He’s lounging in his recliner and watching TV when I get there. He looks ill. So maybe he wasn’t fibbing when he said he didn’t feel good.
I frown down at him as I hand over the burger and shake. “When did you get so thin? Have you lost weight?” His frame is lankier than usual and his cheeks somewhat sunken in. His eyes are tired and weary, and beneath them he has bags.
“No.” He chuckles and pats Oliver on the head. “I’m just getting old.”
“You’re fifty-two. That’s not old.” But even as I say the words I can’t help but notice the subtle changes in his appearance...he is getting older. I can’t quite pinpoint when it happened—the wiry, gray wisps of thinning hair and creases around his eyes. Maybe they’ve always existed and I never noticed. There’s no doubt that they’re there now.
He sighs. “Well it feels old.”
I’d like to press him on the subject, but I know he’s not up for it. And I don’t want to endure the fit Taylor will throw if I’m more than a minute late. “You need anything else?”
He shakes his head and sips on the straw of the milkshake. “This is more than enough. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I kiss him on the top of his head. “Okay. I love you.”
“I love you, cook. Now get outta here. Go have your fun!” He shoos me with his hand.
I head for the door and glance back one last time. Something about him is different. I don’t know if it’s because turning fifty does that to you or if it’s something else. But it makes me sad.
* * *
Taylor is visibly pouting when I find her seated at Ten Lounge.
I grin, sliding onto the bar stool beside her. “Hey.”
“Hi.” The word is muttered, and she doesn’t look at me. She’s pretty transparent. When something is bothering her it’s obvious. And right now, she’s bothered.
I nudge her with my elbow to get her attention. “What’s wrong?”
She turns to me and frowns. “Devin has been acting...weird.” She’s talking in a lowered tone like she’s telling me a secret.
“What do you mean, ‘weird’?” I’ve never heard Taylor say anything about their relationship that didn’t sound like it came straight from a lovesick puppy’s mouth. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen them argue over anything. So whatever it is, surely she’s mistaken.
“He’s been acting nervous,” she answers vaguely.
“Clarify,” I say. “I’m having difficulty wrapping my head around this.”
The bartender breezes by, interrupting briefly so I can order a glass of whiskey, before he’s off to the next person. Taylor takes a long swig of her wine and continues on, making a face as I take the first sip of my whiskey. “Well, he was acting really strange this week, ditching lunch dates, not returning my calls. All minor offenses, but...”
I wave my hand through the air, coaxing her for more. “But?”
“Yesterday he went golfing with Jackson. Which was no big deal. But...” Her voice trails off again.
“But?” I prod, exasperated.
“He withdrew five thousand dollars from one of his accounts yesterday,” she finally blurts.
“Taylor!” I admonish. “You’re monitoring his bank account?”
“No! What kind of person do you think I am? He left his statement open on his computer, and my gaze accidentally landed on it. He’s made three or four more withdrawals like that over the past few months.”
Strange. I don’t know why he would need so much cash. He works in the ad business. I doubt it has anything to do with business.
I fight the sudden urge to laugh.
She rolls her eyes. “What?”
I chuckle. “Are you scared he’s, like, planning on fleeing the country or something?”
She scowls.
“Okay. I’m sorry.” I swallow back my laughter. “In all seriousness, what do you think it’s for? Something for work maybe?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what it’s for. But it’s definitely not for work.”
I have no idea what to say to make her feel better, but her blue eyes are starting to look glassy and I’m worried she’s going to start crying. “Do you want me to ask Jackson if Devin’s mentioned anything?”
She picks up her glass by the stem and swishes the wine around absentmindedly. “I don’t know.”
I touch her shoulder and try to be comforting. “It’s probably nothing.”
“I’m sure it’s something,” she counters. “He’s never acted this way.”
“You should talk to him,” I say. “I’m sure he’s got a good explanation for whatever it is.”
She finishes the last sip of wine in her glass and sets it on the bar top. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. I want to hear about you and Jackson.”
My skin flushes with the mention of his name. Taylor winks, letting me know that the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Most days I’m just as transparent as she is.
I grin because I feel girlish. “Jackson and I are good.”
She lifts her brows like she’s waiting for me to go on. “Good...and what else?”
“Seeing a lot more of each other?” My words come out as a question, because I can’t figure out where she wants this to go.
The bartender sets another glass of wine on the bar, and she pulls it toward her. “Have y’all DTR’d yet?”
I tilt my head to the side. “What’s DTR?”
She shakes her head like she can’t believe how stupid I am. “Define the Relationship.”
“Of course we haven’t,” I say immediately. “We’ve only been on a few dates.”
“It’s never too early to DTR.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Everyone knows that.”
“It is too early,” I insist. “I’m not gonna bring it up. He can.”
She purses her lips. “That’s stupid. You should bring it up before the two of you do anything serious.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I know what kind of girl you are. If you sleep with him outside of a relationship you’ll feel awful about it.”
