Unwrapping the Best Man

by Rachael Stewart

  My gut rolls anew but I know it has more to do with the state of my heart than my head now.

  Time to move. To apologise, to clear the air, to move on.

  Tentatively, I slip my legs from the bed and touch my toes to the wooden floor. It’s warm and inviting—underfloor heating. I should have expected no less from Jackson, with his empire of clubs and his eye for design that clearly extends to his home.

  I stand and take a breath. I tug at his T, grateful that my short height means it’s almost to my knees, and head for the door.

  He looked after me. For that I owe him some gratitude, along with my apology. I can’t imagine he wanted to spend his evening looking after a slightly tipsy female—okay, a wrecked female—but he did.

  I pad out of the room and follow the scent of bacon down the stark white hallway, squinting against the panoramic paintings that are bold with colour and too much for my hungover head. It leads into an open-plan living space; to the right is the living area, to the left is the kitchen, all of which is surrounded by glass that flaunts the city view beyond. I pull my eyes from the glaring sunlight to the kitchen and the man currently facing away from me as he works at the hob.

  I don’t make a sound. He doesn’t know I’m here yet and I take full advantage of being able to watch him unobserved. He’s wearing a white T, his grey low-slung pants doing something amazing to his behind and making my mouth dry. My hangover-hazed brain’s already playing out the little fantasy that he’s cooking for us, the morning after the night before.

  This is how it should have been four months ago. A night of passion followed by cosy morning comforts. The image lures me in so completely that my eyes prick. My fingers press against my lips as I hide the sob that wants to come out because it isn’t real.

  Whatever he’s doing now he’s doing because he feels guilty. He probably pities me. Knowing what a mess I must feel and what a fool I made of myself in my crazy get-up too. I was a bloody elf, for Christ’s sake. An elf!

  But he wanted me... The evidence of that was very real.

  Until Blondie showed up. Oh, God. I remember her in all her perfection and my insides shrivel, my nausea swelling with it, and he chooses that exact moment to turn. Of course he does.

  ‘Cait!’ He places the pan he’s working with down on the side, his eyes wide and cautious as he walks towards me.

  ‘Hi.’ I give him a finger flutter of a wave and look away, my legs binding together as I want to shrink in on myself and he stops.

  ‘Sorry for...’ I break off. I don’t even know what to say.

  ‘Hey, don’t apologise,’ he says quickly, his voice so earnest that I have to look at him and the concerned warmth in his gaze makes me want to cry again. It’s the hangover. Just the hangover. ‘I’ve made breakfast—come and sit down.’

  I sweep my fingers over my eyes as he ushers me to the slick breakfast bar with its black countertop and cream leather high-backed stools. He pulls one out.

  ‘Sit, please.’

  I do as he asks and brush my crazy mass of hair behind my ears as I shuffle in with his aid, my smile shy as I look up at him and he returns it. Time stills. One second. Two. I’d still swear this wasn’t real if not for the smell of bacon and the very real effect his proximity is having on my pulse. We don’t breathe, we don’t move, and then his eyes flit to the steaming pan on the hob.

  ‘Hope you’re hungry.’ He pulls away and goes back to his cooking. ‘I’ve done eggs, both scrambled and fried, as I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer. I also have bacon, sausages, pancakes and the coffee’s almost ready. There’s milk, cream, sugar—whatever you need.’

  He’s talking so fast and I realise he’s nervous. That fully in control, stoic Jackson is not only nervous, he’s also eager to please, to make me happy. And I don’t want to soften. I don’t want it to douse the anger, the hurt of the last few months. I don’t want it to evaporate just because he’s able to take care of me when I need it. But still I find myself slipping off the stool and walking towards him.

  ‘Thank you for this. I’m sorry you had to do it. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I was... I was letting my hair down.’

  He turns towards me, his head shaking. ‘Told you not to apologise.’

