he shows his pissiness is to give me a cotton-candy case.
This is definitely a cotton-candy case. I see it as soon as I glance over the file.
Twenty-year-old spoiled college girl—a princess if I ever saw one—who thinks she’s in danger because she fucked her professor and then someone sent her a mean text message after he got fired.
This kind of case is the worst because, if there’s not a real threat, then it never gets resolved. Her daddy has deep pockets, so I could be stuck with this shallow drama queen for months.
Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to this. At all.
But I show up at her parents’ house in the Hamptons for introductions and orientation. Fortunately, she has an apartment near her college in Connecticut—a few hours’ drive from her parents—so at least they won’t be peering over my shoulder every hour of the day and making ridiculous demands.
He’s a consummate businessman—the kind I’ve met a thousand times before—but he’s practical and doesn’t treat me like the hired help, so I decide he’s pretty decent. The mother is a well-dressed, attractive woman, maybe in her fifties, who is obviously really smart. There’s a kind of smartness you can see in someone’s eyes, and that’s the kind of smart she is. But she’s friendly enough as she explains that Chloe, her daughter, the cotton-candy princess, has been having lunch with a friend but will be here any minute.
Naturally, the princess will take her time and not worry about keeping other people waiting for an appointment.
Fuck, yeah, this is going to be a great job.
We make some small talk. I explain to them some preliminary stuff about what I do, how we’ll organize the protection, and what they can expect. I answer a few of their questions and happen to glance out the window.
That’s when I see her.
That’s when the universe shifts.
She’s pretty. Really small with long, light brown hair and delicate features that are so perfectly sculpted they look fragile.
I’ve seen pretty girls before, though. There’s no reason she should make such an impression.
But she’s coming up the walk toward the front door, dragging a huge box. I mean a huge box. I have no idea what’s in it, but she could probably fit inside it herself. And it must be heavy. She’s obviously struggling to get it to move.
She could leave it and come to the house to ask for help. That would be the normal, logical thing to do when faced with a physical challenge that’s too much for you. But she doesn’t. She’s doing it all by herself, even though her face is red and she looks like she’s sweating with the effort.
She’s wearing a tank top and a little skirt, and her body is as delicate as her face.
And she’s trying to haul that ridiculous box by herself.
Without thinking, I go to help her. In my defense, I’d help anyone struggling to carry something heavy. But her parents must think it’s strange and very rude for me to leave the room so abruptly without a word.
I go out the front door and reach her in just a few strides. H
er back is to me because she’s trying to pull the box with both hands. I get around it and pick it up.
It’s pretty heavy. I’m amazed she got the thing as far as she did.
Instead of thanking me, which is what I expect—which is what I’d expect from anyone—she glares at me with silvery green eyes. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jack.”
My eyes lower over her body automatically, taking in the slim legs, the delicate curve of her hip. The outline of her nipples beneath her thin top.
I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, and my body really likes that idea. My body really likes everything about her body.
I remind myself she’s really young and she’s a protectee, so I’ve got to get a grip.
She frowns. “Oh. You’re the bodyguard.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you didn’t have to come out here in a blaze of macho glory. I was doing just fine.”
“What’s in this box anyway? It weighs a ton.”
“That’s none of your business.”
She’s obviously saying that merely to be stubborn—not because there’s anything secret in the box. She doesn’t like me. She resents my presence. She’s not afraid to be rude about it.
She’s been raised rich and cultured. She’s an art history major. She probably likes all kinds of snooty stuff I can’t stand.
And she was lugging this huge box all by herself—for no good reason at all.
That’s it. Everything is different now. The universe has shifted.
And the stasis is gone.
The guilt isn’t gone. It haunts my steps, lurking like a shadow, hovering like a dark fog in the back corners of my soul. I can control it, and I can control everything else to keep it from emerging to strike.
But the guilt will never be gone.
One
Chloe
Without doubt, today is the worst first day of school in my life.
I’ve always been one of those nerdy girls who get excited about the first day of school. I used to collect all my school supplies and pack my bag and start reading the books long before September, anticipating all the delights the school year would hold. (Don’t laugh—I really did that.)
Today is different, though. It’s my senior year in college, and everyone is going to hate me.
That’s not the melodramatic exaggeration of a drama queen. They’re really going to hate me.
I got a death threat and everything.
At the moment, I’m not thinking about the death threat. I’m thinking about how I’m already running late and my damned dresser drawer is stuck.
It’s an antique—a great, walnut monstrosity that used to be my grandmother’s—and the drawers are always edging off the slides.
I tug on it, but it’s wedged tight. So I grip the pulls with both hands and yank hard, trying to force the drawer back into the slides.
I pull too hard. Of course. It’s just one of those days.
The entire dresser moves, tilting toward me and then banging back in place as I let go.
In the process, the huge vase of roses and orchids my parents sent me yesterday go flying to the hardwood floor with a loud crash.
I stand stupidly, staring at the mess of flowers, water, and broken glass on the floor.
Definitely the worst first day of school in my life.
Then it gets worse.
My bedroom door bangs open, and a man bursts into the room.
He’s big and dark-haired and perpetually in need of a shave. He has a gun in his hand, and his vivid blue eyes scour the room, searching for villains lurking in the shadows.
Did I mention I’m just wearing my underwear?
“What the hell are you doing?” That’s me. I generally consider myself a polite person, but these are extraordinary circumstances. I may have yelled. Just a little.