She’s right. I’d never considered what I would feel like after taking that step with him. Maybe I should be worrying about something different...like defining my relationship with him. If we DTR this thing there won’t be a gray area. Just black and white—and me with Jackson all to myself. Exclusively.
I pick up my tumbler and take a big drink. Then I turn to Taylor and do something I never do. “You’re right.” Her blue eyes flare to life with triumph before the words are even out, and I rush on, “Just about this one small thing. No need to document it or anything.”
Taylor flashes me a winning smile, showing all of her perfect, white teeth. “What would you do without me?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hastings.”
She presses her hand to her chest and gasps in mock shock. “Did you just roll your eyes at me, Charlie Day?”
“No. No!”
“Two shots of tequila, please!” she shouts to the bartender, holding up two fingers. Then she shoots me a devilish grin, and the Taylor I know is back.
* * *
I stare at the glowing screen of my phone and check the street numbers on the massive building the cab driver dropped me off in front of. It’s the same address. I’m a bit on the tipsy side from the tequila shot, and I’m nervous. This is a side Jackson is probably sick of seeing. But here I am, a little drunk.
I type a quick text and send it. I’m downstairs.
The uniformed doorman pushes the door open for me as I enter the lobby. I read his name tag...Melvin. It’s very fitting. He has a long neck and a balding head. He looks like a Melvin.
“Thank you,” I say, and he grins.
I
wait in front of the main elevators, feeling out of place in the immaculate lobby. The floors are marble and polished, and the tall walls are a rich golden color. At the center of the room a chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and underneath it a ridiculous flower arrangement sits on a massive mahogany-stained table.
The elevator doors slide open, and Jackson waits inside. His face lights up when he sees me, and my stomach does a nervous flip.
He holds the door as I step on and say, “Hi.”
He grins. “Hi.”
I drink in the sight of him. He’s wearing a pair of light-colored jeans that are loose and ripped at one of the knees and a green cotton T-shirt. His biceps bulge beneath the fabric as he reaches out and taps a code into the keypad fastened just beside the door. “We’re going to the top floor,” he explains.
“Oh.” Of course we are. The top floor, which you can’t just push a button to get to—it has to be unlocked. I’m sure it’s going to be immaculate and over the top, like the lobby. I’d forgotten about this side of him. The one that has more money than Op—
Holy shit.
My thought process comes to an abrupt haul when the elevator doors slide open to reveal a foyer. I step out onto—surprise—immaculate, honey-colored marble floors. They’ve been honed to a glossy sheen and are practically glowing. I turn in a slow circle, already speechless. The ceilings are high, at least thirteen feet, with extravagant archways.
“Want a tour?”
I nod and Jackson takes me by the hand. He pulls me through the first archway, and we cross into the great room. This room feels more comfortable. The floors are hardwood, and the walls are a warm beige color. Large, dark leather furniture is arranged on a white fur rug splayed out in front of the fireplace. Above the fireplace hangs a humongous, sleek flat-screen TV. He’s such a guy.
The space is open, and the kitchen is at the other end of the room. He leads me there next. The cabinetry is an espresso color, and the kitchen island and breakfast bar are covered in matching granite. Kitchens aren’t really my thing, but I like this one.
We walk through another archway and into a large hall. He stops at the first door and reaches inside to flip on the lights. It’s empty. “This is going to be an office,” he explains. “The furniture won’t be delivered until Monday. Down there—” he points, “—is the guest bathroom.”
I nod and manage to say, “Nice.”
He takes my hand again, and we venture down the hallway until we reach a staircase and go up. He stops next to a closed door. “That’s the game room. It’s empty now.” Then he gestures to the one next to it. “And that will eventually be the guest bedroom and bath.” And finally he points to the remaining door. “And that is the master bedroom, but first let me show you outside.”
Of course there’s an outside.
He slides open a glass door opposite the stairway and out we go. I’m surprised to step into a garden area. And I’m even more surprised that it’s overflowing with flowers. I love it. He doesn’t let me stare long. Before I can object he pulls me to a stone staircase and then up to a second landing.
I gawk in literal astonishment when we reach the top of the staircase. Then I hear myself say, “Whoa.” He has a pool. On his roof. A pool! And it’s glowing.
He pulls me over to it like it’s no big deal. He shows me the warmed portion, which is separated from the rest of the water by only a stone wall. Across the terrace is another staircase. We go there next. It leads down to another landing with a small garden and a glass doorway.
He slides it open, and we step inside. “And this is my room.”
The room is massive. The ceilings are high, and the floors are hardwood. Soft track lights shine on the burgundy walls from above. His bed—if you could call it that—is across the room. It could fit a family of five easily. There would actually still be room to roll around. As we get closer I see that there’s a swirling design carved into the wood. The curves flow together in a wavelike pattern. It makes me think of the ocean.
He nods to a set of tall double doors. “Through there is the master bath.”