  I give him a sheepish shrug. ‘I feel I need to. Can I help?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Go and sit down; let me do this. And then we can have...well, that talk. Okay?’

  That talk... I swallow. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to hear his reasons for rejecting me, not when I’m like this, but I don’t want to run from it either. I give him a grim smile and a nod.

  ‘But just because you’re doing all this,’ I say, and wave a determined finger at the food cooking, ‘it doesn’t mean I forgive you for four months ago.’

  He doesn’t look at me as he says, ‘I don’t expect you to.’

  And, instead of reassuring me, it puts me further on edge because it makes me soften more and I curse my own weakness.

  I look away from him at the view, squint at the sun that’s shining through the fluffy white clouds and the view of London that looks so fresh and clear in spite of my fuzzy brain. I need air and, instead of sitting back down, I walk to the glass and test the handle. It’s unlocked and I step out and breathe in deeply. Better.

  I’ve been to the club numerous times over, but I’ve never been this high up, never been able to appreciate the view over the undulating roofs, the trees that border a small enclosed park and the people taking a walk, enjoying their day. It’s calm, peaceful.

  ‘Cait, get in here—you’ll freeze.’

  I laugh readily at his scolding. He’s right. My entire body is covered in goose bumps and as I head back inside I realise it’s not just my skin that’s prickling up. His eyes darken as they drop to breast level, where my nipples bead against his T, and that look, that fucking look...

  I drag in air as my clit pulses, warmth fluttering up through my middle and I press my palm against it. I part my lips to say something, though nothing comes out, but the movement is enough to spur him into action.

  He turns away, clears his throat and throws all his focus on dishing food onto the plates like his life depends on it. I’m still rooted, burning up inside from the heat I glimpsed in his eyes. He wanted me. In that second he wanted me, and fuck I would have let him have me. Hangover and hurt be damned.

  So much for moving on.

  I stride back to the breakfast bar, my head held high against my inner rant, and pin my hands beneath my thighs as I take a seat once more.

  I watch him add seasoning to the eggs, taste and add some more. He’s proficient, serious about what he’s doing...and this is just breakfast.

  ‘You look like you enjoy cooking,’ I say, grateful to have something to talk about that’s safe. It’s not sex and it doesn’t touch on old wounds.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Something you got from your mum and dad?’

  He gives a gentle scoff and doesn’t turn to look at me. ‘Hardly.’

  I wince, knowing instinctively that I’ve put my foot in it and realising as I do that I don’t know much about Jackson pre-Blacks. He keeps it all close to his chest. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ He gives me a quick smile before turning away to pull two mugs out of a cupboard and places them down in front of me. ‘My father brought me up. I don’t think he knew a saucepan from a frying pan, let alone how to navigate a kitchen.’

  I study his face and look for an edge, a sadness, but there’s nothing. ‘What happened to your mum?’

  ‘No idea.’ He turns back to the hob. ‘She left me with my father and vanished when I was a baby.’

  My heart squeezes in my chest. I can’t imagine it. I have such a big family. A loud, loving, protective—sometimes frustratingly so—family. Did he really have no one but his father?

  �
��I’m so—’ He sends me a quick look and my smile finishes the impulsive apology he doesn’t want to hear. ‘What about grandparents, aunts, uncles?’

  ‘No, it was just me and Dad. Not that he was around much and then he was gone. By the age of eighteen it was just me and the council flat I grew up in.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Dead.’

  The goose bumps return to my skin, the coldness of his simple response washing over me. The need to say I’m sorry burns my tongue.

  He says it like it’s nothing, but how can it be? I want to reach out for him, say something, do something.

  ‘I either learnt to cook or I starved,’ he says into the silence as though there’s nothing amiss. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m no chef but I can rustle up a mean chilli, even bake bread—not that I do much of that these days. It’s therapeutic though. Good for stress, pounding dough.’

  I smile a little. ‘Yes, I’m with you there. My mum and gran have their own recipe and spend many a Sunday—Shit!’

