Not Quite Crazy (Not Quite Series Book 6)

by Catherine Bybee

The information on Jason’s personal life was limited to appearances at charity and corporate events. Most of the time he arrived solo, or on occasion he would have a date that consisted of a “family friend” or “colleague.” He wasn’t one to have the paparazzi following him, so Rachel found herself back on his Wikipedia page.

  He lived in Connecticut. She knew that.

  His philanthropic efforts were for orphaned children, and the company was actively working with Borderless Doctors and Organ Transfers. She had questions about the latter part of that equation. Why was this something she had to look up to hear about? Wouldn’t Fairchild Charters want to advertise that information? A company with a heart . . . literally? She wondered just how much money the company she worked for gave up for these efforts.

  She bounced around again, this time on social media. She hashtagged Fairchild Charters. The usual shout-outs came from passengers who weren’t used to flying in private jets, friends of those who were paying the bill. Most of this she’d seen while doing her research on the company’s marketing. She added Borderless Doctors to her search and found a few old splashes of information, mainly about Trent Fairchild and his wife, Monica. For the next hour she read the media’s take on their story, starting with a tragedy in Jamaica and ending in Trent being the first of the Fairchild brothers to get married. She wanted to know more about that.

  The front door opened, pulling her out of her research.

  “What are you doing home?” she asked Owen.

  “Ahh.” He looked around as if she’d asked something crazy. “School’s out. What are you doing home?”

  “It’s early . . .” Only the time on her computer said it was after three. Apparently the Fairchild family did a good job of keeping her busy all afternoon. “Oh.”

  “Why are you home? Get fired?”

  She jerked. “No. Of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I was joking.” Owen blew past her, straight to the kitchen.

  Her heart raced at the mere mention of getting canned. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “And you look like crap.”

  She scowled. “I should probably be telling you not to talk that way.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, probably.”

  She heard the pantry door open, the rustling of paper, suggesting junk food. “How about an apple?”

  Owen laughed as he left the kitchen and ran up the stairs to his bedroom with a bag of chips and a can of soda.

  “I suck at this mom thing.”

  In an effort to make up for her lacking parenting skills, Rachel cooked something that required more than boiling water. While she wouldn’t be winning any culinary awards anytime soon, her chicken casserole had a fair amount of vegetables that should counter some of the junk that sustained Owen’s metabolism.

  The pain in her head had eased as the day went on, even though the bruise was at its peak. Or so she hoped. Either way, she was going to work in the morning and went to bed early to ensure she had enough rest. Once in bed, she took a minute to check her own personal social media pages. The usual kitten and kid pictures littered her timeline. There weren’t many personal messages, even after she posted the picture of the snow she’d managed to get through over the weekend. No, it was as if her life in California never existed. She reminded herself that her closest friend was gone, and the time before Emily’s death was buried in her illness. Fostering friendships to withstand a cross-country life hadn’t been a priority. So people forgot about her. To be fair, she wasn’t going out of her way to keep in close contact with those back home either. She’d hoped that while she was clicking around on her media pages, someone would pop up who would spark a conversation, and she could vent about her current crazy life.

  That didn’t happen, and instead of finding a friend to talk to, her mood plunged further down.

  Loneliness had a cousin named self-pity. And she was a bitch. Picking up the phone to talk to Julie about her dilemma was out of the question. Talking about it online was job suicide. Her mom would tell her to date the man so she’d get fired and somehow be forced to move back to California, which couldn’t happen even if Rachel wanted it to. She didn’t have a sister, and her brother, as much as she loved him, lacked the common sense gene. He was three years younger than she was and already had one divorce behind him. Relationship advice wasn’t something she was going to go to Steve for.

  This was a job for Em.

  “I shouldn’t get anywhere close to him, right?” Rachel glanced at the ceiling in her bedroom as if Emily was right there.

  Only there wasn’t an answer.

  “You’re not helping.”

  Still no answer. Not that she expected one.

  She plugged her cell phone in by her bedside, turned off the light, and crawled under the covers. Even though her mind hadn’t turned off all day, she managed to fall asleep quickly, and when she woke up, the image of Jason kissing her lingered over her morning cup of coffee.

  Jason knew Rachel was at her desk, and it took every ounce of willpower to not go over to see her himself. He knew if he started frequenting the marketing and PR departments, he’d churn the office gossip. He’d kissed her in a closed conference room without a witness, and he’d lay money that Rachel hadn’t told anyone about his advance, since she was hell-bent on not dating him. He hated that his head was torn with these thoughts. For the first time in forever, a woman sparked his interest beyond the physical, and she worked for him.

  Yeah, he wanted to pretend she was managed by Gerald, or even Glen, but no . . . her living was made by Fairchild Charters, of which he was the CEO. A technicality of being the firstborn was complicating his love life. Truth was, being the firstborn had always complicated his life. The expectations, the pressure of keeping everything together after his parents had died. With both of his brothers married and settled, he’d stopped offering all big brother advice, which was often mistaken as parenting words of wisdom. Truth was, Jason had felt the need to step into everything his father had left behind. It was surprising he hadn’t had any major health problems.