“What happened?” Jack asks, relaxing as he realizes that bad guys aren’t about to tackle me or stuff me in the trunk of a car. He slides his gun back into his shoulder holster and frowns in my direction.
“You can’t just barge in here whenever you hear a noise! This is my bedroom. I might have to put up with you hovering all the time, but you can’t invade my privacy this way.”
Jack doesn’t look annoyed by my tone. In the two weeks he’s been following me around, I’ve never seen him look annoyed. He’s always calm, laidback, in control. Which really drives me crazy. “My job isn’t to respect your privacy. My job is to make sure you stay alive.”
“For the thousandth time, my life isn’t in danger. That text message was just someone being stupid. I should have just deleted it. My parents overreacted.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if they overreacted. They hired me to keep you safe, so that’s what I do.”
Now you can see why he drives me crazy. This is how he always acts. Never loses his temper. Always has an answer. Stands around looking like he’s secretly laughing when I get frustrated—even if he deserves it. “Well, I’m perfectly safe in my bedroom, unless you think the pillows might be about to attack.”
“I don’t know, princess.” His mouth tilts up at the corners in an expression I’ve seen a lot. It’s almost a smile, and I know it means he’s hiding amusement. It makes him even more gorgeous than usual, which is really not what I need to notice right now. “Those teddy bears look suspicious. I’ve been keeping my eye on them.”
Shit. I want to laugh. Barely manage not to. “They aren’t teddy bears! They’re from Switzerland. They’re handcrafted. They’re works of art.”
My father has been giving me the ludicrously expensive collectibles on birthdays and holidays since I was five, so now I have a whole shelf of them. Maybe they’re kind of girlish, but they make me happy. Make me think of my dad.
“Maybe,” Jack replies, that warm look in his eyes getting even warmer. I have no idea how eyes can be so blue. “The one with the green hat is up to no good. I can always spot the bad ones.”
Okay, I have to turn my head to keep him from seeing that I want to laugh again.
Let’s just get this on the table right now. Jack Milton is arrogant and obnoxious and pushy and clueless to the fact that I don’t want anything to do with him. And just because he’s sometimes a little bit clever—just because he has a sense of humor—doesn’t mean that I liked him. At all.
“Now would you please get out of here?” I say, raising my voice to make sure it carries appropriate authority. “In case you haven’t noticed, I still have to get dressed, and I’m already running late.”
Let’s not forget that I’m still wearing nothing but my favorite bra and panty set—which I put on a few minutes earlier to give me courage to face the day.
“Yeah, I did notice that.”
There is no reason for such harmless words to make me flush so hotly. They do, though. I have fair skin, so I blush a lot. It can be very annoying.
Jack is big—tall with amazing broad shoulders, flat abs, and lean hips. He suddenly seems to fill up all the space in my bedroom. My whole body reacts to his presence. I can’t seem to think of anything else. Just him and his body and his hot blue eyes.
“Be careful of the broken glass,” he says, some sort of rough texture in his voice that makes me want to shiver. “You’ve got bare feet.”
“I know I have bare feet. Now get out.”
“All right. But first tell me this.”
“What?”
“Why do you have naked babies on your underwear?”
“They’re not naked babies! They’re cherubs. And if you weren’t such a hulking Neanderthal you’d recognize Michelangelo when you saw it.”
I was absolutely thrilled earlier in the year when I found in a New York boutique this bra and panty set with details from the Sistine Chapel ceiling on them. They were absurdly expensive, as you might imagine, but I couldn’t resist buying them anyway.
Jack stares down at my bra. “Michelangelo?” He sounds rather dazed.
“Yeah. From the
Sistine Chapel. Look, here’s where God’s hand meets Adam’s. Everyone recognizes that much at least.”
He clears his throat. “Uh, princess, you might think you’re showing me a famous work of art, but what I’m seeing is…”
“What?”
“The most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” He says “thing” but his eyes are fixed unwaveringly on my tits.
I give an embarrassing little squeak and cross my arms over my chest, a blush creeping all the way down to my belly.
I’ve always been small. I don’t mean I’m lithe and slim like a model. I mean I’m just plain little. Being so small, my breasts aren’t incredible by any definition, but at least I have something there.
Jack isn’t touching me, but it suddenly feels like he is. I’m acutely aware of my body, of his body, of the heat in his blue eyes as he gazes at me.
I know he’s thinking about sex, and it makes me think about sex too.
But sex is the thing that completely messed up my life, so I’m not going down that stupid road again.
I’ve made firm decisions on that topic, strict promises to myself to avoid that kind of trouble.
When I come back to my senses, I’m embarrassed and annoyed. I don’t even like Jack. I shouldn’t be responding to him this way. “So get out of here.”
“Right.” His eyes finally move away from me, as if he has to force them to. “That’s probably a good idea.”
He leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
Now my morning is even worse. On top of everything else, I have to rush through getting dressed, clean up the mess from the broken vase, and try not to think about Jack in that way again.
***
So here are the top ten reasons not to screw your college professor, no matter how young and hot he is.
One: It never ends happily the way it does in books.
Two: Even if you wait until the semester is over and you’re no longer in his class—the way Carter and I did—sleeping with you will still put his job at risk.
Three: As a professor, he will have gotten his Bachelor’s, Master’s., and PhD. That’s many years and huge amounts of money (or loans) invested in his career. He’s not going to want to throw it all away for you.
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