  He freezes in his dishing up, his brows raised. ‘Sunday shit? Doesn’t sound like a tradition I’ve ever heard of...’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He angles the wrist that’s supporting the saucepan in his hand and checks his watch. ‘Just gone half eleven.’

  ‘Oh, God. I’m supposed to be at my parents’. It’s Decorate the Tree Day.’

  ‘Decorate the Tree Day?’

  ‘We all get together. Mum, Dad, Gran, my brothers and their families...’ I swallow as emotion chokes up my throat, my mind comparing the Carey brood to his non-existent one.

  ‘You decorate the tree together?’

  ‘Yes, and Mum cooks a roast. It’s her dry run for Christmas Day.’

  He nods and all I can think is how lonely his Christmases must be. Is that why he hates it so much? I want to ask him. I want to probe even though I know it won’t help, that understanding Jackson more will only make me fall deeper and deeper... I press my thighs down harder on my hands and force the thought out.

  ‘Why don’t you give your parents a quick call? I can drop you around there as soon as you’re ready.’

  I frown. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  It’s a big ask, and yet he’s offering it voluntarily. ‘Haven’t you got better things to be doing with your Sunday?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  I swallow, nerves and a far more disturbing emotion turning my voice soft, my insides softer. ‘Okay...thank you.’

  I slip off the stool and realise I have no idea where my bag and phone are.

  He looks up from the plates and smiles. ‘They’re on the sofa, just over there.’

  He nods to the living area and I see them immediately, piled up with the garish white and green of my costume. My cheeks burn as I recall it now and give a quick, ‘Thanks.’

  I hurry over to them and feel his eyes following me.

  ‘That shirt looks better on you than it does me.’

  My stomach flip-flops with pleasure and dangerous delight, and I want to giggle as I tug at the hem of the shirt. ‘Thanks for letting me borrow it.’

  I bend forward to open up my small sack-style bag and the cool air rushes over my exposed thighs right up to my buttocks. I go to tug the T down again and stop. Somewhere deep inside me is the cheeky elf that ventured out the night before, all confident and determined to drive Jackson crazy.

  I pull out my phone and cringe when I see the notifications—several missed calls from Coco, one each from my brothers and another from Mum. I fire off responses to all and tell Mum I’ll be with her soon.

  As I head back to the kitchen he slides a plate in front of me. As promised, two types of egg, pancakes, bacon, every sauce bottle you could imagine ready for me to use. Juice. And then coffee, a full steaming mug with a small jug of milk, cream and a bag of sugar.

  My eyes are wide as I take it all in. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope it’s okay.’

  He finishes serving up his own plate and comes around to sit beside me.

  I can’t eat though. As I sit there in his T, my body too aware of his beside me, I turn into him just as he does the same.

  ‘Cait, I—’

  ‘Jackson, I—’

  We both laugh and I blush.

  ‘Sorry, you first,’ he says.

  ‘No, you; it’s your house, your food, your hospitality...’

  ‘Nothing happened last night, in case you were, you know, wondering,’ he hurries out. ‘I’m not sure what you remember but I brought you back here because I didn’t want you alone when you were...were...’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Yes, that.’ He gives me a one-sided grin. ‘Pippa helped bring you up here, got you into bed. I just...’

  ‘You just stayed to make sure I was okay.’

  He breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  Oh, God, I want to hug him. I want to hug him and yet he broke my fucking heart. It’s so messed up and I don’t know what to say, what to do.

  ‘What did you want to say?’

  I swallow down the swelling need inside. ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry for the state I was in...and thank you, for looking after me.’

  His eyes scan my face; they’re all warm and compassionate and...so very close. ‘I told you; you don’t need to apologise.’ His voice is gruff and I can feel myself leaning into him, or is he leaning into me...?

  ‘I feel like I do.’