  So why did he wake up at two in the morning, trying to figure out how to make Rachel forget who she worked for? The fact that he thought about convincing her that he was dateworthy while at the same time concerning himself with who might have seen them kissing was enough to send an older man to the hospital with chest pain.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the flush that rose on her cheeks. The smile she tried to hide when she pulled away from his lips . . . the doubt in her eyes. He saw it all. While his head swam with the negativity of an office romance, his heart—and maybe another organ—suggested he continue the path he’d started down.

  A knock on his office door interrupted his thoughts. His six-months-pregnant secretary walked in with his acknowledgment.

  “I have today’s schedule.”

  He grasped a pen to make notes while she took the seat opposite him.

  “How is Junior today?” he asked.

  “Kicking way too much for my taste.”

  Jason couldn’t help but smile. Audrey had been his secretary for four years, and in those years she was always either planning a wedding or picking out colors for a nursery. Like many New York executive women, her pregnancy hardly showed through the stylish office clothing and coats. She’d finally settled into shorter heels at the pleading of her husband. But that had taken five months to make happen.

  “Don’t push yourself,” he found himself saying.

  “You’re sweet. I’m fine.”

  She looked fine. He’d heard pregnant women had a glow about them, and he’d seen it for himself once Audrey revealed her status.

  “You have a meeting with Chuck and Gerald to go over the new marketing plan at ten. You have lunch with Mr. Lewton at Fleming’s.”

  Jason jotted that down with a moan. Lunch with Matt Lewton meant martinis, and the last thing Jason wanted on a Tuesday was a desire for a nap by two. Some clients needed his attention, and
martini lunches were part of the job.

  Audrey slid a paper across his desk with the heading Holiday Office Party. “I know you hate this, but it has to be done today. I tried to make it as easy as possible.”

  The paper looked like a high school multiple-choice quiz.

  The first bullet point had the words gold, silver, white, silver and gold, silver and green, and gold and green with check boxes next to them.

  “What is this?”

  “I made it easy. Just check off the box with your preferences.”

  “It’s Christmas,” he said as if she didn’t know. “Red and green.”

  “Nope, can’t do that. Remember the Starbucks cup debacle? Nineteen percent of the staff is Jewish. We don’t want to offend.”

  He doubted anyone cared as long as they got free booze and a bonus.

  “There has to be someone more qualified than me to do this.” Jason was pretty sure he’d said the same thing every year since he took over for his father.

  “I suggested you hire a coordinator last October, but you put me off,” she reminded him.

  “So hire one now.”

  Audrey blinked a few times. “Every event planner in the city worth hiring is booked. Have been since the first week in November. Which was why I bugged you in October.”

  He pushed the paper to the side, determined to put off the details again. His mother had always taken care of the office parties, and in the last year, he’d managed to enlist Monica and a couple of her family members to take care of some of the details for outside events. The annual holiday party wasn’t one of them, but maybe he could wiggle out of it now that Mary had been added to the family.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Audrey didn’t look convinced. “Today. I need to give the caterers the menu and the decorators a direction.”

  “I got it. The first week in February, we hire an event planner.”

  “I’ll be out on leave at the end of January.”

  “So the second week in January.”

  She took a note.

  “Do we have your temporary replacement yet?” He’d put Audrey in charge of finding three in-office candidates who could fill her shoes for the four months she was planning on taking off.

  “I will have a list for you before Christmas.”

  “Perfect.”

  She stood and clasped her notepad to her chest. “Remember, I’m leaving today at three thirty to see my doctor.”

  Which explained his lack of afternoon appointments.

  He grinned and tapped a finger on his holiday to-do list. “So this really doesn’t need to be back to you until the morning.”

  She frowned. “Jason!”

  He laughed. “Fine, but if I leave something blank, you make the decision.”

  She turned and walked away. “I don’t take laundry to the cleaners, or buy flowers for girlfriends . . . or pick colors for Christmas.”

  The first two he’d never asked of her, the last one, however . . . her argument in years past was that food allergies made her the last person to ask about culinary choices, and she blamed being slightly color-blind for her inability to oversee the other part of event planning.

  “How about some coffee?”

  “That I can do.”

  He chuckled as she walked out the door.

  The grocery store screamed Christmas, from the bags of candy on the end of every aisle to the music piped through the PA. Rachel reached for one too many sugary sweets and added eggnog to her cart.

  She didn’t even care for eggnog. Still, like the obligatory fruitcake, one needed to buy it even if it just ended up in the trash on December twenty-sixth.

  Her phone pinged, letting her know she had a text message.

  She looked at Owen’s name and opened her messages.

  Get frozen pizza

  Rachel turned back toward the frozen aisle.

  And soda

  How about juice?

  A frown emoji preceded his response. I’m 15 not 5.

  Rachel bought both.

  Her phone pinged again. She looked at the message, not the sender.

  Silver and gold, or gold and green?

  She paused. Is this a trick question?