I plop down on his bed. “I’m going to assume that you can’t afford all of this on the salary my dad pays you.” I laugh but it sounds sheepish.
He leans against the bed beside me. “That assumption would be the correct one. My dad’s in—”
“Investing, yes, I know,” I cut him off, because I’ve heard the answer before. “Why even work for my dad?” It’s obvious that he doesn’t need the job for money.
He shrugs. “Because it gives me something to do, and I’m good at it. I enjoy working with your dad.”
There’s nothing wrong with his answer but it makes me scowl.
He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“It just sounds like you took the job because you’re bored. Not because you’re committed. I hope you know you’ll break his heart when you leave.” It really would break my dad’s heart, but I’m talking about mine more than I am his right now.
Jackson’s expression changes, and it’s obvious he also knows that I wasn’t talking about my dad when I said that. He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his voice gets soft. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
I scoot along the edge of the bed until we’re touching. “You should also know that makes him really happy.”
He drops his arm over my shoulder and pulls me closer. “I’m glad. I’d do anything to make him happy.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “And when I say him, I’m talking about you.”
I laugh. “Good. Because I’m talking about me too.”
He grins and straightens. “You hungry?”
I nod, and he pulls me to my feet. “I’ll make you something.”
* * *
We sit at the breakfast bar and eat macaroni and cheese with wine. It makes me giggly.
Jackson turns to me and raises his eyebrows after my third unprovoked giggle. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know.” I gesture to my bowl. “This, I guess.”
“You loved mac and cheese when we were kids,” he objects with mock insult.
I shake my head. “No, it’s perfect. It’s...cute.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Cute?”
My gaze falls to his lips, and my mind goes straight to the gutter. “Really cute.”
“You’re biting your lip.” He stands and tugs softly on my chin. I release my lip.
Then he leans down and presses his lips to mine. It’s meant to be quick, but when he pulls away I spring into action. I lace my hands behind his head and pull him back to my mouth. I must take him by surprise because he gasps, and it gives me the perfect opportunity to slip my tongue into his mouth. He tastes like wine and smells like a guy, in the wonderful way that only guys can smell. Clean and musky. But also like something sweet. It makes me feel drunk.
I nip his bottom lip with my teeth, and he groans low in his throat. That makes me want to feel more of him. To be closer. I slide off the bar stool until I’m standing too. Then I press myself against him, eliminating every inch of space left between us. He turns me with a quick spin, pinning my hips to the kitchen counter with his. After that he takes over.
His hands are everywhere, and his lips are doing things to me that make me dizzy. And just when I’m sure there’s nothing else he can do to make me crazier, his hands slide under the hem of my shirt. I can’t believe what a difference a fraction of an inch of fabric makes. But oh God, does it make a difference. His fingertips skirt over my ribs then roam to the lace cups of my bra, skimming the skin above.
My neck goes loose and my head dips back. “Jackson.”
He snakes an arm around my waist just as my knees buckle beneath me. He has me on the cool granite of his countertop before I can blink. I wrap my legs around him and pull him back to
me. It’s not until my hands drift to his shirt that I realize how badly it needs to be off. I push it up and over his head, letting it drop to the floor at his feet.
“Charlie.” He pulls back to search my eyes. “What are we doing?”
I splay my fingers and run them down the length of his torso. “You tell me.”
“You drive me crazy.” His hands trail back down to the hem of my shirt, and he pushes it up, his hands skimming my sides and shooting electricity through the skin beneath them. Then it’s off. On the floor in a pile with his.
He brushes his lips along my collarbone, and his fingertips trace the trail his lips leave. My head is spinning—and it isn’t because of the tequila, wine or whiskey. It’s because of him.
“You. Are. So. Beautiful,” he whispers, running his nose up my neck.
I feel beautiful beneath his gaze, unashamed to be here in front of him, like this, so vulnerable. All my nagging, self-conscious thoughts have vanished. I don’t care about anything. No reservations, no doubts, just him and this moment.
I dip my head and kiss the skin at the base of his throat. “Take me to your bedroom.”
He breaks away from me, but I don’t give him time to think. I graze his jawline with my teeth and slip one hand into the waistband of his jeans. That sends him into a frenzy, and he gives in. His arms encircle my waist and he lifts me from the counter with ease. Then we’re moving. Taking the steps two at a time until we’re at his bedroom door and it’s springing open.
With one hand braced against the mattress and the other wrapped around my waist, he lowers me to the bed and covers me with his body. His hips press me down, and my lips grow more urgent against his.
He breaks away and kicks his shoes off, then pulls the high heels from my feet, throwing them behind his head. He runs his hands up my legs and over my skirt, finding the zipper on the side. His eyes don’t leave mine as he zips it down, exposing the skin underneath. He pulls it down over my hips and flings it across the room. The zipper crashes against a wall with a metallic cling.
Headfirst Falling Page 17