  He shakes his head and looks to his plate. ‘No, you don’t.’ His tone brooks no argument and the spell is broken. ‘Now eat. We can talk after. Hopefully, this will make you feel better and...and then you can say what you really need to say. I deserve it and more.’

  I know he’s referring to my anger and I’m so confused, the pounding in my head upping with the mass of things I want to say, and the crazy things I want to do even though I shouldn’t.

  Just eat, like he says. Then worry about clearing the air. Hopefully, minus the hangover.

  ‘Do you have any painkillers?’

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry, yeah...’ He’s off into the kitchen faster than I can say thank you, and it’s killing off the shred of anger that remains—hell, it’s killing off every barrier I’ve put in place these last four months. ‘I meant to leave some with the water on the bedside table.’

  Why, Jackson? I want to scream. Why do you have to care so much with one breath and push me away with the next?

  I need to understand. If I understand, maybe I have a chance of getting through to him, of making him realise that we could have what Ash and Coco have, we could—

  Stop, Cait. Just stop.

  I pick up my fork and try to listen to the inner voice that’s still capable of talking sense. But as I look at the thoughtfully laden plate and chew over my food I can feel myself continuing to soften, to hope.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says, placing the pill packet next to me with a fresh glass of water.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile, popping out two and drinking them down. ‘I really can’t believe you made me both fried and scrambled.’

  ‘Please tell me you like one?’

  I give a soft laugh. ‘I love both.’

  I feel the warmth of his grin, I feel it all the way to my toes and I know I’m in trouble.

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’

  I’m glad too, and I’m supposed to be mad at you.

  He’s watching me so intently. He’s not eating, he’s not anything but watching me.

  ‘What?’ I say, lowering my cutlery and eyeing him warily. ‘Do I have something on my face?’

  ‘No, considering how rough you must feel, you look remarkably stunning.’

  Stunning. I snap my eyes away and stick two sugars in my coffee, stirring vigorously. ‘Don’t tease me, Jackson.’


  ‘I’m not, Cait.’ He leans over, his hand resting beside mine, his energy, his warmth too sincere and inviting. ‘I am sorry, you know. For what I did.’

  I take a glug of coffee and wince as I scald my mouth. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘All of it. I never should have...’ He looks away and when his eyes return they have that tortured look I’ve come to know so well, and I know it’s not an act. ‘The things I did to you, they’re unforgivable.’

  I frown and place my mug back down. ‘If you mean walking out in the middle of the night and giving me the cold shoulder the next day—yeah, they’re pretty unforgivable.’

  ‘No, I mean...what we did together, what I did to you. I shouldn’t have.’

  I turn in my seat and look at him head-on, too stunned to speak. And when I do it erupts with a laugh. ‘You’re apologising for the sex?’

  He recoils, his frown priceless. ‘Cait, don’t say it like it’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Jesus, Jackson! You gave me the best sex of my life and that’s what you’re apologising for!’

  He shakes his head. ‘You didn’t ask for what I did...what I did to you. It was wrong.’

  I’m out of my seat faster than I can blink, and I curse my lack of height as I want to tower over him while I put him straight. I settle for poking him in the chest instead.

  ‘I thought I’d disappointed you, freaked you out, put you off, so much so that I sent you running, and now you’re telling me you left and you ignored me because you thought what we shared was wrong?’

  He just keeps shaking his head and it’s driving me insane. I grab his face in my hands and I stare into his eyes that burn and torment in one.

  The truth of the last four months opens up in my heart. Thinking I’d done something to push him away, for him to reject me. Instead he’s tortured himself with what he perceives to be some wrong he enacted against me.

  ‘It wasn’t wrong, Jackson. It was what I wanted, every kiss, every touch, every fuck!’

  ‘You can’t mean it.’

  ‘Of course I mean it. And, what’s more, I want you now.’

  He clutches at my wrists. ‘Don’t do this, Cait. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.’