  I’m planning the Christmas party.

  Rachel scratched her head. What party? She hit “Send” before she realized it wasn’t Owen who was texting her.

  No, it was Jason. The man who she’d thought about all day long at work and yet hadn’t seen or heard from once. To tell the truth, she was surprised and slightly disappointed he hadn’t made an excuse to talk to her. Even though it would have been a mistake to do so.

  The company Christmas . . . excuse me, holiday party.

  Rachel moved out of the way of a woman trying to get to a box of Dr Pepper and huddled over her phone. Wait, you run a billion dollar company and you don’t have someone else planning the Christmas party?

  Long story, starting with my mother. I’ll tell you when we pick up your Christmas tree tomorrow night. So, silver and gold or gold and green?

  “Oh, you’re smooth,” she muttered to herself.

  Gold and green. Tomorrow is a bad idea.

  He didn’t take long to reply.

  My phone is about to die. Pick you up at seven. Dress warm, it’s supposed to snow.

  Her fingers moved fast. I told you we can’t date.

  He didn’t reply.

  Jason!

  Nothing.

  I don’t believe for a minute your phone is dead.

  Still nothing.

  Jason!!!

  Zillion-dollar-company CEO and he doesn’t have a charger? She tossed her phone into her purse and made her way to the checkout.

  Chapter Seven

  Rachel must have checked her messages a dozen times an hour, every hour, right up until she left the office the next day. Jason had her in the palm of his hand. If she made a personal appearance in his office on the premise of cancelling their tree-buying date, she’d create the very gossip she was trying to avoid. If she didn’t, he’d show up on her doorstep.

  She practiced how she was going to blow him off in person and give him a little piece of her mind about ignoring the dozen answer your messages she’d left on his cell phone. That was until she closed the door leading in from the garage and was greeted by Owen.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, back,” she said.

  “We’re getting a tree today, right?”

  Oh, shit.

  “I moved the couch away from the window to make room.”

  She followed Owen from the back door through the kitchen and into the living room. Sure enough, Owen had made room for a tree and had even pulled the vacuum out and cleaned in places that hadn’t seen attention since before they’d moved in.

  “Looks like someone is excited.”

  He smiled. “Mom would want us to get a tree and make the most of what is gonna suck without her.”

  Rachel stared straight ahead as his words sank in. “Yeah, she would.”

  “What time is Stranded Car Guy getting here with the truck?”

  “Seven,” she said, absently.

  “I’ll pop a pizza in the oven so we’re ready to go. He’s not coming for dinner, right?”

  “No.” No, he wasn’t coming for dinner, and now she wasn’t going to be able to deliver her premeditated speech.

  “Cool.” Owen disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her staring at the empty space in the living room.

  She closed her eyes, huffed out a long-winded breath, and went upstairs to change.

  Jason turned onto Rachel’s street, his hands gripping the wheel. Sixteen . . . she had texted him sixteen times telling him they couldn’t date. She scolded him for not returning her texts, accused him of ignoring her to get his way. He deserved her wrath and was in fact ignoring her texts. Now, if she’d started saying things he wanted to hear, perhaps his phone would have miraculously returned from cell phone hell. The fact that she didn’t outright tel
l him to stay away gave him comfort that she wouldn’t close the door in his face. It didn’t hurt that he was her boss, as she had pointed out many times. Not that he would hold that against her if she really wasn’t interested. But she was. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have flirted with him over the phone. That was his theory, and he was sticking with it until she proved otherwise.

  He was thirty minutes early. An extension ladder rattled in the back of the truck, a hammer sat in the front seat, and hooks used to hang Christmas lights filled a bag from a local hardware store. Along with a timer and outdoor extension cord. He wasn’t about to see what damage she could do to her face with a ladder if a simple kitchen door gave her the shiner she’d come to work with on Monday. He’d wiggled the details out of Gerald and earned the man’s unwanted advice about interoffice relationships.

  Gerald had worked with Jason’s father long before Jason finished college. He was filling in as the head of marketing and at the same time keeping the company broker management in line. Gerald had worked in just about every end of Fairchild Charters with the exception of the mailroom. Anytime they lost a senior manager, Gerald was the one they called on to help fill the seat. He said he enjoyed the diversity, and the truth was, once under his guidance, the levels he managed took care of themselves. The man was invaluable. He was also fast approaching retirement, something Jason didn’t want to think about.

  Rachel’s driveway was empty, but lights inside the house gave him hope that she hadn’t stepped out for the night to avoid him.

  He removed the ladder from the truck first and set it up on the west side of the house. He considered starting the job of getting the hooks up before telling her he was there but decided against it. It was better to gauge the barometer of her mood before testing his parameters.

  In a warm down jacket, prepared for rain or possible snow, and blue jeans and boots instead of his office attire, Jason knocked on her door twice and stood back.

  Owen opened the door, a piece of pizza in his hand. “You’re early.”

  Heat from inside rushed out.

  “I am. Thought I’d get those lights up for you guys before we get the tree.”